Ole Bull: A Memoir

Appendix

The Anatomy of the Violinist, Mr. Ole Bull: His Pose and Method of Holding the Violin

By A. B. CROSBY, A. M., M. D.,

Professor of Anatomy, Bellevue Hospital Medical College, New York, 1877.

Thirty–one years ago, in a quaint old Congregational church in a New England village, I first heard Mr. Ole Bull perform on the violin, and witnessed

“The matchless skill, the potent art that brings
Voices of earth, or heaven, from those mute strings.”

I had never seen a violin save in the hands of a country dancing–master, and it was like a new revelation when this high–bred gentleman stood up “every inch a man,” and with “charmed touch” dignified his instrument.

During the past few weeks, both in public and private, I have had an opportunity to enjoy again the magic of the weird musician’s art, and I find that the boyish pleasure stands the test of manhood’s reflection. But in my later experience I have not only drank in my fill of the “dulcet creams” of music, but from the stand–point of an anatomist have attempted to unravel the secret of Mr. Bull’s graceful pose and unique method of holding the violin. Nor has my study been without results, which I shall attempt to develop for the benefit of the ambitious violinist who would adopt the methods of a master.

The pose of Mr. Bull when playing is a model of manly grace. He rests his body centrally over the left leg as a firm column of support, while the right foot is advanced and the right leg forms an oblique brace. The pose is essentially the “rest” of the soldier, and combines the maximum of ease and stability.

The figure is singularly erect, nor does the head incline like that of the ordinary violinist—save only in certain inspired moments when for an instant the ear drops towards the well loved instrument as if to catch

“The still sad music of humanity”

inaudible to other ears. Both the head and chin are absolutely free and seem to feel no responsibility for the position of the violin. The bust, which has been superbly developed by a lifetime of musical gymnastics, measures on full inspiration forty–two inches, having an expansion of three inches. The waist, at twenty–four years of age, measured twenty–four inches; and although the years have increased, the waist measure remains exactly the same. Mr. Bull’s height in his stocking–feet is five feet eleven and a quarter inches. As he stands before an audience waiting for his accompaniment, with his small waist, his superb bust, his finely cut face, and the carriage of a prince, he is the incarnation of the Magnus Apollo. But when his imperial bow grows liquid and pours out silvery notes like the music of many waters, we seem to see as in a dream that the wheel of Ixion stops, the stone of Sisyphus stands still, Tantalus forgets his perpetual thirst, and even the Furies relent. Then it is that we wake to find that Apollo, as in the ancient myth, has yielded the lyre to Orpheus.

The excellence of Mr. Bull’s method in holding the violin depends mainly on the admirable position of the left arm. The upper arm is carried forward and inward, the elbow being brought well in front of the chest. The fore–arm is then flexed, thus forming a brace to support the neck of the instrument, while the same portion of the arm is in a position of extreme supination; that is, the fore–arm is turned so that the palm is upward. It will thus be observed that the palm of the hand is placed higher than the clavicle or collar–bone, where the tail–piece of the violin rests (Fig. 1). When the violin is placed in position, the tail–piece rests against the root of the neck, just above the clavicle or collar–bone, while the neck of the instrument reposes upon the palmar surface of the thumb throughout the whole or part of its extent, according to the exigencies of the fingering.

It will thus be seen that from the palm to the root of the neck the violin rests upon an inclined plane, gravitating towards the collar–bone (see Fig. 1). The instrument then is not held, but rests upon a friendly hand and neck.

From the fact that its position is maintained by the force of gravity, it follows that the chin need not grasp the base of the violin—since it holds itself—and the head is left free and erect.

Thus the old–time violinist’s constrained head position is avoided.

The line of support along the palmar surface of the thumb is full of anatomical interest.

The accompanying diagram (Fig. 2) may serve to illustrate this and some other points. A black line will be seen extending along the whole length of the palmar surface of the thumb, crossing the base of the annular ligament to a point a little above the wrist. This is essentially the line of support for the neck and upper curves of the violin. It may be called a movable rest, swaying laterally, it is true, but only to a limited extent. The thumb is placed on a different plane from the rest of the fingers, and has motions essentially different from them. The power of perfect opposition to all the fingers by the thumb distinguishes man from the most intelligent of the lower animals.

Although the thumb possesses a cunning in movements far superior to the other fingers, yet in Mr. Bull’s method the thumb, at any given instant, is the fixed point or rest for the upper part of the violin, while the fingers are left absolutely free and movable for the demands of fingering.

Referring again to Fig. 2, it will be seen that the muscles of the thumb, consisting of the Opponens Pollicis, Abductor Pollicis, Flexor Brevis Pollicis, Flexor Longus Pollicis, and Adductor Pollicis, are connected absolutely with the thumb, and in Mr. Bull’s method they move it only sufficiently to constitute a movable rest.

The annular ligament consists of a dense, firm, white, fibrous band, attached to bony prominences on either side of the wrist, thus forming a strong membranous arch, which is capable of supporting the violin without difficulty, while beneath and protected by it the long flexor tendons glide uninterruptedly, thus permitting absolutely free flexion of the fingers on the finger–board. Mr. Bull never grasps the neck of the instrument between the thumb and fingers, since this would at once put such constraint on the fingers as to prevent rapid and effective action on the finger–board.

In fine, the violin rests without restraint, like an obedient slave, on a couch formed for it by the arm of its imperial master.

Nothing is more observable in Mr. Bull’s method than the peculiar obliquity of the finger–tips when applied to the strings. Some have claimed that the tips of the fingers when applied to the strings should be essentially at right angles to the finger–board. Mr. Bull discovered experimentally that such a method of fingering increased his nervous exhaustion, and gave him positive brain–fatigue, frequently after only moderate practice.

He therefore learned instinctively to give the fingers the pose seen in Fig. 1, which he claims diminishes perceptibly nervous exhaustion, at the same time that it insures to the fingers much greater freedom of flexion. By consulting the cut it will be observed that the finger–tips approach the finger–board with a marked obliquity, and that the points of pressure are not on the tips of the pulps of the fingers, but on their radial or thumb side near the angle of the nails. If we examine the end of the finger we shall observe a series of curved lines or ridges, which are made up of “papillæ tactûs,” or points of touch, having a linear arrangement and acute sensibility. These ridges are broader and better developed over the tips of the pulps of the fingers than on the sides.

It follows that the sensibility, most acute at the tips, gradually diminishes as we approach the sides. Moreover the epidermis, or scarf–skin, gradually increases in thickness as we approach the angle of the nails; hence the “point of election” with Mr. Bull in making pressure on the strings is best adapted for the purpose, since the points of touch are less sensitive, and their sensibility is still farther diminished by an increased thickness of the epidermic covering. In this matter, then, it would seem that Mr. Bull has anatomical “justification” for the faith that is in him.

I was anxious to determine as far as possible the points of contact between the “line of support” on the thumb and the violin, when the fingers were at different points on the finger–board. It was a matter of no little difficulty, since, as before observed, the thumb while playing constitutes a movable rest, and glides with infinite ease and grace from the head to the body of the instrument. Nor could the distinguished gentleman himself afford me much assistance. The habit of a lifetime had become a second nature; it could be done easily and gracefully, but it was difficult to do it and analyze it at the same time. Nay more, the very attempt threatened to throw us into confusion worse confounded. The problem was at length solved in this wise. Standing behind the musician, I requested him to entirely ignore me and my object, and to play some of his most impassioned pieces, “the world forgetting and by the world forgot.” Dividing the finger–board into four equal segments, I watched the play of the left hand up and down the violin, and noted the positions assumed by the thumb at different points.

By noting the points of contact and support when the index and middle fingers pressed the strings at the upper part of each fourth, I was enabled to establish four definite positions. It should be noted that this division of the finger–board into fourths is not musical but purely arbitrary, in order to establish the pose of the violin on the thumb when the hand is at different points along the instrument. Thus we might hope to get an approximate idea of the way in which the one position easily glides into the next. The accompanying cuts may serve to illustrate the four positions. Fig. 1, already several times referred to, shows the first position. The index and middle fingers press the string at the lower part of the first fourth of the finger–board. The neck of the instrument rests along the whole length of the palmar line on the thumb, as represented in Fig. 2. The curve at the upper part of the body of the violin marked A (Fig. 1) is seen to rest against the wrist. This is rarely the case when Mr. Bull is playing; but it became necessary as a rest during the horrors of photographing.

It is perhaps unnecessary to again call attention to the fact that the violin rests on an inclined plane, its position being almost entirely maintained by its own gravity.

Fig. 3 shows the second position. It will be seen that the pose of the arm is essentially the same, but the thumb has glided up the neck of the violin until the index finger rests at the lower extremity of the second fourth of the finger–board. The neck of the instrument rests on the anterior extremity of the thumb line, while the curve marked B (Fig. 3) rests upon the annular ligament (for which see Fig. 2). Fig. 4 simply shows the reverse of the position shown in Fig. 3. Fig. 5 represents the third position. The index finger rests at the beginning of the third fourth of the finger–board. The anterior extremity of the thumb line supports the base of the neck adjoining the “shield,” while the curve marked C rests against the base of the thumb and annular ligament.

Fig. 6 shows the fourth position. The index finger here rests at the commencement of the last fourth of the finger–board. The anterior extremity of the thumb line presses against the base of the neck adjoining the “shield.” When Mr. Clay reached the highest flights of his eloquence, one of his admirers in the Senate said that he looked “forty feet high.” Mr. Bull, who has been thought to resemble the great statesman in personal appearance, makes somewhat the same impression on the spectator when he reaches his highest notes. Involving, as these notes do, fingering in the highest fourth of the board, it becomes necessary for the musician to elevate the whole instrument, since it is simply steadied against the neck by the thumb, as may be seen in the cut; and by the time the highest note is reached, the grand proportions of the Viking have towered to their utmost height. To one who has seen Mr. Bull at such a time this will not, I am sure, seem an exaggeration.

The last diagram (Fig. 7) is appended simply to show the reverse of Fig. 6.

It is a well known fact that playing on the violin develops the muscles of the arms and chest to a most remarkable extent. It is a matter of some interest to inquire what effect, in the case of Mr. Bull, a lifelong practice on the instrument has had. I append the sub–joined measurements which I took from this gentleman.

The chest measure over nipples was forty–two inches on full inspiration. On forced expiration the measurement was thirty–nine inches. The measurement from the middle of the top of breast–bone to tip of shoulder was the same on both sides, namely, ten inches. It is well known that there is a normal difference between the right and left sides of the body.

Note.—As Dr. Crosby’s paper is unfinished, we append to it a letter from the celebrated Tartini, which was translated and published by Dr. Burney in 1779, as “an important lesson to performers on the violin.”

When Ole Bull was once speaking of his experiences in Italy, in 1834, he said: “I tried, if possible, to hear some player of the old Italian school. I happened to come in contact with an old man of ninety years, a pupil—amateur pupil, I will add—of Tartini. I paid him my respects, and asked to see his violin and hear him play, as it was my intention to study the Italian method. With infinite grace he took up an old Amati violin, the sight of which made my eyes water, and putting the bow on the strings, he produced tones which were an exact reproduction of the Tartini method as published by that great master in a letter which was shown me. Ah! so different from the modern school! Why, the violinist of to–day serves his instrument as though it were a slave, and must be driven to duty with the lash. The player should treat his violin as a tender child—fondle and caress it, not beat it. The beauty of a performance lies in exacting from the instrument tones corresponding with the deep love a true artist feels for his art.”

The letter referred to by Ole Bull was the one translated by Dr. Burney, which reads as follows:—

Padua, March 5, 1760.

My very much Esteemed Signora Maddalena,—Finding myself at length disengaged from the weighty business which has so long prevented me from performing my promise to you, a promise which was made with too much sincerity for my want of punctuality not to afflict me, I shall begin the instructions you wish from me by letter; and if I should not explain myself with sufficient clearness, I entreat you to tell me your doubts and difficulties in writing, which I shall not fail to remove in a future letter.

Your principal practice and study should, at present, be confined to the use and power of the bow, in order to make yourself entirely mistress in the execution and expression of whatever can be played or sung, within the compass and ability of your instrument. Your first study, therefore, should be the true manner of holding, balancing, and pressing the bow lightly, but steadily, upon the strings; in such a manner as it shall seem to breathe the first tone it gives, which must proceed from the friction of the string, and not from percussion, as by a blow given with a hammer upon it. This depends on laying the bow lightly upon the strings at the first contact, and on gently pressing it afterwards, which, if done gradually, can scarcely have too much force given to it, because, if the tone is begun with delicacy, there is little danger of rendering it afterwards either coarse or harsh.

Of this first contact and delicate manner of beginning a tone you should make yourself a perfect mistress in every situation and part of the bow, as well in the middle as at the extremities; and in moving it up as well as in drawing it down. To unite all these laborious particulars into one lesson, my advice is, that you first exercise yourself in a swell upon an open string, for example, upon the second string; that you begin pianissimo, and increase the tone by slow degrees to its fortissimo; and this study should be equally made with the motion of the bow up and down, in which exercise you should spend at least an hour every day, though at different times, a little in the morning and a little in the evening; having constantly in mind that this is, of all things, the most difficult and the most essential to playing well on the violin. When you are a perfect mistress of this part of a good performer, a swell will be very easy to you; beginning with the most minute softness, increasing the tone to its loudest degree, and diminishing it to the same point of softness with which you began, and all this in the same stroke of the bow. Every degree of pressure upon the string which the expression of a note or passage shall require will by this means be easy and certain; and you will be able to execute with your bow whatever you please. After this, in order to acquire that light pulsation and play of the wrist, from whence velocity in bowing arises, it will be best for you to practice every day one of the Allegros, of which there are three in Corelli’s solos, which entirely move in semiquavers. The first is in D, in playing which you should accelerate the motion a little each time, till you arrive at the quickest degree of swiftness possible; but two precautions are necessary in this exercise: the first is, that you play the notes staccato, that is, separate and detached, with a little space between every two, for though they are written thus—

they should be played as if there was a rest after every note, in this manner—

The second precaution is, that you first play with the point of the bow; and when that becomes easy to you, that you use that part of it which is between the point and the middle; and when you are likewise mistress of this part of the bow, that you practice in the same manner with the middle of the bow; and above all, you must remember in these studies to begin the Allegros or flights sometimes with an up–bow, and sometimes with a down–bow, carefully avoiding the habit of constantly practicing one way. In order to acquire a greater facility of executing swift passages in a light and neat manner, it will be of great use to you if you accustom yourself to skip over a string between two quick notes in divisions, like these—

Of such divisions you may play extempore as many as possible, and in every key, which will be both useful and necessary.

With regard to the finger–board, or carriage of the left hand, I have one thing strongly to recommend to you, which will suffice for all; and that is, the taking a violin part, either the first or second of a concerto, sonata, or song, anything will serve the purpose, and playing it upon the half–shift, that is, with the first finger upon G on the first string, and constantly keeping upon this shift, playing the whole piece without moving the hand from this situation, unless A on the fourth string be wanted, or D upon the first; but in that case, you should afterwards return again to the half–shift, without ever moving the hand down to the natural position. This practice should be continued till you can execute with facility upon the half–shift any violin part not intended as a solo, at sight. After this advance the hand on the finger–board to the whole–shift, with the first finger upon A on the first string, and accustom yourself to this position till you can execute everything upon the whole–shift with as much ease as when the hand is in its natural situation; and when certain of this, advance to the double–shift, with the first finger upon B, on the first string; and when sure of that likewise, pass to the fourth position of the hand, making C with the first finger upon the first string; and indeed this is a scale in which, when you are firm, you may be said to be mistress of the finger–board. This study is so necessary, that I most earnestly recommend it to your attention.

I now pass to the third essential part of a good performer on the violin, which is the making of a good shake, and I would have you practice it slow, moderately fast, and quick, that is, with the two notes succeeding each other in these three degrees of adagio, andante, and presto; and in practice you have great occasion for these different kinds of shakes, for the same shake will not serve with equal propriety for a slow movement as for a quick one; but to acquire both at once with the same trouble, begin with an open string, either the first or second, it will be equally useful; sustain the note in a swell, and begin the shake very slow, increasing in quickness, by insensible degrees, till it becomes rapid, in the manner following:—

But you must not vigorously move immediately from semiquavers to demi–semiquavers, as in this example, or from these to the next in degree—that would be doubling the velocity of the shake all at once, which would be a skip, not a graduation; but you can imagine between a semiquaver and a demi–semiquaver intermediate degrees of rapidity, quicker than the one, and slower than the other of these characters; you are therefore to increase in velocity by the same degrees in practicing the shake, as in loudness when you make a swell. You must attentively and assiduously persevere in the practice of this embellishment, and begin at first with an open string, upon which if you are once able to make a good shake with the first finger, you will with the greater facility acquire one with the second, the third, and the fourth, or little finger, with which you must practice in a particular manner, as more feeble than the rest of its brethren. I shall, at present, propose no other studies to your application; what I have already said is more than sufficient, if your zeal is equal to my wishes, for your improvement. I hope you will sincerely inform me whether I have explained myself clearly thus far; that you will accept of my respects, which I likewise beg of you to present to the Prioress, to Signora Teresa, and to Signora Chiara, for all whom I have a sincere regard; and believe me to be, with great affection,

Your obedient and most humble servant,
Giuseppe Tartini.

Violin Notes

BY OLE BULL.

Preface

Ole Bull had long contemplated revising and filling out his fragmentary notes on the violin and its construction, jotted down at various times. Excepting some slight rearrangement they are now presented as he left them, unfinished and incomplete. As they stand they are genuine and characteristic, and doubtless indicate part of the general design he was not permitted to complete.

Aided by peculiar physical and nervous force Ole Bull presented that rare combination,—excellence in the technique of the left hand, with equal excellence in that of the bow. No difficulty in the fingering of double, treble, and quadruple tones seemed to exist for him. The fact that the violin is not best calculated for the powerful demands of a four–part passage, and that, therefore, the effect in a large hall is apt to be hazy and indistinct, should in no way detract from the wonderful skill required for its performance. In executing a trill he showed no partiality for a particular finger: the pulsation was always even and clear. His scales were extremely smooth, both in ascending and descending. He excelled in executing whole passages in any fixed position, also in rapid shifting from a low position to a high one and vice versâ, and in pizzicato with the left hand. In the management of the bow he was unrivaled. His staccato was peculiar to himself, and was simply perfection. Whether the bow was impelled in a succession of little rippling bounds or of detached martelé strokes, each note possessed wonderful distinctness and impetus. In the arpeggio the notes were never slurred together, and the double accentuation of the lowest and highest notes imparted a full rhythmic swing to such passages. The tremolo and sautillé displayed the delicate flexibility of his wrist. His tone was pure, elastic, and sympathetic.

In his compositions the various motives are always well worked out, and abound in broad and beautiful effects. As they were written for himself, they exemplify his peculiarities of fingering and bowing. Like Paganini’s, they are almost unplayable; for, apart from the difficulties of technique, without the vis viva of the master they lack their greatest charm.

To his remarkable personal magnetism was added a grace and dignity of appearance, an unvarying amiability and courtesy of manner. He met few whose feelings towards him, however antagonistic at first, did not speedily become warm and friendly, and little children loved him.

Walter E. Colton.

The Origin of the Violin

The country which affords us the most ancient memorials of a perfect language, of an advanced civilization, of a philosophy in which all phases of human thought find expression, of a poetry rich in every style, and of a musical art corresponding with the lively susceptibilities of the people—India—appears to have given birth to bow instruments.

Classical antiquity, in its forms of sculpture and bas–relief, contains no suggestion of the instrument. A little figure of Apollo playing upon a kind of violin with something like a bow, exhibited in Florence, has been proved to be of modern production. This is the only known piece of sculpture reputed ancient, in which anything like a bow can be found. Ancient painting, while giving many delineations of musical instruments, in every case fails to represent that indispensable adjunct of the violin proper,—the bow.

As to India, no conjecture based on obscure interpretation of record or delineation is needed, for the veritable instruments exist to–day, preserving, in the main, their original characteristics. The first or simplest form of bow instrument seems to have consisted of a little hollow cylinder of wood covered at one end with a piece of skin tightly stretched, and furnished with a neck and bridge, the whole being very much like a modern banjo. A slip of bamboo, bent so as to hold tense a bundle of hairs, furnished the bow. The number of strings was variable, according to the purpose of the instrument. Thus, in the case of the virtuoso, one string was deemed sufficient, while for the uses of the common people two or three were permitted. The antiquity claimed by Indian writers for this form of bow instrument is almost incredible; one tradition relates that it was invented by one of the early kings of Ceylon, at a period about five thousand years before the Christian era. In that dawn of history the migratory tides flowing from the East to the West, from India through Asia, Persia, Arabia, thence through northern Europe, and thence across the Danube and the Rhine, have left other memorials than the stormy history of their wars. The polite arts of to–day find their crude germs in that ancient time. And although, by the ready interchange of ideas achieved by modern civilization, a modern invention may embody suggestions gathered from all countries and all times, it is possible to examine each component part, to follow up each relative train of thought which has here found practical expression, until we arrive at the single idea, the main–spring, as it were, of the whole mechanism. In music the violin may be traced back through a thousand varied forms until it finds its beginning in the revanastron, or, as I have called it, the banjo–fiddle of India. At the time of its invention, it was undoubtedly designed for nothing higher than an accompaniment to the voice. As such it exists to–day in parts of India and Arabia, and in such menial capacity it was retained until about the 12th century. In fact, bow instruments did not come into special notice in Europe until about the 13th or 14th century.

At that time the natural divisions of the human voice, long recognized, were definitely classed into soprano, tenor, alto, and bass; and music began to be considered in the true dignity of its position as an art to be scientifically cultivated. With the scientific division of the voice, bow instruments became at once similarly divided into their four registers. The form of instruments was still arbitrary; the number of strings and manner of tuning varied with every new caprice; but the instrumental combinations of that day contained the nucleus of the modern quartette.

Still, despite the progressive steps and more popular diffusion of musical knowledge, the instruments of the violin family at that time, and for a period of nearly two centuries, held but a precarious tenure of existence in the rivalry with the more robust fellow–members of the orchestra; for the musical susceptibilities of the people appear to have been more cordially appealed to and drawn out by the sonorous blasts of the brazen trumpet and the artillery of the kettle–drum, than by the sweet and subdued tones of the bow instruments of the day.

It is related that King Henry the Eighth of England, in the year 1530, was entertained at Cardinal Wolsey’s palace with “a concert of drums and fifes.” This is nothing compared with the heroic endurance of his daughter Elizabeth, who was “daily regaled during dinner with twelve trumpets, two kettle–drums, which, together with fifes, cornets, and side–drums, made the hall ring for half an hour together.”

Between the latter part of the 15th century and the first half of the 16th, the instruments of the viol family, with the introduction of the viol d’amour and the viol di gamba, reached the terminus of their servitude as appendages to the voice, and at one step culminated in the invention of the violin as we have it to–day. The new curvatures of the top and back; the deep indentures of the sides for convenience of the bow; the sweep of the outline; the scroll; the removal of the frets on the finger–board,—an ancient distinguishing feature, perpetuated in the arrangement of the neck of the guitar,—all these innovations upon established conventionality seem to have been made at once. Since that time the violin has steadily, and without retrogression, advanced to its present position in popular estimation,—the aristocrat of musical instruments. Laboring under difficulties not encountered by the voice, it is yet capable of presenting a rhythmic musical picture, which the mind can take up and at once translate to the feelings in intelligible language.

Gaspar da Salo and the Cremona School

The form of the violin varied with the epoch in which it was used. The lifetime of Tartini (born A. D. 1692, died A. D. 1770) marks the period during which the powers of the violin in all varieties and styles were completely developed. The violin–makers had to adapt their instruments to the wants of the performers. The efforts of Stradivarius and Guarnerius contributed in a marked degree to assist Tartini in creating a new era for the violin. The best epoch of Stradivarius was from 1700 to 1720 or 1725. It was during Tartini’s lifetime that considerable rise in the pitch took place. This, in the violin, necessitated a new arrangement to withstand the greater strain. The instrument kept pace with the new demands made upon it. In consequence of the increased powers of the general orchestra, the old delicate sweetness of the Amatis ceased to be the chief desideratum, a more masculine and heroic tone gaining the preference. This quality of tone reached its climax in Joseph Guarnerius.

When Francis I. was in Rome and heard the choir of the Vatican Chapel, he was so charmed with the violin, that he induced the lutier Gaspar Duiffoprugcar, also, as I believe, called Da Salo28 after his native town on Lake Garda, to accompany him to Paris, there to make violins, violas, and contrabasses for his court. It is known of Gaspar’s history that he was quite unable to endure the climate of Paris, and therefore removed to Lyons; so that his instruments date from three places,—Brescia, Paris, and Lyons.

His instruments, at least those made during his life in Italy, are for the most part roughly constructed. His varnish is of a brownish yellow color, exceedingly fine and soft. The thickness of wood in the top and back is so adjusted as to give to the tone quality, power, and solidity, and great variety of color. Da Salo violins of any of his periods are very rare.

The viol in Raphael’s “Parnassus,” where Apollo is represented as playing it, was introduced in honor of the then admired improvisatore and violist Giacomo Sansecondo, who had inspired in Raphael so great an admiration for the viol that he considered it worthy of being placed in the hands of the god of song. In Giacomo Sansecondo’s time the violin had been already introduced, and he was doubtless able to play that instrument. As Gaspar da Salo was then living, it is probable that the viol in the picture was drawn from a model supplied by him. In the first changes from the form of the viol to that of the violin, the new offshoot retained many of the peculiarities of its older kindred, notably in the broad, full oval of the back and top, and the pointed f holes.

The violins of Gaspar da Salo and Joseph Guarnerius have the sound of a trumpet, horn, or flute; those of Stradivarius have the sound of the oboe and clarinet; and those of the Amati family, of the English horn and the human voice. The Steiner violins have the greatest diversity of color between the upper and lower strings, and resemble a sharp oboe. The violins of Maggini are grand but somewhat hollow in tone, inclining to the viola; this quality is due to their curves and large proportions.

Andrew Amati, the earliest of the Cremonese makers, is supposed to have learned the principles of his art in the Brescian school. He made violins for the courts of France, Italy, and Spain; and these instruments were often ornamented by gilding or painting—covered with devices in gold, Latin adages, and in some instances the coats of arms of the different courts for which they were made. His violins are all of high model. His workmanship in all the details of outline, swells, f holes, scroll, etc. is exceedingly fine. They have enough wood at the centre of the top and back, but are rather thin at the extremities. The tone is sweet and vocal, but sometimes inferior on the G and D strings. He discarded the serious cathedral style of Da Salo and Maggini, together with the broad, thick, and strong extremities of their instruments; and it must be said that his narrow, hollow, rounded, thin violins were admirably adapted to their purpose; the sweet and subdued tone harmonizing with that of the viol d’amour and its kindred in the interpretation of the ballad music of the royal chambers.

Antonius and Hieronymus Amati, the two sons of Andrew, at first worked together in the style of their father, but later they adopted a model somewhat flatter at the edges. These violins combine great beauty of form with superior wood, and have a fine and brilliant though delicate tone. After some years the brothers ceased working together.

I have seen several violins of Antonius Amati. They were all of rather high model. The wood of the back and sides was frequently of pear–tree, but they were made quite strong in wood, and therefore possessed a rather strong tone, particularly on the G string.

The violins of Hieronymus Amati are of larger pattern and flatter model than those of his brother, but are not so finely finished. Their tone, however, is much finer.

Nicholas Amati, son of Hieronymus, was the most celebrated maker of the family. In his large instruments he flattened the model somewhat, carving it sometimes, however, rather abruptly to a ridge in the centre, and making the curve an inch from the edges all around slightly concave. His workmanship was always most careful, and his finish exquisite. In these respects, he has never been excelled by any of the Italian makers. The tone, while often sufficiently powerful, lacks the breadth of the Gaspar da Salo, or Joseph Guarnerius. The varnish is generally yellow, and somewhat thin in body. Of all the Amati family, Andrew had the best varnish, it being more intense and rich in color and having greater body than that used by his sons.

Antonius Stradivarius was a pupil of the Amatis. His life has been divided into three periods,—his pupilage, his emancipation from the old rules, or artistic period, and his old age. He made a great many violins. He originated a new outline, flattened the model, did away with the excessive gutter or hollowing out at the edges, and selected his wood with regard to beauty as well as quality. His violins of the second period are marvels of neat, attentive workmanship. The varnish has a beautiful warmth of color, and great flexibility. But although the tone is wonderfully even and full, it is tinctured with a peculiar nasal quality. For this reason, though I have owned several fine specimens of this maker, among them one of a quartette made for the court of Spain, I have never played on them in public.

Of the Guarnerius family, I shall only mention Joseph, the nephew of Andrew. Rejecting the new form of Stradivarius and the older traditions of the Amatis, he seems to have chosen Gaspar da Salo and Maggini for his models; but his violins, while combining the peculiarities of these two makers, preserve the stamp of his own genius. The salient points of the Brescian school are noticed in the pointed f holes, the sweep of the outline, and the curve of the back. His violins are generally flat in model. The workmanship in its minute details is not always careful. The purfling is irregular, the edges not well finished, the outline awry, the f holes irregular, and the scrolls show the marks of the chisel; but all is thoroughly characteristic. The varnish is of every color,—yellow, red, and brown, and generally of fine intensity of color and great body. The tone, like that of Da Salo, is full and masculine. Those instruments which were produced during one not very long period of his life are by far his best; those made at other times are inferior, and in some cases almost unrecognizable as his productions. Possessing more genius than Stradivarius, he wasted his abilities, and rumor asserts that he led a life of idleness and dissipation, broken only, under pressure of want, by fitful periods of industry.

My Concert Gaspar da Salo29

Once after a rehearsal in Breslau, in the year 1862, an old amateur and esteemed friend, Amtmann Zoller, who had purchased a collection of violins, wished me to look at them. I went, in company with a violin–maker, and saw the collection. The instruments were very fine, but I said, “The pearl of all is this Gaspar da Salo.” The Amtmann answered, “I think so myself, and I am much pleased to find you agree with me. But the connoisseurs here are unwilling to see any special merit in the instrument, and if it should be sold I do not think it would bring so much as some of the others.” When we left his house,—we had breakfasted with him,—the violin–maker said, “Why did you praise that violin so highly? You surely did not think that a superior instrument?” He then asked me why I did not offer to buy it. I said I could not think of offending the Amtmann by offering to purchase, for I did not suppose the violin was for sale. I consented, however, that he should ask him. The following morning he came to me, saying he had been to the Amtmann, who wished to see me. At our interview, in answer to his question whether I thought the instrument would entirely suit me, I assured him that it was a violin the tone of which could be graded in all different colors, and that I was in love with it. He then offered it to me at the price he paid for it (800 thalers); an offer I immediately accepted. A German musician, Lansberg by name, had been living in Rome for some twenty years, and had there made a collection of ancient violins. At his death, these were sent to his home in Breslau. The Amtmann Zoller purchased about a dozen of them, and among these was the Gaspar da Salo. Since I purchased this violin I have used it in all my public concerts.

I have another violin by a maker contemporaneous with Gaspar da Salo—in all probability Matteo Bente, Brescia, 1580. It very much resembles my concert violin in the model and f holes. I received it in Rome in 1835, from the librarian of the Vatican, Michael Angelo Lanzi. During my stay in Rome I had given some lessons to a boy who was a favorite of his, and who had some talent for playing. As a return, he presented me this violin from the Vatican. In the Vatican vocal music only was given, and formerly violins and basses and violas were used in training the choir–boys. Of late years, this method falling out of use, the instruments gradually found their way into the hands of performers. I have not used this violin in concerts. It has a very peculiar flute–like tone, not capable of great variety of expression, but always in the whole range or compass preserving the same character. Nor is it capable of filling a large hall. The small turns of the f holes are very near together, the large ones correspondingly far apart. This nearness of the upper turns necessitates a narrow bridge, which interferes with the development of a great tone. It is evidently specially adapted for playing in company with flutes, guitars, mandolins, and other soft–toned instruments.

My Nicholas Amati

I purchased this instrument in London in the year 1861. It had belonged to Sir W. Curtis, a director of the East India Company.

There is an anecdote of George the Fourth, that, as he played the violoncello, and wanted a quartette by Amati, and of course of the best, he applied to Sir W. Curtis, who sometimes played with him, and was financially his creditor in large sums. On the king’s inquiring if he would sell his violin, he replied that his majesty could not afford to buy it, as he did not wish to see him sink deeper in debt. From Sir W. Curtis the violin passed into the hands of a Mr. Oliphant, also an East India director. I purchased it from his son. Mr. Plowden, of London, a violin collector of great judgment, was much annoyed on finding I had become the owner of the violin. He pronounced it the finest specimen of Nicholas Amati in the world, and declared that he had waited forty years for the chance of being its possessor. He further offered in its place the choice of any two violins from his collection.

The Bridge

The position of the bridge should be such as to affect the whole violin equally, and not to favor one tone more than another. The centre of the bridge should be always directly over the centre line of the top. Whether it should stand slightly backwards or forwards of, or directly on a line drawn across the top from the inner notches of the f holes, will depend upon the character of the instrument, and can only be determined experimentally. It should incline toward the tail–piece in order to better withstand the forward pull of the strings in tuning.

The construction of the bridge has great influence upon the tone. Thinness of the centre of the bridge tends to make prominent any nasal quality or shrillness latent in the instrument. A proper solidity conveys sweetness and compactness, but too great thickness muffles the tone.

High–built violins mostly require low bridges, and such should be particularly thick at the edges where the strings rest.

The bridge should be perfectly flat on the side toward the tail–piece. It may be slightly convex on the other side.

The material of which the bridge is made should be invariably maple. That which is known as the silver–gray maple is preferable to the brown or yellow, as having a more close and elastic grain.

The incisions in the sides of the bridge should extend each one third of the distance toward the centre. The French model of Aubert of Mirecourt, though open to some objections in special cases, is one of the best. These bridges are made of excellent wood, and are thick and strong.

The top of the bridge should be thick. Properly constructed, a bridge may be made quite heavy, and so made it will always convey a rounder and fuller volume of tone. The distance measured along the top, between the G and the E strings, should be 1–10/32 inches. The G string should be 8/32 of an inch above the finger–board at its larger extremity; the E string, 5/32 of an inch. The average height of the feet of the bridge should be about 3/16 of an inch. The thickness at the base, a scant 5/32 of an inch; at the top, a full 1/16 of an inch. The feet should be 7/16 of an inch long.

The Sound–post

In general, the sound–post should stand from 1/8 to 1/4 of an inch to the rear of the right foot of the bridge. Its outer edge should be in line with the outer edge of the foot. From this position its upper or lower end, or both, may be moved with advantage to secure certain qualities of tone. It should in all cases fit the curves of the top and back absolutely. Moving the lower end toward the centre favors the lower strings. If the lower strings are weak and the upper at all sharp or hard in tone, then a very loose post should be used. If the reverse is the case, a long and tightly fitting sound–post is required. Moving the upper end outward will help all the strings, if the tone before was hard and shrill; but if the upper strings happen to be dull and heavy, then the post should stand a little inside the line of the foot of the bridge, and a little further back. The sound–post should be made of fine–grained soft spruce. The grain should cross that of the top, as this will prevent the marring of the inner surface of the top in putting the post in and adjusting it.

The Bow

I use a bow longer by two inches than the ordinary standard. A powerful, heavy bow is required for four–string passages and many tours de force. The bow, while elastic, should be extremely stiff, so that if dropped upon the strings the rebounds are very rapid. It should have weight to give force to these rebounds, as in many passages the weight of the hand cannot be applied to assist the bow; as in the tremolo, arpeggio, and staccato volante. In this last example the bow is thrown upon the strings and runs its length in a series of little rebounds, neither the fingers nor wrist having anything to do with the result. In order to graduate, as it were, the different colors of sound, we favor certain overtones by causing the hair to act at greater or less distances from the bridge. The nearer we approach the bridge the more the upper overtones, and the nearer the neck the more the lower overtones will be favored. In the first instance, the resulting tone resembles that of the trumpet; and in the second, that of the horn and clarinet. With a heavy bow, in forte passages, only slight assistance is needed from the hand. The wrist is not cramped or stiffened in producing the pressure. In piano passages, the little finger should partially sustain the weight, and the stick should be inclined toward the neck, so that only part of the hairs act upon the strings.

The great stiffness and elasticity of the heavy bow gives a freer, clearer tone than can be produced by one of a lighter and more sluggish nature.

The length of the bow is two feet, six inches; the length of the hair two feet, four inches. The number of hairs is about one hundred and sixty. Half of the hairs are put in one way, the other half the other. It is known that the hairs, as seen when magnified, have little sawlike teeth running in one direction. By thus dividing the hairs, they present the same friction on either the up or down stroke. The best hair is from Normandy. It should be round and even, and not flat in places.

The Bar

The principal object of the bar is to resist the pressure of the strings upon the top. All old violins require to be rebarred, owing to the height of the present musical pitch over that of one hundred years ago. The old short bars are no longer adapted to the greater strain, and more powerful ones are needed. From long continued strain, the pulling of the two extremes toward the centre, and the downward pressure of the bridge at that point, the tops of many old violins have bulged up at the ends and sunk down in the centre. The adjustment of a new bar will have a tendency to remedy this. As the bar was originally placed by Gaspar da Salo, so it should be placed now; that is, not in the direction of the fibres of the top, but obliquely, the end under the finger–board being nearest the centre. In this position it appears to give ample support to the bridge and to allow a fuller and richer tone.30

The Varnish

In a search after an elucidation of this so–called lost art, three facts immediately present themselves: first, this varnish was employed by the very earliest of the Italian makers as well as the later; second, its use was common only in Italy; third, it ceased to be applied to violins after A. D. 1750–1760.

In texture this varnish is extremely supple; it will yield to pressure, but breaks or scales off under a sudden blow. It is entirely transparent, and of all shades of brown, red, and yellow. The vehicle in which the gums and colors are dissolved is an oil. Applied to a violin, it compacts the tone together, without rendering it shrill or harsh, and gives additional beauty to the wood. That its ingredients were indigenous to the Italian soil is out of the question. It is well known that much of the maple used by the violin–makers of that day came from Turkey. Imported to Venice, it was employed in the construction of oars, etc. The extremely curly pieces, owing to their liability to fracture under rough usage, were consequently rejected, to be appropriated by the violin–makers. Venice and Genoa held great command over the entire Eastern trade, and undoubtedly through these ports came the various gums and coloring substances of which this varnish was made.

Turning to other countries of Europe—Germany, France, and England—and examining the productions of their most celebrated violin–makers contemporaneous with the Cremonese school, scarcely a trace of the Italian varnish is to be met with. In German instruments, the varnish is distinguished by extreme hardness, a glassy lustre, and an absence of all delicate shades of color. The vehicle or menstruum, moreover, is alcohol. In France, the coloring was sometimes good, but in general too pronounced. The varnish of the old English makers lacked transparency. In both these countries the vehicle was oil, but the varnish in quality and texture differed essentially from the Italian.

Three questions occur: first, was this manufacture a secret? second, how was this secret lost? third, are there any writings or clues for perusal and examination? Answers to these questions should clear up the mystery of this so–called lost art.

To begin, then, with the first question, was the manufacture of this varnish a secret? There is no reasonable doubt that it was, but only in a certain way. For a period of about two hundred years, from the time of Gaspar da Salo to that of the Bergonzi, the varnish was common to every Italian violin–maker. Cremona had no monopoly, for the knowledge and use of it extended to Padua, Venice, Rome, and Naples. It is impossible, therefore, during this long time to say that the selection of ingredients or the methods of preparation employed in the manufacture of this substance, so well known and widely used, were in any sense a secret. But a little later quite a change is observable. From a hundred Italian instruments of this later date, only a notable few can be selected as possessing the true varnish; and that this marked characteristic in the case of these few is not the result of mere chance is apparent from the fact that the artists who made them have consistently applied it to all their productions. From about 1745 to about 1760, then, the manufacture of this varnish may be properly called a secret, as being confined to a chosen few.

A bitter rivalry had always existed between the Neapolitan, Venetian, and Cremonese schools. Alessandro Gagliano, probably a pupil of Stradivarius, had established himself at Naples. Dominico Montagnana and Sanctus Seraphino were the masters of the art in Venice. The Cremonese makers seem to have relied on their sonorous, well selected wood, their established principles of construction, and their ancient reputation; the Venetian, on the beauty of their wood, and careful finish; and the Neapolitan, on their exceedingly low price.

As a knowledge of the varnish became at last confined to a few, instances are not wanting of the persecution of such by their less fortunate fellow–workmen. It is quite evident, that, apart from any considerations of beauty, the importance of the varnish as an acoustic element was well recognized.

The second question now presents itself: how was the secret lost? A careful and repeated examination, extending to a vast number of objects, reveals the fact that the varnish of the Italian violin–maker of the time of Stradivarius and before him was common to the painter, the varnisher, and the gilder as well. Let an ancient piece of Italian furniture—a chair, a cabinet, the case of a spinet or harpsichord—be examined, and, provided it has escaped modern retouching, the varnish might be by Stradivarius himself. Generally it is colorless, then the quality and texture are the indications; but occasionally it is of brilliant hues, and then it proclaims itself to the eye at once. Let specimens of a later date, say 1760, be examined; here is no such varnish. This is smooth, fairly lustrous, hard, and durable. The chair of 1725 presents a surface broken and worn away; that of 1760, one comparatively smooth, and fairly able to endure further vicissitudes of time.

Between the years 1740 and 1760, great changes in the manufacture of varnish were introduced. The old soft gums and their menstrua, capable in themselves of dissolving them, were discarded in favor of newer and more complicated processes, producing a result more durable and unchangeable under exposure and rough wear.

The old fashion of ornamenting all articles of furniture, whether of ornament or utility, with carvings, had given place to a more sober style. Broad, unrelieved surfaces, depending on the intrinsic beauty of their material, were found a relief to the eye tired with unraveling the mazes of complex carving or painted arabesque. The old, soft, badly wearing varnish no longer sufficed for protection and covering of such surfaces; hence the new processes, and, for such utilitarian purposes, superior results. The hard copal gums, hitherto undissolvable or only partially so, were found to yield entirely on proper heating and fusion. In 1750, a patent, covering a period of twenty–five years, was granted by the King of France to one Simon Martin, a fan painter, for a process of making varnish from amber, by driving off the succinic acid by means of heat, and the subsequent combination of the residue with oil. From that day to the present, various improvements in this art have gone on uninterruptedly. The field of discovery, the gates to which were opened by such pioneers as Simon Martin, being once entered, the problem of durability, hardness, and unchangeableness was soon solved. But with the laying aside of the old receipts, the Italian violin varnish became a lost art. The knowledge of its composition, naturally confined to the general manufacturers, was forgotten. There is no doubt that some of the Cremonese and other makers knew how to prepare it, but, as has been shown, its use was not confined to them. The new ingredients—the copals, amber, etc.—would naturally supersede the old as articles of import, and so by degrees those who possessed the secret—for a secret it was certainly regarded by its latest possessors—would find increasing difficulty in obtaining the old constituents. Moreover, the days of violin–making in Italy were over. England, France, and Germany were eager competitors; the stolid build of the first, the gaudy color of the second, the baked wood of the Mittenwalder, or artist of the Black Forest, and the general cheapness of all, held the market. And so it has happened that the art of the old varnish is not lost, but buried in the dust under the wheel of progress. For two hundred years it was in the hands of a nation; and though now a desire for this forgotten knowledge is confined to only a few, it would be absurd to say that persistent inquiry must fail to unravel a skein of so many ends.

The third question now presents itself: Are there any writings or clues for perusal and examination? There are many. An ingenious Frenchman, who long ago wrote a treatise on varnish, has given the following excellent list of authors who have treated upon this subject:—

“Alexis,” Piedmontese [real name of author, Hieronymus Ruscellaī]: Secrets des Arts; Milan, 1550.

Fiavoranti: Miroir Universel des Arts et des Sciences; Bologna, 1564.

Auda: Recueil Abrégé des Secrets Merveilleux; ——, 1663.

Zahn, Jean: Oculus Artificialis, etc.; Nuremberg, 1685.

Morley, C.: Collections; London, 1692.

Coronelli, Vincent: Epitome Cosmographique; Venice, 1693.

Pomet: Histoire Générale des Drogues; Paris, 1694 (reprinted, 1736).

Buonanni, Phillipe: Traité des Vernis; Rome, 1713.

Here is a succession of treatises, the earliest written about the time of Gaspar da Salo, and the latest during that of Stradivarius. Here are hundreds of genuine receipts. Is any one of them the right one? Patience and perseverance are necessary, much fitting of old names to their new nomenclatures, and many tiresome comparisons. But these once made, the desired result may be obtained, and the new varnish may possess the old coveted lustrous softness and suppleness. And the colors? the brown, the red, and the yellow?—hidden under quaint and obsolete names, they are all indicated by one and another of these authors, and all are soluble in the one vehicle, forming a colored oil varnish, clear and transparent, which, however long kept, will let fall no sediment.

There is still another branch of this subject which has never, or very rarely, been specified, and this is the ground–toning. In all Italian instruments the wood appears to be permeated with a color varying in intensity from pale yellow to almost orange. This color is quite distinct from that of the varnish; for, however faded by exposure and other causes the latter may be, the ground–tone almost always retains its color. The violins with red varnish afford the finest examples of this ground–toning. On such, its tawny yellow is the most intense, and offers a splendid foil to the superimposed color, toning and giving life to it. How it was composed or applied, whether as a wash or stain, or as a distinct varnish, none of the authors give any information. But from their miscellaneous lists of the drugs, dye–stuffs, and coloring matters common to the Italian markets, it is quite possible that a selection could be made which would fulfill all the required conditions of color and stability.

But though supplied with the ground–tone, another element is needed before the exact reflex of the Italian varnish can be reproduced; and that is the natural color of the old wood.

The problem of the old varnish is solvable by any one who deems the reward worth the trial of patience and perseverance, two elements most effective in the task of interlining the broken sentences of tradition.

Paganini

No one can thoroughly understand Paganini without an educated appreciation of melody and the art of giving life and expression to it. Without a knowledge of the Italian art of singing, it is impossible to properly appreciate his playing. Contemporary with Pasta, Pizzaroni, Rubini, Malibran, Paganini rivaled them, singing on his violin melodies, many of which had been sung by those artists, and astonishing even them more than the public. In fact, his style was so original, and the means by which he produced his stirring effects was so varied and so unexpected, his music so filled with ever new episodes of startling beauty or original quaintness, that the violinists of the day stood confounded.

Half the conceited virtuosos would not condescend to study the mysteries of the violin and the soul of melody, or his principles of fingering and manifold colors of tone and expression, but called all they could not comprehend and themselves execute “tricks” and “playing for the multitude.” Nothing has been produced equaling his twenty–four “Studies,” either in beauty, originality, or difficulty of performance. They stand unrivaled. Liszt has arranged many of them for the piano in a most masterly manner. He became so inspired on hearing Paganini, that he composed a fantasia on the main theme of his “Rondo Campanella.” In his obituary notice of Paganini, published in Paris, he places him above all virtuosos. As some of Paganini’s pieces required the violin to be tuned higher than the normal pitch, it was necessary that his strings should be thinner than ordinary to endure the increased strain and give a free vibration. Tuned in this way, for some effects they possessed a peculiar timbre and far–reaching tone, particularly the G string, which, for some occasions, he tuned up to C natural. The violinists of that day used thick strings. They seemed to consider the greatness and variety of the tone to be a result of sheer muscular force, and thus loaded the string with a weight which retarded its vibration. The heavy strings certainly gave a louder tone, but it was much more gross, and, besides, required such effort that often the disagreeable friction of the bow could be distinguished mixed with the tone. The humidity and heat of the concert–room often caused the E string to break in the midst of a performance. After Paganini had been heard, the adoption of thinner strings became general.

Paganini’s style of bowing and producing the tone was founded on Tartini’s exquisite method. He held his upper arm close to his body, using mainly his lower arm for the bow stroke, keeping the wrist extremely flexible. From his peculiar build he could cross his elbows readily. The elbow of his left arm he brought very much to the right in playing. This singular flexibility greatly assisted him in his incredible flights, and made easy for him passages impossible for another. His hand was rather small and thin, and the little finger peculiarly long. The strings of his violin were rather high from the finger–board; this enabled him to give forte passages with great effect, and without the rattling and false vibration always accompanying force when applied to strings close to the finger–board. Owing to his narrow chest and peculiar way of holding the violin, it was easy for him to reach the upper notes. He manipulated the strings at the upper end of the finger–board as easily as other violinists could in the first position. His bow was made after the old Italian style, of a somewhat later shape than that of Tartini’s. When strained to the proper tension, the stick was nearly straight. Vuillaume, when he saw this bow, laughed and inquired who could play with such a thing. When Paganini brought it to him to be repaired (he had broken the upper end), Vuillaume offered to make him another, but he was much displeased with the idea, and most decidedly declined the gift, saying he could not think of using any other bow. Paganini especially excelled in giving life to the simplest melodies, in giving to his tone the quality of the human voice; in contrasts of light and shade, and expression, now plaintive, now brilliant and gay, now fantastic. He was unequaled in producing pizzicatos with the left hand, arpeggio passages, the tremolo, and the gettato. He was the first to establish the rules of artificial harmonic playing, and his numerous passages in single and double harmonics attest the wonderful skill with which he applied them.

In his time it was demanded of artists that they should not only play the compositions of the masters with elegance and nobility of style, but also should be equal to any emergency and ready to improvise embellishments and harmonious variations. Before Rossini no composer wrote out the cadenzas, rather leaving them to the talent of the artist.

The report, circulated in Vienna, that he was a mere charlatan, preceded Paganini’s first appearance in that city. So unfavorable an impression had been formed of him that his first concert was but poorly attended. But at the end of the first part, the impression he made upon his few listeners was so great that several of the musicians in the audience ran out into the coffee–houses and hotels, exclaiming enthusiastically that he was a perfect marvel, and that all must come to hear him. The result was that at the performance of the second part the house was nearly full. Afterwards, partly from wonder, and partly from jealousy, all sorts of stories were told about him. It was said that when his mother died, he made her breathe her last breath into his violin; that he was a culprit who had spent years in imprisonment with only his violin for a companion; that he had gradually worn out all the strings but the G, hence his wonderful skill in playing anything on that one string. It seemed of little avail that he procured and published official testimonials from his native town to the effect that he had never been in prison. Nor did he put an end to the story of his mother’s death, by publishing a letter from her, showing that she was still living.

At a soirée given by Troupenas, the music publisher, in Paris, in 1830, Paganini gave one of the most wonderful exhibitions of his skill. Rossini, Tamburini, Lablache, Rubini, De Beriot, and Malibran were of the party. Malibran, after singing one of her spirited arias, challenged Paganini, who said “Madam, how could I dare, with all the advantages you possess in beauty and your incomparable voice, take up your glove?” His declining was of no avail; the whole company, aware that such an opportunity might never occur again, urged him most strongly, and finally persuaded him to send for his violin. After an introduction, in which gleamed now and then the motive of Malibran’s song, he gave the whole melody with additional fiorituras, so that the audience, amazed and overwhelmed, could not help confessing that he was the master. I heard this from several of the persons who were present, and Malibran herself was the most emphatic of all in proclaiming him the victor.

Paganini’s last Parisian concert occurred in the year 1832, at the Grand Opéra. He played three pieces. Habeneck, professor of music at the Conservatoire, on this occasion wielded the bâton. He had been instrumental in introducing the symphonies of Beethoven for the first time, in opposition to the opinions of the other professors of the Conservatoire. The orchestra was composed of the professors, and such pupils as had taken the first prize; it was justly regarded as the finest orchestra in Europe. Habeneck wished to introduce Beethoven, but had hitherto failed in exciting an appreciation for his mighty works. Finally he hit upon a strategem. It was his birthday, and he invited the members of the orchestra to a collation to be given in the concert–hall of the Conservatoire, and he begged them to bring their instruments. When his health was proposed, he suggested in response that, if they really wished to give him great joy, they would consent to play the “Allegro in C minor” from the first symphony of Beethoven. He explained to them beforehand how he would have them handle the principal motive. Of course all agreed. He knew his success from the manner in which they struck the first chords. Exclamations of admiration followed the close of the Allegro, and the concluding movement of the symphony was played with enthusiasm to the end. Now they requested that the symphony should be played at the next concert, and after twenty rehearsals it was given with immense success. Such was the man who conducted on this occasion. He was a leader of great ability, and the players, the majority of them graduates of the Conservatoire, were entirely under his command. Paganini played, as far as I can remember, his “Concerto in B minor,” with the “Rondo Campanella,” also two variations of Haydn’s famous “Austrian National Hymn,” and concluded with his “Moto Perpetuo.” The public were accustomed to applaud (I have the whole scene before me as if it were to–day) when he appeared at the side. When his shadow was seen approaching, the audience applauded as usual, but to their astonishment Paganini did not appear, but instead a man in black, with a music–stand, which he placed on the stage near the conductor. Again a shadow was seen on the wall, and again the applause sounded. A man appeared clad in livery; he bore two candles, which he placed on the stand and lighted. He disappeared, amid the laughter of the audience. Then came the first fellow in black, this time with a manuscript in his hand. The house behaved as before, evidently confusing the black fellow. Finally came another shadow, and this time it was Paganini, but the applause was now withheld, and he was not recognized until he came forward to the foot–lights. There he made a forced salutation, accompanied with a contraction of the facial muscles, seeming much puzzled at his silent reception. He had been in another room, and knew nothing of the ludicrous scene which had preceded his appearance. Immediately Habeneck raised his bâton, as if to give his order to the orchestra, but Paganini shook his head. He took his bow in his left hand together with his violin, and thrust his right into the recesses of the pockets of his swallow–tailed coat, and brought out a pair of dark–green gloves, which he transferred to his left hand. He shook his head again, and, after a deeper plunge, produced a large white handkerchief, which he also placed in his left hand, accompanying the action with an audible expression of dissatisfaction. A still deeper thrust revealed a brown box, which he regarded with a nod and a smile, and added to the other things in his left hand. He now went through the same deliberate motions in passing the handkerchief and gloves back to his pocket. He then opened the box and took out a pair of spectacles, meditated a moment, apparently considering the next move, and finally, taking the bow in his right hand, and bending a little, put the spectacles on and looked about in a complacent manner. But how changed he was! The glasses were dark blue, giving a ghastly appearance to his emaciated face; they looked like two large holes in his countenance. Raising his foot and bringing it down promptly, he gave the signal to begin. It had been announced as his last concert in Paris for the season, and a true foreboding seemed to thrill through his listeners that they would not again see that lank, angular figure, with its haggard face, or hear again the wondrous witchery of his violin.

Note.—(Page 363). The oblique position of the bar has not been generally adopted. The bar is ordinarily placed with its outer side on a line parallel to the centre line or glue–joint of the top, and at a distance from it about equal to one half the width of the bridge, measured from the outer extremities of the feet. A slight spring is given to the ends of the bar, so that when glued to the top it produces an upward pressure at the centre, under the foot of the bridge. This pressure should equal the downward thrust of the bridge, the force of which will depend upon the angle of the strings over its top. Practice soon discovers a certain modicum of spring which agrees fairly with a certain height of bridge. An entirely successful result is not always insured, but a positive failure is avoided. But in the case of the oblique bar, no such common factor can be found to fit all cases even averagely well. Each instrument presents its own particular problem. The spring at each end must be accurately determined by mechanical means, which will take into account both the resistance of the top, due to its comparative strength of fibre, and the resistance due to the form of modeling. The same degree of obliquity, and position relative to the foot of the bridge which it supports, will not answer equally well in all cases. But when the required conditions are fulfilled, the oblique bar does, beyond doubt, very greatly increase the depth and volume of tone, particularly of the lower strings. Mr. Bull spent many years in endeavoring to formulate the rules which govern this most perplexing part of the organism of the violin. His observations and experiments demonstrated to him the correctness of the oblique position; and though, as was his wont, he frankly owned to more failures than one, his instances of success, illustrated by his Da Salo and many other instruments, bore most convincing witness to the truth of his theory.

Walter E. Colton.

Ole Bull, in the last interview which he had with Mr. Colton, said to him: “You have the tools, the knowledge, and the time for this work, and you will be able to give at last a rule by which less skilled workmen may be guided in the placing of the oblique bar.” After Mr. Colton had sent the above note, a query addressed to him brought the following response, which it is hoped he will pardon us for printing, as it gives just what ought to be known in order to save violins from being injured in the hands of ordinary workmen claiming to understand the principle of the oblique bar:—

The second attempt in placing the bar would be, in the hands of the ordinary repairer, nearly as much of an experiment as the first. In the first place, he lacks the apparatus for determining the spring. In regard to the position relative to the foot of the bridge and degree of obliquity, these appear to be governed by the height of the top and thickness of material. The higher the top, the more the obliquity; the thicker the top, the more the bar can be removed from under the foot of the bridge. I presume I have placed a hundred bars, and have used up many cheap violins in trying to arrive at something like a governing principle, and even now the first attempt may not be all I could wish. Mr. Bull, aided by his own experience, and by some marvelous intuition, compared to which the knowledge of the average repairer is mere clodhopperism, appeared to be able to determine the requirements of an instrument submitted to him. One reason why I did not speak more strongly in favor of the general adoption of the oblique position was because, apart from the spring, the ratio of which and means of determining it I believe I have settled, I could not lay down a positive and definite rule regarding the place and degree of obliquity which would apply to all cases. So I did not like to advocate on my own account, or by inference, that of Mr. Bull, the immediate advisability of an operation the result of which might be in any way doubtful. When I think of the horror with which the connoisseur contemplates even the idea of removing the top of his valued instrument, I feel that, beyond sticking stoutly to the truth of Mr. Bull’s theory, I am not in a condition to competently advise.

Mr. Bull’s second attempts were almost always successful. I honestly think I should not fail more than once. But if I say this, I am calling attention to my own work, Mr. Bull having passed away, when it belongs to him.

Walter E. Colton.

The Chin–Rest.—This particular form of chin–rest was an entirely original invention of Mr. Bull. It prevents all unavoidable contact of the violin with the body, and at the same time is itself attached to a point of minimum vibration, the tail–pin block. Its use shows perfectly the deadening effect of the pressure of the chin upon the top over the end of the bar, and upon the tail–piece, and also that of the chest and shoulder upon the back. In the original form, the chin–rest and tail–pin were one. A small rib should run along the tail–pin, and an appropriate slot should be cut in the hole for its reception. This prevents any possibility of the chin–rest’s turning upon the pin while playing. Mr. Bull designed separating the pin and rest by making the former with a square instead of round head, and fitting the latter over it, a screw with a wide flat head and leather washer securing the two parts. In this way the rest could be removed without the disagreeable necessity of unstringing the violin. Each rest ought to be specially made for the violin it is to be applied to. This, and the necessity of some enlargement of the violin–case, are the two possible drawbacks to its general manufacture.

Walter E. Colton.

Poems and Personal Tributes

TIL OLE BULL.31

J. S. WELHAVEN.

Hvor södt at favnes af Aftnens Fred,
  Naar Droslen flöjter i Skoven,
Og Birken suser ved Elvens Bred,
  Og Nökken spiller i Voven,
Der er en vemodblandet Fryd,
  Som Nordens Alfer male,
Med dæmpet Kvad, med Harpe lyd,
  Med Suk i dunkle Dale.

Han stod og lytted en Sommerkveld
  Og havde stemt sine Strenge,
Da gik Akkorden fra Skov og Fjeld
  Og over duggede Enge;
Og alle Strenge klang dertil
  Med underbare Toner,
Som Droslens Kluk og Nökkens Spil,
  Og Suk af Birkekroner.

Og al den Smerte, al den Lyst,
  Der bor i Nordens Sone,
Har lagt sig drömmende til hans Bryst
  Og sittret gjennem hans Tone.
O, hör den stille Melodi,
  Der dæmper Stormens Harme;
Din Barndom vugger sig deri
  Paa ömme Liljearme.

Det er den dejligste Strengeklang,
  Der letter Længselens Vinger;
Da nynner Hjertet sin egen Sang,
  Mens Strengen bæver og klinger.
Der er ej Savn, Der er ej Nag,
  Som ej hans Streng kan lindre;
Han vækker med sit Trylleslag
  En Vaardag i dit Indre.

O hil dig, salige Toneskald
  Med Guddomsmagt i din Bue!
Fra dig gaar Jubelens Fossefald,
  Du tænder Andagtens Lue.
Naar Verden lytter til dit Kvad
  Og bæver ved din Vælde,
Da skjælver Glemmigejens Blad
  Af Fryd paa dine Fjelde.

[TRANSLATION.]

TO OLE BULL.

How sweet is the quiet of eventide
  When the throstle his love betrayeth,
And the birches sing by the riverside,
  While the elf in the ripples playeth!
Their benison the North hills send,
  A chastened peace revealing;
With tender voices harp–tones blend,
  Their sighs through dark vales stealing.

In a summer eve he listening stood,
  His strings all tuned together,
While music burst from field and wood
  Across the dewy heather.
Then all his strings the gift repay,
  With a wondrous echo ringing.
Of the throstle’s love, and the elfin play,
  And the sighs of the birch–trees, singing;

As every joy and every smart
  In Norway’s borders dwelling
Had lain and dreamed upon his heart,
  And in each note were swelling.
Hark to that quiet, restful strain!
  It soothes the spirit’s crying,
Until like babes we rest again,
  As if on lilies lying.

While raptures break across his strings
  Our longings soar to heaven;
And every heart its own song sings,
  By joy or sorrow riven.
Of haunting grief or cruel blow
  The memory is forsaken;
A spell is in his magic bow
  The very spring to waken.

Then, blessed Tone–bard, hail to thee!
  From heaven thy bow was given:
What floods of joy hast thou set free,
  What visions shown of heaven!
To sway far thousands is thy lot,
  Strange peoples tell thy story,
While here each blue forget–me–not
  Trembles to share thy glory.

NORGE TIL AMERIKA VED OLE BULLS DIDREISE.

[Norway to America on Ole Bull’s Departure.]

H. WERGELAND.

O Amerika, betro’d
har jeg dig med ængstlig Ahnen
Ham, min Fattigdoms Klenod,
Ham, mit Hjertes bedste Blod!
—Lad Platanen
kjærligt ham imödebruse,
Alleghannen
ham i venlig Grotte huse,
Susquehannen
som en dæmpet Harpe suse
Ham, min Elskling, ham imod!

Han med Buens lette Spil
kan til Dands din Panther tvinge,
og (hvad der skal mere til)
Slave–Ejeren til Smiil.
Han kan bringe
Carolinas arme Neger
til at springe
gladere end Barn, som leger,
sig at svinge
snellere end Hjulets Eger..
O, Han kan det, om han vil.

Men, som om bans Bue blev
pludselig med Tordner svanger,
som om den i Luften skrev
trylleformlet Frihedsbrev,
Skræk og Anger
fylder Herrens Hjertekammer
som med Slanger,
tusind Blik i Mulmet flammer
hos hans Fanger..
Ve ham, ve ham! Slavens Jammer
klagende min Bull beskrev.

Far da hen, far hen, min Sön!
Lad din Tryllebue skjænke
arme Negers Suk ilön
Styrken af en bönhört Bön,
vsaa hans Lænke
for dens Strög maa sönderbriste!
Da sig sænke
signende Platanens Kviste,
og jeg tænke
kan med Stolthed, dig at miste,
Ole Bull, min Sön, min Sön!

Thi hist vest, did Du vil fly,
er min egen Friheds Kjerne
voxet i Plataners Ly,
baaret hid paa svanger Sky,
Derfor gjerne
vilde jeg taknemlig sende
til dens fjerne
Fosterland ved Havets Ende
herlig Stjerne,
og af dem, som hjemme brænde,
straaler ingen med dit Ry.

NORGES FARVEL TIL OLE BULL.

[Norway’s Farewell to Ole Bull.]

H. WERGELAND.

Farvel, min stolte Sön! Farvel!
Fölg Kaldet i din dybe Sjel!

För bandt til mine Skjær jeg let
den vilde Pelikan end det.

För standsede jeg Havets Gang
og Stormens Flugt, end Skjaldens Trang.

Drag hen, min Sön! Den samme Lyst
har rört sig i din Moders Bryst.

Jeg ogsaa digtet har engang.
Heimskringlas Liv det er min Sang.

Jeg skrev min egen Epopee.
Hver Helt var deri en Idee.

Jeg skrev med Evighedens Skrivt:
med Kongers Daad og Mænds Bedrivt.

Se, ved mit Hjerte gyldenblaa
den store Havets Harpe laa!

Paa den fik sjelfuld Tanke, för
kun navnlös, Navn.... Hör “Frithjof!” hör!

Hör længe fra dens Strenge skjalv
Lyd af dit Navn, Sjökonning Alf!

Min Harald er et Heltedigt.
Hvo maler Verden et saa rigt?

Saa skjön en Fantasi har knapt
en Skjald som blonde Gyda skabt.

Alnorden bævte for de Ord,
jeg grov i röden Hafursfjord.

Et herligt höit Haleluja
var Sigurds Fart til Jorsala.

I haarde Birkebeengeled
jeg fantaserte Noder ned.

Ved Fimbureid hvor löd de vildt!
Paa Hvitingsö hvor fredsomt mildt!

Ved Holmengraa din Guerriera,
i Nidaros din Preghiera.

Se Hakon i bans Kongesal!
Hvor majestætiskt et Final!

Nu er der visseligen i
min Sjel meer Klögt end Poesi.

Dog flöd endnu i fyrig Stund
en Frihedshymne af min Mund.

Jeg ligner egen Mark, som den
nu ligger der höstblegnet hen.

Som sparsom fattig Pige, lagt
Min Dal har hen sin Höitidsdragt.

Dog vil jeg gjennemlede hver,
om ei en Blomst til Dig der er.

Til dig, min Sön! min Sön, som gav
mig större Glands end Konnings Grav.

O, vant til Sönners Verdensry,
mit Öje funkler op paany.

Hvor arm jeg er, man dog Demant
meer dyr end Glædesblik ei fandt,

Ak, er der i den Glands ei Glöd?
Bli’r dig for koldt din Moders Skjöd?

Nei, flyv! udbred din Moders Navn!
Din Hæder tröster da mit Savn.

TIL OLE BULL.

[On his Seventieth Birthday.]

JONAS LIE.

Skjönt Purpuret ruller
ej over din Skulder,
en Konge dog er Du forvist,—
Geniet er Kaaben,
Du bar ifra Daaben,
og Buen din Önskekvist!

OLE BULLS DÖD.

[The Death of Ole Bull.]

ANDREAS MUNCH.32

Gamle Gran med Sne paa Lokker
Fast i haarde Fjeldbund staar,
Vinterstormen ei den rokker,
Rank den grönnes som i Vaar.

Saa til Norges Pryd og Ære
Ole Bull for Verden stod,
Kunde Sölverkronen bære
Blussende i Ungdomsmod.

Aldrig syntes han at ældes,
Frisk hans Toneström end löd,
Og den kom med vore Fjeldes
Rene Luft til Sydens Glöd.

Over Verdenshavet drog han
Til et Hjem i fjerne Vest,
Aldrig helt det dog betog ham,
Han var der kun hædret Gjæst.

Altid droges han tilbage
Til sin elskte Födestavn,
Altid maatte han dog tage
Fæste i den gamle Havn.

Det var som ny Kraft han hented
Fra sin haarde Barndomsjord.—
Og iaar man did ham vented,
Som’ren kaldte ham til Nord.

Lysö ved de blanke Sunde,
Nær den gamle Klostermark,
Havde smykket sine Lunde,
Hvor han bygged sig en Ark.

Flaget vaied alt fra Taarne,
Prydet var den lyse Hal,
Blomsterdufte bleve baarne
Ud mod ham, der komme skal.

Ak, da hörtes dunkle Rygter:
Han laa syg i fremmed Land!
Ingen Fare dog man frygter,
Ole Bull ei segne kan!

Og han kom. Alt Skibet glider
Fjorden ind med dyre Fragt,
Og fra Klippekystens Sider
Hilses han af Sommerpragt.

Men han ei fra Borde springer
Rank og ungdomslet som för—
Varsomt man en Syg kun bringer
Op til Hjemmets aabne Dör.

Det var altsaa sandt!—Den Stærke
Rammet var af Sygdoms Pil,
Men dog kunde man bemærke
Om hans blege Mund et Smil.

Mildt han hilste til dem Alle,
Glæden lyste af hans Blik.
Maaske Hjemmet kunde kalde
Til hans Bryst en Helsens Drik?

Ak, som Walter Scott fra Syden
Droges til sit Abbotsford,
Vilde ikkun dö ved Lyden
Af Flodbölgen om bans Gaard,

Saa den norske Sanger stunded
Til sit norske Ölands Hus.
Blidelig han der nu blunded
Dysset ind af Bölgens Sus.

Men en Dag han vaagned rolig,
Saa sig om i skjönne Hjem,
Bad sin Viv, som fulgte trolig,
Spille Mozarts Reqviem.

Og paa disse Himmeltoner
Toneskjaldens Aand sig svang
Op til hine lyse Zoner,
Hvor der lyder Englesang.

Men hans Fædreland tilbage
Havde dog hans Legem end.
Under hele Folkets Klage
Förtes det til Bergen hen.

Skib paa Skib Ligsnekken fulgte
Som en Konges Jordefærd,
Og den Drot, hvem Kisten dulgte,
Var vel saadan Hyldning værd.

Rundtom Vaagen, graadkvalt, stille
Trængtes Folket, Rad bag Rad,
Alle de ham fölge vilde
Sidste Gang i Födestad.

Der, i Ly af Barndomsfjelde.
Hviler nu hans ædle Stöv,
Birk og Hæg fortroligt hælde
Sig mod Graven med sit Löv.

Trosten synger södt derover
Hver en Vaar sin Morgenbön—
Han, som blidt derunder sover,
Var en ægte Norges Sön.

Derfra vil hans Eftermæle
Naa til fjerne Tiders Gang,
Vække mange Kunstnersjæle
Til at fölge ham i Sang.

Norges Folk! Giv dette Minde
Og de ydre Formers Vægt!
Lad hans skjönne Billed finde
Vei til senest Efterslægt!

TIL OLE BULL.

[Sung at the Funeral Service.]

JOHN LUND.

Du godt har holdt Ord, talt Norriges Sag
Og baaret dets Ry viden Lande;
Du löftet har höit dit Fædrelands Flag
Rundt om paa de fjerneste Strande.
Ja Fyrster og Folk sin Hyldning har bragt
Din blöde og malmstærke Bue;
Et Scepter den blev, som Storme har lagt,
Og tændt har Begeistringens Lue.

Naar Buen Du strög, om borte Du var,
Det klang som et: “Leve vort Norge!”
Thi altid din Hug til Norge Dig bar,
Alt kan for din Kjærlighed borge.
Du elsked dit Land, dets veirbidte Strand,
Og aldrig Du kunde det glemme,
Og Folket Dig elsked, Kvinde som Mand,
De vidste, kun her var Du hjemme.

Saa Tak da for alt, for Toner, for Sang,
For Glöden, Du tændte og vakte.
Hav Tak for din kjække, mandige Gang,
Hav Tak for hvert Offer, Du bragte.
Nu nedlagt er Buen, Tonen dör hen,
Dit Minde dog aldrig skal svinde:
Det Norge, Du var saa fuldtro en Ven,
En Evighedskrans vil Dig binde.

TO OLE BULL.

BY BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ.

[From his Preface to his “Selected Works,” where he introduces it as “a song of salutation to one who, honored by me as master, is not less dear to me as a man” (Tracy’s translation).]

Profoundly dreamt a youth on Norland waste;
But no—it is not waste where fairy rings
Reflect the past as well as future things,
When love and woe in boding tones are drest.
They greeted him, they kissed him, and retreated;
They left for him an instrument of sound,
Whose forceful strings with highest deeds could bound,
And yet with childish frolics be entreated.
He wakes—the gift he seizes, comprehending
Its sweet mysterious pleasure how to prove,
And pours it forth in pure harmonious blending.
O mayst thou, ever victor, joyful move,
Thou Northland sailor, on life’s voyage wending,
Conscious of God within thee and above.

ON HEARING OLE BULL IN 1879.

BY PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

What note is this of infinite appeal
That wakes beneath thy hand’s inspired control?
Is it a prayer from man’s most secret soul
To the dim gods Death only can reveal,—
Whose hands we know can wound, yet trust may heal?
Hark, now, for ’twixt the prayer and the prayer’s goal,
From far away, beyond where planets roll,
Something I hear, or something subtly feel:

Down all the deep, untraveled, star–watched way,
Faint as a wind at dawn of a June day,
Comes a divine response: Ah! now ’tis here.
Lo! prayer is turned to passionate triumphing,
And in thy music’s moon–thrilled atmosphere
My soul drinks deep of some immortal spring.

OLE BULL.

BY JULIA R. ANAGNOS.

There’s a fairy in the violin,
A Norse imprisoned fay;
She struggles in her master’s arms,
And fain would flit away.

But, like the bird whose prison pours
Song’s gold upon the air,
Stretching our Northern frost–framed walls
To Southern forests rare,

The gentle chord that binds her breaks
The fetters of our care;
The song of her captivity
Makes all our lives more fair.

O gentle Fairy! Lead the way
Through realms of fiction sweet,
The cradles of Sicilian day,
The North–King’s halls of sleet.

The whirlwind and the icy blast
Meet in thy captive wail;
Flowers and gems are round thee cast,
Flung from thy forehead pale;

But, though we glean a golden glow
From the sweet spirit’s strife,
Say, is it fair to hold her so,
A prisoner for life?

O Master, set the fairy free!
End her poetic pain:
Nay, tastes she but the common air,
She’ll soon fly home again!

IN MEMORY OF OLE BULL.

[On Board the City of Chester, April, 1881.]

BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

Strong as a Viking of his own proud North
He trod this deck, two little years ago—
A kinglier man, or one of nobler worth,
Nor his nor any land shall ever know—
So brave, so good, so simple and sincere,
That but to know him was to hold him dear.

The most alive of any man on earth,
His soul on fire with love for all things true,
Anointed music’s high–priest from his birth,
A reed heaven’s voices seemed to whisper through,
Shaken at times by their tumultuous sweetness,
Then hushed with calm of some divine completeness.

To hear his music was to see strange things—
To enter bright far worlds of love and light—
To know how star with star forever sings,
Or weep for deeds that may not be undone
And souls in bondage to some evil fate,
With ungirt loins, and lips that cry, “Too late!”

Thus in his strain the depths of all men’s hearts
He sounded—he whom all men loved—
Then left us, as some gracious guest departs
For whom a higher mansion waits, and proved,
By the great space left vacant, what his worth
To us, who see his face no more on earth.

But yet he is not dead. To–night I hear
The old strain steal across the April sea;
Almost I fancy ’tis himself draws near,
So much the face of life wears memory—
When I recall him in those days gone by,
I know he was too full of life to die.

From Philip Gilbert Hamerton

The following, from Mr. Hamerton’s “Thoughts about Art,” is an appropriate commentary on the advice that Ole Bull used to give the artist, “Play little, and think much:”—

Thus it is said that Ole Bull, the celebrated Norwegian violinist, arrived at his most wonderful effects less by manual practice than meditation. He practiced less and thought more than other violinists. This is quite in keeping with his reflections after hearing Paganini. Ole Bull actually sold his last shirt to hear the mighty master, and, having heard him, instead of saying like the crowd that nothing new was possible after that, began to seek after hitherto unknown effects that even Paganini had not discovered. Both these facts indicate clearly that Ole Bull was a musical transcendentalist, and his long retirement confirms it. A true transcendentalist dislikes publicity, and loves to cultivate himself in solitude.

From Mr. Longfellow

[Extracts from Letters.]

It seems hardly possible that I shall see that radiant face no more; and long, long shall I say

“O for the touch of a vanished hand
And the sound of a voice that is still!”

Remarkable as Ole Bull was as an artist, he was no less so in his social intercourse. His nature was eminently sympathetic. He not only liked his friends, but he loved them. His manners were gentle and affectionate; his presence in a room filled it with sunshine.

It was said of the French author, Villemain, that when he spoke to a lady, you would think he was presenting her a bouquet. With equal truth might it be said of Ole Bull, so gracious was he and so amiable in his conversation.

Ole Bull

BY JAMES T. FIELDS.

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.

From Mrs. Julia Ward Howe

Mrs. Howe, whose acquaintance Ole Bull had the pleasure and honor of making at the Woman’s Congress in Madison, Wis., the autumn of 1879, sent this warm tribute:—

I can contribute a few grateful words concerning his chivalrous interest in all that regards the welfare of women, recalling also the great personal charm of his own companionship.... His death, which was so sincerely and so publicly mourned in his own country, did not fail to cast in our midst its shadow of sorrowing sympathy. In the association of the New England Women’s Club, Ole Bull will long be remembered as a kind friend, as a distinguished artist, and as a personality unique and charming. He was at once cosmopolitan and patriotic. He loved his own country, and loved ours also, which became his by a sort of adoption. He was a lover at once of art and of humanity, and deserves a place in the record of those who unite skill with sympathy, the artist’s cunning with the frank loving nature of the child.

From Rev. Dr. Bartol’s Memorial Sermon, October 10, 1880

“I have raised up one from the North.” Isaiah, xli. 25.—It is a curious case of the truth of the old Bible to nature, or rather of the coincidence of the two, that both make more physical and moral account of the north point of the compass than of the south. “Fair weather,” saith the book of Job, “cometh out of the north;” and thence, too, in all ages, has come the clearing of the social sky. All the old prophets and modern geographical scientists, like Mr. Buckle, agree. The south, says the old writ, is “invaded” with “whirlwinds” and armed men. The upper strong Barbarians fall upon to purge the dissolute empire of Rome. From high latitudes come the Scandinavian rovers to be converted into English lords. From Norway, the north way, comes Leif Ericson before Columbus to discover America and have his monument, let us trust, in these last days; and more than forty years ago, yet in the memory of many that hear me, Ole Bull, whom his friend and compeer of kindred genius, the poet and novelist now among us, Björnstjerne Björnson, calls “our greatest citizen,” at his burial in the land where seventy years ago he was born, dying in his own house on the Isle of Light or Lysö of a malignant disease, yet with little pain and in full possession of his powers till within a half hour of his expiring breath....

I must not omit my thanks for the delight Ole Bull gave with his violin at his first coming to this country more than forty years ago. From the touch of his bow, as if Neptune were speaking to the sea, a wave swept over the land from that ocean of harmony that slumbers in the human soul. Out of the same deeps came a second wave at the voice, much later among us, of Jenny Lind. Technical criticism cannot countervail much when a man has just wrought a miracle on the spot, and the United States rose to this as, in the same calling, never to any other man. Young and green then, as respects concord and melody, we may have been. The matchless personal grace of the musician, alike at thirty and three–score, may have had its part in the effect. Who that saw it does not remember the appearance that, as Björnson says, made it here, as well as in Norway on his return, “a feast to look at him;” the supple sway that was rhythm in his frame, so tall, with its breadth of shoulder and tapering waist, the firm feet which the broad platform seemed not worthy to be a stool for, the arms of wrought steel, more flexible than willow wands, the face in which, as much as in any countenance we ever beheld, the smile was a benediction, and the hair that was tossed about his brow as if inspired with the unison of the strings; and had he spoken on the stage where he stood, the whole audience would have known as well as some of us in private soon did, that the violin was not, and no instrument made with hands could be, so sweet as the voice. He was embodied beauty and an incarnate hymn—a mesmeric, irresistible man....

His speech, of which I shall give some samples as I close, like Anton Rubinstein’s, was as rare and original as his notes. He was not, like some people I have known, marvelous in a performance as of a sermon or a tune, and, on leaving desk or orchestra, with nought of interest left, the whole man gone, spent, exploded in what had been sounded or said. To be a true artist is a wonderful thing. But into the artist the whole of him, as of none truly great or good, could not be put....

But musical was with him largely a form of patriotic feeling, and for love of liberty for himself and all men he was a living flame. He respected more the nobility of nature than of political schemes. The pretensions of barons and earls in England or elsewhere, not backed up by personal merit, were nought to him, mere ciphers, deriving all their value from their situation in a column. In the honest but reactionary King of Norway he had a social friend; but, in pushing the right assumed of veto against laws of the Norwegian parliament, this little potentate of two or three millions of subjects became his diplomatic foe; and Ole Bull represented the peasant population of the kingdom. It was natural he should sympathize strongly with us against secession and slavery in our civil war, and he maintained our cause abroad as warmly as he did in our midst. Like David, he declared God’s statute of freedom, “speaking of his testimonies before kings and was not ashamed.”...

It remains to consider Ole Bull not only as an artist and patriot, but man; for, beyond all else, he was humane, cosmopolite, a citizen of the world, and did not distinguish himself, save by genius which he could not help, from other men, but was in union and close communion with all; and detract as we may from a man’s talents, or criticise as we will his accomplishments, the fact of a great wide and common love for him and from him cannot be set aside. He was a magnet. Living nearer to the North Pole, had he borrowed a bit of the lodestone that poises the planet? His attraction was as constant and inexhaustible for the world. A young man, a natural player, from our rough Cape Ann yonder, seeks him abroad to get lessons, and Ole welcomes him at once. “How did you like him?” the young man was asked. “Like him? I cannot say enough to tell you.” Money went from him, as it came, like wind or water. Being unpractical if not careless almost to a fault, he was imposed upon by a false title of land for a Norwegian colony in Pennsylvania; charges for litigation were added; he had intended to buy a ship to transport the colonists at his own expense,—and out of pocket hundreds of thousands of dollars, he became poor, sick, and subject to arrest. He said, “I shall pursue the swindlers;” then, reflecting, he remarked: “That is not according to the Master’s precept, but if I kiss my enemy what have I left for my friend?” “My friends,” he said, “will never defraud me, for they know I am theirs.” “I am not content,” he told me, “with the golden rule, for I cannot expect others to do to me as I do to them.” He was not a professor of Christianity or of religion in any form. He informed me he got such a shock and revulsion from the doctrines he heard preached in his youth that he was permanently alienated from going to church; but so much the worse for the Christians if they reject and excommunicate him. He said to me: “They showed me so many statues and images, coarse or blood–colored, in Italy, it made me sick and I wanted to see a cow!” Why, I inquired of him, do the manufacturers of violins not illustrate the law of evolution, and make as good instruments at least as Stradivarius, Amati, and Gaspar da Salo? “Because,” he answered, “they do not consider it a holy mission.” Earnest in his nature, like the hot geysers of the North, he was as winsome in his manners as any prince of the East; and, I doubt not, a true test would detect blood of the Orient in his veins, as he said he learned from Italy what it is to sing. Yet Norway, says Björnson, gave to his music its theme or ground, and well does Henrik Wergeland make Norway herself sing to him.

We must, he one day told me, see our fellow’s errors and sins, but often “not say what we see,” putting his long forefinger on his lips as he spoke. He graciously insinuated, rather than bluntly asserted, what he thought. At the Chestnut Street club he made a marvelous speech, in which he praised the curvilinear instead of direct style of the Spanish tongue. He preferred suggestion to proposition, as do all the likewise finely–strung. But, although he had no dogmas to offer, never lived one who accredited more the being of God and immortality of the soul, and the immense superiority of unseen supernal forces to the seen. Thus he lived an ideal life, free from mercenary aims, so charming and enchanting men that his name became a household word, and the great manager in any city had to spend little time or means advertising him, if it were in the air that the magician would come....

Honor, then, in this sacred place, to the man and artist, Ole Bull. He held a sublime and tricksy, yet utterly simple bow. If he lifted us, round after round, to heaven, he could lower us, too, with his art, gently and safely to the ground.... He displayed wondrous tone–gyrations, and never, as with a wooden rule, drew mechanical parallel lines. He was a troubadour with his shell. When, like a merryman, he made us laugh, the expression of his face showed his soul still aloft. He was no materialist or sensualist, but a spiritualist in the deepest sense. I judge of men by their treatment of women; and how refined and grand his bearing was to the sex is well known in every country our strange and singular fascinator visited....

I have missed the portrait, I meant, if a facsimile could be furnished of it for any other man. We sometimes say of a man he was a paragon, gem, “one entire and perfect chrysolite.” Jean Paul Richter the only, the Germans say. My subject to–day is unique. There never on earth will be another Ole Bull. He was the diamond called solitaire. The Jews were mistaken when, in the new teacher, they thought Elias or one of the old prophets had come again. God does not repeat himself; genius is a fresh revelation, and never, in just the same form, descends. Speaking as in the presence of those to whom companionship, country, and kindred blood endeared this man of transcendent stature, yet with none of our occidental stiffness, so lowly and familiar that he wanted once with a friend to leave the chairs and get down on the floor to converse, I should be bankrupt if at least in this paper money I did not try to pay my debt. Seventy years of age; the Scripture term was his prime. He died young in heart and hope, and friend and housemate declare they cannot think and do not know him dead, as the tropical sun, suddenly setting, is not quenched, though leaving all dark behind. Aspiring and proceeding, despite his gray locks, he seemed an undeveloped child. Nothing in his mental constitution was fixed or had grown hard. He had not subsided from the gush and sparkle of life into the sediment of a form or stalagmite of a creed. The crystallization went on unfinished in the upper chambers of his soul, and had no cavern like the stalactites of the mine in which to drop. No decay gave hint of an end. There is sickness, death, but no end. He grew, advanced, never stopped, nor did the sutures, even at seventy, quite close over that busy brain. “To have to work so at my age!” said the French painter, Thomas Couture; but Ole Bull said, “I should vegetate without new engagements to fulfill.” He so lived, therefore, as to convince us of immortality. I know not of what sovereign or captain from the North, the hill–country of Judæa, Isaiah wrote; but when I think how majestic and gentle was this head man and leader from our modern Norway, I give him the tribute of my text, as one might salute a born deliverer and true king.

From Rev. Dr. A. McKenzie’s Sermon on Thanksgiving Day, 1880

From these men of our own Commonwealth let me turn to a man of another land, whose venerable and stately presence has been often seen in our streets; who has been the citizen of many climes, making his name a familiar word, and filling the air with melody; a man who stood before kings and held them in wondering silence by the witchery of his fingers, and the harmony of his thoughts; who drew the souls of men after him by the sound of the mystic strings he touched. He made to himself a great renown, the music and the man; both were honored, both were loved. Now the hands have lost their cunning, and the good, gray head is seen no more. Yet will he keep his place with all who knew him. It was among his own people that he was greatest and best. He loved his country, its men and women, its mountains and valleys, its rivers and lakes, its history and its hope. He carried it with him where he went. He sought its honor and toiled for its welfare. Loyal and loving, he wore its name upon his brow. When he stood as one entranced, his tall form swaying to and fro, his eye gazing far away, and the utter stillness was scarcely broken by the sweet, weird strains which floated into it, it was the heart of Norway we saw and heard, incarnate in her son, beating, breathing, singing in his spirit.

When he lay wearied and dying in his island–home Norway grew still. Spacious and comely was the room which he had made for song, where the singer rested; but the land which mourned was wider.

He heard the requiem there, but the land was to be full of requiem. From off the quiet waters came the tribute of admiring minstrelsy, which long will be repeated.

When he was gone, royalty and humanity hastened with their homage to his memory. The great city begged for his honored form to give it choicest burial. It lay in state in his own house. It was borne in grand procession to the distant shore. The walks were strewed with living green. The people wept and praised. His trophies went before him, but the stricken hearts of men were on every side of him. The eloquent words of friendship and reverence were spoken. He found his resting–place among the great, on a spot which had been kept for a king—which had found a king.

And he wore no royalty but his great manhood.

Why this honor to a man? Because he had dealt well by the land. He had given it good and glory, and the gift returned. Norway loved him because he loved Norway.