The Norwegian made his appearance last evening at Dodsworth Hall,
and once more exercised his spell of musical witchery over a
crowded audience. His well–known identity with his violin, playing
on it as if the strings of his heart were strained over it, seems
to be as perfect as ever, while the new story that his heart has
to tell—the troubles and reverses he has undergone since he last
played among us—seems to be faithfully added to its expression. He
played with more intensity of concentration in the passages of
force and vivid rapidity, while his lingerings upon the sadder and
more pathetic strains were indescribably truthful in their
mournfulness. It is the peculiarity of Ole Bull, and perhaps the
secret of his charm over the sympathies of his audience, that all
he plays seems so faithfully autobiographic. His expressive face
tells the same story as his violin. The listeners to his music
last night were evidently completely absorbed in the study of the
_man_; and it is a strong warranty for the renewal of his success
that he can now exercise, even better than before, his wonderful
personal magnetism. His history and present position, we may as
well add, fully entitle him to the sympathy for which his violin
pleads so expressively.
In 1856, the violinist’s eldest son had joined him, and had been most
kindly received by his father’s friends. Many notes, still preserved,
attest the thoughtful attentions given them when ill and confined to
their beds, as they both were in New York that season.
When Ole Bull gave his last concerts in Dodsworth Hall, in New York, in
1857, he was so ill that he had to be helped on and off the stage, and
occasionally the applause of the audience alone kept him roused to
consciousness, so weak was he from the chills and fever. No suffering
ever kept him from appearing when announced, if he could possibly do it;
and in his long experience he used to say with pride that he had, almost
without fail, kept all his engagements with the public. He now decided
that he must try what his native air would do for him, and in the autumn
he returned to Bergen. He found that unfavorable reports had preceded
him, and where he ought only to have met with sympathy at home, he
sometimes found suspicion. It was said that he had speculated ruthlessly
at the expense of his countrymen, and that they were the only sufferers
by his misfortunes. American institutions and tendencies were not at all
popular among a large class in Norway at that day, and Republican
liberty, it was said, meant only license. Poor in health and purse, Ole
Bull’s home–coming was not to be envied. Mother Nature was the same,
however, and he soon gained strength and courage from his native
mountain air. He resumed his direction of the theatre, having engaged
Björnstjerne Björnson as dramatic instructor, which gave the enterprise
a strong and fresh impulse. Björnson had recently published “Synnöve
Solbakken” and “Arne,” which latter he dedicated to Ole Bull.