A friend acquainted with prairie scenery said it brought vividly
before her those “dream–like, bee–sung, murmuring, and musical
plains.”
Many who have hitherto been moderate in their enthusiasm about Ole
Bull recognize in these new compositions more genius than they
supposed him to possess. Tastefully intertwined Fantasias, or
those graceful musical garlands, Rondos, might be supposed to
indicate merely a pleasing degree of talent and skill. But those
individuals must be hard to convince who do not recognize the
presence of genuine inspiration in the earnest tenderness of the
“Mother’s Prayer,” that sounds as if it were composed at midnight,
alone with the moon; in the mad, wild life of the “Tarantella”; in
the fiery, spirit–stirring eloquence of the “Polacca Guerriera”;
in the deep spiritual melody of the “Prairie Solitude”; and in the
serene majesty of “Niagara.”
If I appear to speak with too much decision, it is simply because
my own impressions are distinct and strong, and I habitually utter
them alike without disguise and without pretension. In the
presence of mere skill, I know not what to say. It may please me
somewhat; but whether it is more or less excellent than some other
thing I cannot tell. But bring me into the presence of genius, and
I know it by rapid intuition as quick as I know a sunbeam. I
cannot tell how I know it. I simply say, This is genius, as I say,
This is a sunbeam.
It is an old dispute, that between genius and criticism, and
probably will never be settled, for it is one of the manifold
forms of conservatism and innovation. In all departments of life,
genius is on the side of progress, and learning on the side of
established order. Genius comes a Prophet from the future to guide
the age onward. Learning, the Lawgiver, strives to hold it back
upon the past. But the Prophet always revolutionizes the laws, for
thereunto was he sent. Under his powerful hand, the limitations
gradually yield and flow, as metals melt into new forms at the
touch of fire.
“Over everything stands its dæmon, or soul,” says Emerson; “and
as the _form_ of the thing is reflected to the eye, so is the
_soul_ of the thing reflected by a melody. The sea, the mountain
ridge, Niagara, superexist in precantations, which sail like odors
in the air; and when any man goes by with ears sufficiently fine,
he overhears them, and endeavors to write them down without
diluting or depraving them.” Thanks to “old, ever–young Norway,”
she has sent us her finely–organized son, to overhear the voices
and echoes, and give them to us in immortal music....
America, in taking the Norwegian minstrel thus warmly to her
heart, receives more than she can give. His visit has done, and
will do, more than any other cause to waken and extend a love of
music throughout the country; and where love exists, it soon takes
form in science. All things that are alive are born of the heart.
From New York and Brooklyn he went to Philadelphia, and then, after
visiting Louisville and Wilmington, he returned to New Orleans, where he
gave five concerts in the Great Armory Hall.
While in New Orleans, he gave a banquet to his friends at the St.
Charles Hotel. Late in the evening a stranger was announced, who had
just arrived from Europe, Mr. Alexander, the prestidigitateur. He was
cordially received by Ole Bull. Alexander soon suggested to his host
that it would give him pleasure to entertain the company with some of
his tricks, if, in return, he might hear Ole Bull play. After he had
astonished the company with his sleight–of–hand marvels, he turned
to Ole Bull and asked to see the silver medal presented him in
Philadelphia. On opening the case it was found to contain only a piece
of lead; and when the violin was taken from its case, the strings were
found broken, and the instrument cracked as it was lifted out. Ole Bull
turned pale, as he feared his own instrument had been tampered with, but
soon discovered that both his violin and medal were safe. He played far
into the night for his friends, who insisted that they had not heard him
do so well in public.
During the spring and summer months concerts were given in every place
of note in the Mississippi Valley. The Mammoth Cave in Kentucky was also
visited. At one point in the cave the artist was too venturesome, and
his rashness nearly cost him his life. He had gone on in advance of the
guide, and was near falling into one of the subterranean rivers, his
light being extinguished as he crawled through an opening which at one
point seemed too narrow to permit of his going forward or retreating.
Fortunately, he had scaled the narrow ledge in the darkness, and was
quite unconscious of the chasm on the verge of which he had been
creeping till lights were brought, when he found that one false move
would have precipitated him into the depths. He played in the cave, and
the music had a weird, unearthly sound, as it was echoed through those
eerie, uncanny chambers.
In St. Louis the only concert hall belonged to a private gentleman. It
was lighted by oil lamps, as gas had not been introduced. A local paper
relates the following incident:—
The hall was crowded by the élite of this old French city; the
audience was enjoying the last encore, when a sudden draught from
an open window extinguished one of the lamps, which, smoking and
spluttering, sent a puff of smoke and soot over Ole Bull’s face
and person. Absorbed in his performance, he did not notice what
had happened, but having finished, and taken out his pocket
handkerchief to wipe his forehead, alas!—what a change was there
in the appearance of poor Ole! His face was black, his pocket
handkerchief, his hands, his violin—all black! Looking at his
violin, he exclaimed, “My poor fiddle, I am _so_ sorry for you!”
In October, 1845, Ole Bull returned to New York and Boston, to give a
series of concerts before his departure for Europe. The knowledge that
he was so soon to leave the country made the rush for places greater
than ever. A new composition, to the “Memory of Washington,” a
descriptive piece, was much liked then, and was found to be effective
when played the last time in 1876, in Boston. On the 30th of October he
gave his last concert in New York, in the Broadway Tabernacle, to an
audience of more than 4000 people. The proceeds were given by the artist
to a fund for the widows and orphans of Masons. During the intermission
between the parts of the programme, he was presented with the regalia of
the Masons of the State of New York. The Secretary concluded his long
presentation speech with, “You will be followed by the ‘mother’s prayer’
and the warm gratitude of the fatherless.... The world will learn that
the strongest bond is the union of free and honest men in the
indissoluble tie of brotherly love.”
The warmth of feeling shown by the audience, in response to the words
spoken, deeply touched Ole Bull. He said in a low voice:—
“My homage to the memory of Washington is not mine alone; it is the
homage of the whole Norse folk that is heard through me. The principles
for which this people drew the sword and shed their blood inspired the
Norwegians, and strengthened them in their struggle for independence.
The admiration of the Norsemen for American institutions and for their
great founder was early implanted in my breast, and admiration for
Washington and love of liberty were indelibly impressed upon the tablets
of my heart.”
In November he gave concerts in Philadelphia and Baltimore, and was just
preparing to leave America when he received a letter signed by the
principal musicians of New York, requesting him to visit that city once
more before he left. He consented to do so, and appointed the 26th of
November for the concert, to which he invited all the inmates of the New
York Asylum for the Blind, by the following letter:—
ASTOR HOUSE, N. Y., _November 18, 1845_.
MY FRIENDS!—I have heard that many of you are fond of music. In a
few days I am to leave America, and if I, before my departure,
could afford you some pleasure, it would be to me a pleasant thing
to remember. If, therefore, all of you, pupils and teachers, will
come and hear me next Wednesday, I will do my best to entertain
you. It would be my greatest desire to be able for a moment to
make you forget that you are unable to enjoy the beauty of the
flowers.
Your sympathetic friend,
OLE B. BULL.
To the Members of the Asylum for the Blind.
This invitation was accepted, and the house was filled two hours before
the performance began. Among the manifestations of regard he received
from the great audience must be mentioned a song written for the
occasion and sung by a choir of the pupils from the Blind Asylum, after
an address of thanks. From his first appearance in the country to the
last, he was welcomed with more than cordiality and kindness. He left
the shores of the New World feeling that his love of liberty and
republican government was strengthened, though he could not help
recognizing their unequal distribution in the United States. Slavery
could not but be hateful to him; its evil effects on the whites seemed
to him as apparent as on the blacks.