It is nearly forty years since I was first introduced to one of the most
genial and delightful men I have ever chanced to know. I distinctly
recall the sunny morning when I made Ole Bull’s acquaintance and began a
friendship that was never dimmed during all that long period. Years
would intervene when I lost sight of him and knew nothing of his
whereabouts, but when he returned from Norway or Italy or Russia, we
came together as if we had never parted company for a day. Often when in
Boston he made our home his resting place, and his advent was a delight
to us all. He brought sunshine with him, and in the words of the old
song—
“His very foot had music in ’t,
When he came up the stair.”
His conversation had that indefinable flavor in it which we call
_charm_, flowing on and on with indescribable magnetism. To hear him
picture with glowing enthusiasm his home in Norway among the fjords, his
early days while studying his art, his adventures in the capitals of
Europe before his fame had been secured, his various voyages about the
world, the celebrated men and women he had known in musical and social
walks in every corner of the globe, was a never–failing pleasure. Often,
far into midnight, we sat and listened to his reminiscences of Paganini,
Malibran, Rubini, Lablache, Liszt, and numerous other distinguished
artists, and we never heeded the clock, when he was fairly warmed into
enthusiasm by his exciting themes. Ole Bull was an _eloquent_ talker
_par excellence_—one of the most vivifying companions I have ever been
intimate with. I carried him one evening many years ago to a scientific
club, and asked him to say something to its members about the
construction and makers of the violin. When the president called upon
him he modestly rose with the instrument in his hand, and discoursed in
a conversational tone for half an hour, so captivating his auditors that
they would not allow him to stop, although there were several other
speakers on the evening’s programme expecting to be heard. Every one was
charmed, and to this day the memory of that exceptional appearance at
the club is still recalled with the warmest interest.
Ole Bull was not a man of negations. His likings and dislikings were
positive and not always settled by the wisest judgment, but his leaning
was habitually toward the simplest and straight–forward in all things.
He said to me once of a person I was inclined to have him like, “Yaas!
but he always seems to be behind a corner, peeping round when he should
be in front!” He was a delightful mimic, not one of the ungenial,
critical sort, but full of impulsive vivacity, eager to impart clear and
dramatic impressions of character. No book of travels in the North of
Europe ever conveyed to me so graphic a presentation of the manners and
customs of the people as his personal sketches, acted out on the parlor
floor, of the way in which the inhabitants in cities and villages danced
and sang, marched in festive processions, held their fairs, ate their
meals, and lived their daily lives. When he thought his voice was not
conveying the impression he desired to impart, he would seize his violin
and cause that to speak for him in the most picturesque and engaging
manner.
He was a spiritual–minded thinker, a sayer of deep things, as well as of
witty and merry ones. No man had a finer sense of the mysteries of human
life, or could discourse of them more earnestly. The love of liberty was
a passion with him, and when he chanted of Freedom his countenance was
as of one inspired. It would be superfluous to repeat here what
rapturous pleasure Ole Bull’s music has afforded to hundreds of
thousands in America during the many years he lived among us.
To me he was always a magician and I yielded to his skill whenever he
chose to command me. He was an enchanter—a bright, eager, imaginative
spirit. He was a companion, lovable, and unparagoned: his absence from
those who knew him best can never be supplied.