APPENDIX.

I first saw Lysö in the twilight of Norwegian mid–summer. It was from the steamer Domino, on my voyage across the North Sea from Hull, by way of Stavanger,to Bergen. The island may have been seven or eight miles away. Its irregular domes of dusky green were but dimly outlined upon the bank of wooded mountains beyond. It was too late to see clearly. Distant objects had begun to look weird, and the sky was shadowy. We were approaching the region of long twilights—the kingdom of the midnight sun; besides, the eyes were fatigued with the endless succession of unfamiliar forms. All day we had been sailing along inhospitable shores, and among rocky islands, scantily covered with vegetation. Now and then, in less exposed situations, fishing hamlets with sunny red roofs had come in sight; we had taken in review the openings into narrow fjords with opposing cliffs, and repeated collections of runic columns, with the commanding monument to Harold Haarfager, the first king of Norway. All these were in the foreground, while in the distant eastern horizon, spread upon the table–land and covering the lofty mountain range, was the majestic glacier of the Folgefond. These had challenged attention, and in their novelty, or picturesqueness, or grandeur, had fascinated us; but the spot about which the abiding interest centred only came into view when it was too late to more than make out its general position in the Björne Fjord at the foot of the Lyshorn. Soon after crossing the Björne Fjord, we swept past a column of ships of the inward bound Loffoden fishing fleet, stern and stately, with their antique prows and huge single square sails; and entered the crowd of countless lesser fishing vessels and iron steamers, and came to anchor in the harbor of Bergen.My next view of the island was from the little steamboat landing near Lysekloster, the point on the mainland where one takes boat for Lysö. The island is scarcely more than half a mile from the wharf, and from other points on the mainland the distance is less.We had driven from Bergen, some eighteen miles over a mountain road. Near the end, the way led down past the ruins of Lysekloster, a relic of the eleventh century, with its many remains of halls, refectory, chapter–house, cloisters, rude stone coffins, and ruder inscriptions; past the fine old mansion of the Nicolaysons, whose estate shares the name of Lysekloster; past the antique chapel, where the gathering peasant women still wear a costume suggesting the monastery; down to the wharf where we were to cross the narrow Lysefjord to the home of Ole Bull. On our left, the high mainland stretched away in a southerly direction for a mile or more, and then turned sharply to the west beyond the island. On the right, the bare, rocky headlands jutted irregularly out for many miles toward the broad entrance to the Björne Fjord. In a little bay under the slope of the Lyshorn, and a few rods from the wharf, giving a touch of surprising grace to the scene, were two stately swans. This was, we learned, a favorite resort, to which they made occasional excursions from their island home. Immediately before us was Lysö, a series of granite domes of unequal height, half covered with birch and evergreen above, half carpeted with heather and moss below. No trees had been felled. There was scarcely a trace of disturbed surface except in the narrow foot–paths that led up from the shore.There were two little wharves, one near the boat–house, and low, red tile–roofed cottage of Haldor–Lysö, the family servant; the other under the bluff on which stood the imposing mansion of the proprietor.Of other structures there were none on the island. There were no beaches; there was no gravel. The rocky cliffs of Norway, here as elsewhere, and uniformly, rise almost with the sharpness of a wall from the sea. If gravel there be at the foot of the precipices, it must be far down in the water. Above, the pines and spruces and feathery birches start from fissures in the rocks, and soar away to great heights, giving to the island a fleecy air of indescribable beauty, and to the inner fjord the soft seclusion of an inland sea.Across this sheet of water we were rowed by Haldor. In the distance, the American and Norwegian flags were waving their welcome. The deep green of the Norway pines gave the finest relief to the Hall. It stands upon a shelf. The first story leans against the mountain. The second story, and the Byzantine turret rising above the roof at the corner nearest the brow of the bluff, are clearly defined against the dark foliage.A large, open tower, with winding stairs midway on the long side of the Hall, and rising from the ground far above the eaves, gives, with its richly–decorated panels, brilliant entrance to the reception room below and the music hall above. The apartment devoted to music, occupying the whole width of the house, with two thirds of its length, and the entire height of the second story to the roof, is finished throughout in unstained spruce. Rows of slender clustered and twistedcolumns rise to support an elaborate system of delicately and curiously wrought arches. The two concert grand pianos, embodying the inventions to which so much thought had been given, and from which the inventor hoped so much of advancement to the art, were here.Turkish and Persian carpets and rugs were spread upon the floor or suspended between the columns. On one side, the whispers of the mountain pines came in through the open windows. Through the windows opposite you saw the fjord and the highlands beyond in undisturbed natural beauty. How fitting! In what keeping with the spirit that inspired the whole! Without and within, the perpetual fragrance of the balsam and birch. Everywhere quiet; no rattle of carts, no noise of hurrying trains, no hum of business. Everywhere repose, only to be invaded by human voices or music, or the soft lapping of the waves at the base of the cliff, or the soughing of the south wind among the swaying pines.The shelf of rock on which the Hall stands is about fifty feet above the water, and some two or three hundred feet below the highest point on the island. Immediately around the narrow plot which spreads out on the sides and front is a dense border of roses and flowering and decorative shrubbery; and along the retreating slopes, here and there, room has been found for beds of strawberries and small groups of fruit–trees. A quarter of a mile northward is the cottage of the servant who cares for the grounds and mans the yacht and row–boat. Of roadways, properly speaking, there are none; butbridle and foot–paths penetrate every part of the six hundred acres of the island, winding in and out, and up and down, through the dells and glens, and by the caverns, for twenty miles or more in all, from the shores to the summits of the highest peaks. As there are no beaches, so there are no pebbles for walks, and the surface, a coating of broken shells, is gathered from below the sea, at some distant point, from which they were brought in vessels. There are two little lakes nestling among the hills, and there are two or three little meadows, resting upon beds of peat, from which the product is annually gathered.Standing on one of the higher peaks of the island, you look northward upon the Lyshorn, a bold, rocky cone, skirted with evergreens, and lifting its bare summit twelve hundred feet from the sea. At its foot are the undulating meadows and picturesque group of Lysekloster. On the west, the eye, glancing down the Björne Fjord, takes in the chain of lofty, dark islands beyond the channel pursued by the steamers approaching Bergen from the south. On the east the mainland half embraces the island, approaching at the nearest point within a few rods of the bold cliffs that fall sheer into the sea. On the south lies the broad entrance to the Hardanger Fjord, the most extended, unique, and famed of the Norwegian water highways.A few days after our arrival at the island, the great musician and sufferer was brought to his longed–for home. The tender care of thoughtful kindred, and the ever busy, lifelong friend of the family, Martha,[24]full ofaffectionate solicitude, had made every needed preparation. Gentle hands bore him on his couch from the steamer to the centre of the grand music hall. Faint and worn and weak, he was at last under his own roof. How gratefully fell on his waiting sense every familiar sound and form! Above and around him were the vistas of arches and clustered columns he had planned; a very Alhambra of fairy architecture. How often through these galleries, in happier days, he remembered, had so sweetly thrilled the strains of his favorite Gaspar da Salo! There was the organ that later, at his wish, yielded from the touch of love and anguish the sweet requiem of Mozart. The windows, distantly screened by oriental hangings, were open to the sympathetic trees, whose incense was so full of the associations of youth and the days of strength. The moan of the burdened pines was hushed. Was it too much to hope there might be, in this spontaneous recognition and welcome, the breath of life to the prostrate friend? What air could be more grateful than one’s native air, washed with all the waves of the Atlantic, and surcharged with the balm of the evergreens of Norway? Did the fevered invalid need water to quench his thirst or to bathe his brow? The freshly–fallen dew could not be purer or more clear than the water that welled from Lysekilde, under the rock a few rods away.Was there a delicacy that affection or medical skill could suggest or devise for a reluctant and fastidious palate? Devotion and utmost culinary art had provided for its instant preparation. Every attention that never–wearying love and forethought could secure were bestowedupon the dear sufferer. A few days in this restful home so far revived his strength that he was able to see the friends who had come to visit him; but as the physician saw ground for believing that, with absolute quiet, the lost health might be regained, the stay was not prolonged.During the visit a most touching incident occurred, illustrating the tender affection felt for Ole Bull throughout Norway. The annual encampment of militia troops at Ulven, a few miles from Lysö, broke up. The regiments, embarked upon a fleet of steamers, on their way to Bergen, the point for disbanding, necessarily passed a short distance outside of Lysö. The fleet was conducted through the inner fjord, that opportunity might be given to show the sympathy and affection of the troops for the man whose music had so often entranced them. The foremost vessel of the fleet, with the military band, came slowly to rest immediately under the windows of the music hall. Ole Bull, too feeble to present himself, directed his great American flag with the Norwegian arms in the escutcheon (the gift of the New York Philharmonic Society) to be run out from the window overlooking the fjord. Immediately the band played with infinite sweetness an original composition of the master. This was followed by a superb ancient Norwegian air, to which Björnson had written the words, and this was succeeded by the proud national hymn. At the close, dipping its flag, the head of the fleet silently moved away. The successive vessels slowly following, dipped their flags in turn, and passed on around the island to resume their course.Alas! that this fleet should have been the herald of the convoy of steamers that, a few weeks later, gave such mournful and impressive dignity to the sorrow of Norway, when the mortal remains of Ole Bull were borne by sea to their last resting–place in Bergen, where he was born.

My next view of the island was from the little steamboat landing near Lysekloster, the point on the mainland where one takes boat for Lysö. The island is scarcely more than half a mile from the wharf, and from other points on the mainland the distance is less.

We had driven from Bergen, some eighteen miles over a mountain road. Near the end, the way led down past the ruins of Lysekloster, a relic of the eleventh century, with its many remains of halls, refectory, chapter–house, cloisters, rude stone coffins, and ruder inscriptions; past the fine old mansion of the Nicolaysons, whose estate shares the name of Lysekloster; past the antique chapel, where the gathering peasant women still wear a costume suggesting the monastery; down to the wharf where we were to cross the narrow Lysefjord to the home of Ole Bull. On our left, the high mainland stretched away in a southerly direction for a mile or more, and then turned sharply to the west beyond the island. On the right, the bare, rocky headlands jutted irregularly out for many miles toward the broad entrance to the Björne Fjord. In a little bay under the slope of the Lyshorn, and a few rods from the wharf, giving a touch of surprising grace to the scene, were two stately swans. This was, we learned, a favorite resort, to which they made occasional excursions from their island home. Immediately before us was Lysö, a series of granite domes of unequal height, half covered with birch and evergreen above, half carpeted with heather and moss below. No trees had been felled. There was scarcely a trace of disturbed surface except in the narrow foot–paths that led up from the shore.There were two little wharves, one near the boat–house, and low, red tile–roofed cottage of Haldor–Lysö, the family servant; the other under the bluff on which stood the imposing mansion of the proprietor.

Of other structures there were none on the island. There were no beaches; there was no gravel. The rocky cliffs of Norway, here as elsewhere, and uniformly, rise almost with the sharpness of a wall from the sea. If gravel there be at the foot of the precipices, it must be far down in the water. Above, the pines and spruces and feathery birches start from fissures in the rocks, and soar away to great heights, giving to the island a fleecy air of indescribable beauty, and to the inner fjord the soft seclusion of an inland sea.

Across this sheet of water we were rowed by Haldor. In the distance, the American and Norwegian flags were waving their welcome. The deep green of the Norway pines gave the finest relief to the Hall. It stands upon a shelf. The first story leans against the mountain. The second story, and the Byzantine turret rising above the roof at the corner nearest the brow of the bluff, are clearly defined against the dark foliage.

A large, open tower, with winding stairs midway on the long side of the Hall, and rising from the ground far above the eaves, gives, with its richly–decorated panels, brilliant entrance to the reception room below and the music hall above. The apartment devoted to music, occupying the whole width of the house, with two thirds of its length, and the entire height of the second story to the roof, is finished throughout in unstained spruce. Rows of slender clustered and twistedcolumns rise to support an elaborate system of delicately and curiously wrought arches. The two concert grand pianos, embodying the inventions to which so much thought had been given, and from which the inventor hoped so much of advancement to the art, were here.

Turkish and Persian carpets and rugs were spread upon the floor or suspended between the columns. On one side, the whispers of the mountain pines came in through the open windows. Through the windows opposite you saw the fjord and the highlands beyond in undisturbed natural beauty. How fitting! In what keeping with the spirit that inspired the whole! Without and within, the perpetual fragrance of the balsam and birch. Everywhere quiet; no rattle of carts, no noise of hurrying trains, no hum of business. Everywhere repose, only to be invaded by human voices or music, or the soft lapping of the waves at the base of the cliff, or the soughing of the south wind among the swaying pines.

The shelf of rock on which the Hall stands is about fifty feet above the water, and some two or three hundred feet below the highest point on the island. Immediately around the narrow plot which spreads out on the sides and front is a dense border of roses and flowering and decorative shrubbery; and along the retreating slopes, here and there, room has been found for beds of strawberries and small groups of fruit–trees. A quarter of a mile northward is the cottage of the servant who cares for the grounds and mans the yacht and row–boat. Of roadways, properly speaking, there are none; butbridle and foot–paths penetrate every part of the six hundred acres of the island, winding in and out, and up and down, through the dells and glens, and by the caverns, for twenty miles or more in all, from the shores to the summits of the highest peaks. As there are no beaches, so there are no pebbles for walks, and the surface, a coating of broken shells, is gathered from below the sea, at some distant point, from which they were brought in vessels. There are two little lakes nestling among the hills, and there are two or three little meadows, resting upon beds of peat, from which the product is annually gathered.

Standing on one of the higher peaks of the island, you look northward upon the Lyshorn, a bold, rocky cone, skirted with evergreens, and lifting its bare summit twelve hundred feet from the sea. At its foot are the undulating meadows and picturesque group of Lysekloster. On the west, the eye, glancing down the Björne Fjord, takes in the chain of lofty, dark islands beyond the channel pursued by the steamers approaching Bergen from the south. On the east the mainland half embraces the island, approaching at the nearest point within a few rods of the bold cliffs that fall sheer into the sea. On the south lies the broad entrance to the Hardanger Fjord, the most extended, unique, and famed of the Norwegian water highways.

A few days after our arrival at the island, the great musician and sufferer was brought to his longed–for home. The tender care of thoughtful kindred, and the ever busy, lifelong friend of the family, Martha,[24]full ofaffectionate solicitude, had made every needed preparation. Gentle hands bore him on his couch from the steamer to the centre of the grand music hall. Faint and worn and weak, he was at last under his own roof. How gratefully fell on his waiting sense every familiar sound and form! Above and around him were the vistas of arches and clustered columns he had planned; a very Alhambra of fairy architecture. How often through these galleries, in happier days, he remembered, had so sweetly thrilled the strains of his favorite Gaspar da Salo! There was the organ that later, at his wish, yielded from the touch of love and anguish the sweet requiem of Mozart. The windows, distantly screened by oriental hangings, were open to the sympathetic trees, whose incense was so full of the associations of youth and the days of strength. The moan of the burdened pines was hushed. Was it too much to hope there might be, in this spontaneous recognition and welcome, the breath of life to the prostrate friend? What air could be more grateful than one’s native air, washed with all the waves of the Atlantic, and surcharged with the balm of the evergreens of Norway? Did the fevered invalid need water to quench his thirst or to bathe his brow? The freshly–fallen dew could not be purer or more clear than the water that welled from Lysekilde, under the rock a few rods away.

Was there a delicacy that affection or medical skill could suggest or devise for a reluctant and fastidious palate? Devotion and utmost culinary art had provided for its instant preparation. Every attention that never–wearying love and forethought could secure were bestowedupon the dear sufferer. A few days in this restful home so far revived his strength that he was able to see the friends who had come to visit him; but as the physician saw ground for believing that, with absolute quiet, the lost health might be regained, the stay was not prolonged.

During the visit a most touching incident occurred, illustrating the tender affection felt for Ole Bull throughout Norway. The annual encampment of militia troops at Ulven, a few miles from Lysö, broke up. The regiments, embarked upon a fleet of steamers, on their way to Bergen, the point for disbanding, necessarily passed a short distance outside of Lysö. The fleet was conducted through the inner fjord, that opportunity might be given to show the sympathy and affection of the troops for the man whose music had so often entranced them. The foremost vessel of the fleet, with the military band, came slowly to rest immediately under the windows of the music hall. Ole Bull, too feeble to present himself, directed his great American flag with the Norwegian arms in the escutcheon (the gift of the New York Philharmonic Society) to be run out from the window overlooking the fjord. Immediately the band played with infinite sweetness an original composition of the master. This was followed by a superb ancient Norwegian air, to which Björnson had written the words, and this was succeeded by the proud national hymn. At the close, dipping its flag, the head of the fleet silently moved away. The successive vessels slowly following, dipped their flags in turn, and passed on around the island to resume their course.

Alas! that this fleet should have been the herald of the convoy of steamers that, a few weeks later, gave such mournful and impressive dignity to the sorrow of Norway, when the mortal remains of Ole Bull were borne by sea to their last resting–place in Bergen, where he was born.

A few days only after Mr. Horsford left came the sudden change,—the loss of strength, and the fear, on the part of those in charge of the case, that the illness would prove fatal. Never had a patient kinder physicians; Dr. Moore being in constant attendance, and Dr. Wiesener, of Bergen, in daily consultation. The sick one bravely fought the disease at every step, and calmly awaited the issue. It has been said of another: “A devoted lover of religious liberty, he was an equal lover of religion itself, not in any precise dogmatic form, but in its righteousness, reverence, and charity.” This was true of Ole Bull. As his body weakened, his soul seemed the stronger, “and full of endearment and hope for humanity,” as Mr. Fields wrote of him. He gave the sweet assurance that life had been precious to him, and the dear smile lighted the way for all, as he passed beyond. One who was present wrote of that hour:—

Everything made the change remarkably free from the dark and terrible in death. The day was a beautiful,quiet one, full of sunshine and gladness, and the fragrance of flowers. You know how lovely the surroundings are. I hope death may always seem to me as here, a happy, peaceful ending of suffering, and a quiet passing away into something nobler and better.

Another quotation from a letter written only for the eyes of friends will give the public feeling of the time and its expression:—

All honor is being paid our beloved by king and people. The king sent a telegram of condolence to Mrs. Bull, expressing his personal as well as the national loss. The city is in mourning, with hundreds of flags at half–mast, among them the royal standard. The common council of Bergen at once met, and offered a spot in the very centre of the old cemetery for the place of burial. It is a beautiful location. The newspapers are enclosed with broad lines of black, as never before, except for members of the royal family, and contain many tributes and accounts of his life.On Friday last the Kong Sverre, one of the largest of the coast steamers, came out with friends to see the remains as they lay in state in the music room. On Monday the funeral ceremonies took place, and honors more than royal were indeed shown to our dear one. It seemed that all the patriotism, all the love of people and country, which have so characterized and distinguished his nature during all his long life, wherever he might have been, were now returned to him in this spontaneous outpouring of respect and love. On the morning of the day of burial the Kong Sverre cameagain, bringing the family and intimate friends to attend the services here, which were held in the hall, and were very impressive, especially so to us, for whom the place has so many beautiful associations connected with his life and music. After a prelude on the organ played by his friend, Edward Grieg, there was prayer by the pastor, and singing of a poem written for the service; then followed an address, eloquent with feeling, by Mr. Konow (the grandson of Öhlenschläger), a neighbor and warm friend of Ole Bull. After music again, the casket, covered deep with most beautiful flowers, the gifts of friends, was borne by peasants down to the steamer, followed by the family and friends, leaving desolate the island which he had made a home, and so much loved. The sad ride to Bergen was happily brightened by the sun. The steamer, on entering the large fjord which lies outside the harbor, was met by a convoy of sixteen steamers, ranged on either side—a wonderfully impressive escort. As the fleet approached the harbor slowly, guns fired from the fort and answered by the steamers echoed and reëchoed among the mountains. The harbor and shipping were covered with flags of all nations, at half–mast, the whole world paying its last tribute to a genius which the whole world had learned to know and love. The quay was covered thick with green juniper, and festoons of green draped its whole front to the water’s edge. Every shop and place of business was shut; the whole population of the city stood waiting silent, reverent. As the boat touched the quay, and while the casket was being borne to the high catafalque, one of the artist’s own melodies was played.

On Friday last the Kong Sverre, one of the largest of the coast steamers, came out with friends to see the remains as they lay in state in the music room. On Monday the funeral ceremonies took place, and honors more than royal were indeed shown to our dear one. It seemed that all the patriotism, all the love of people and country, which have so characterized and distinguished his nature during all his long life, wherever he might have been, were now returned to him in this spontaneous outpouring of respect and love. On the morning of the day of burial the Kong Sverre cameagain, bringing the family and intimate friends to attend the services here, which were held in the hall, and were very impressive, especially so to us, for whom the place has so many beautiful associations connected with his life and music. After a prelude on the organ played by his friend, Edward Grieg, there was prayer by the pastor, and singing of a poem written for the service; then followed an address, eloquent with feeling, by Mr. Konow (the grandson of Öhlenschläger), a neighbor and warm friend of Ole Bull. After music again, the casket, covered deep with most beautiful flowers, the gifts of friends, was borne by peasants down to the steamer, followed by the family and friends, leaving desolate the island which he had made a home, and so much loved. The sad ride to Bergen was happily brightened by the sun. The steamer, on entering the large fjord which lies outside the harbor, was met by a convoy of sixteen steamers, ranged on either side—a wonderfully impressive escort. As the fleet approached the harbor slowly, guns fired from the fort and answered by the steamers echoed and reëchoed among the mountains. The harbor and shipping were covered with flags of all nations, at half–mast, the whole world paying its last tribute to a genius which the whole world had learned to know and love. The quay was covered thick with green juniper, and festoons of green draped its whole front to the water’s edge. Every shop and place of business was shut; the whole population of the city stood waiting silent, reverent. As the boat touched the quay, and while the casket was being borne to the high catafalque, one of the artist’s own melodies was played.

Young girls, dressed in black, bore the trophies of his foreign success; his gold crown and orders were carried by distinguished men of Bergen. As the procession passed slowly along the streets strewn with green, flowers were showered on the coffin, and tears were seen on many faces; but the silence was unbroken save by the tones of Chopin’s funeral march, and the tolling of the church bells. At the house where Ole Bull was born, the procession halted while a verse of a poem written by a friend was sung. At the grave, pastor Wallum read the service, and spoke with feeling of the work and life of the departed, and the gratitude of his country.

Then Björnstjerne Björnson spoke to the assembled thousands as follows:—

Ole Bull was loved; this we see to–day; he was honored, but it is more to be loved than to be honored!If we would understand this deep attachment from its inception, understand him, what he was, what he is to us, then we must go far back to the time when he first appeared among us.We were a poor, a small nation, with glorious traditions of earlier times, starting afresh with longings not soon to be realized, longings for which we were sometimes mocked.Even of our own intellectual and spiritual inheritance but few crumbs had fallen to us, Denmark having taken the loaf. They said we were incapable of an independent intellectual existence, and our best men believed this. A Norse literature was deemed an impossibility,though the ample foundations were there to build upon; an individual Norse school of history, a thing to be laughed at; even our language was not acceptable unless spoken with a Danish accent and soft consonants; a national theatre not even to be thought of.Our political situation was equally unfortunate. We had been newly bought and sold, and what little liberty we had presumed to seize, and had succeeded in extending, gave us no security, but much concern.We dared have no official celebrations, since it might offend in high places. But a young generation came, nourished on freedom, and without the fear and prudence of their elders, but with more of defiance, more of anger. They lived in the morning of freedom and honor, and in this dawn came Ole Bull’s tones like the first rays of the sun over the mountain tops.At that time the folk–melodies invaded our music, the democratic invaded the aristocratic, the national the abstract, the individual the formulated ideal. To our honor be it said, we followed.Older men have told you of the giant form which suddenly stood forth, not in the low, no, in the highest places, before kings and the most cultured, and played with a wild power, possessed by only one man before, but in Ole Bull more original, more humanly sympathetic,—a power for the first time Norse. When they read how he stood and sang Norwegian melodies from his violin to other nations, we felt that they were one with us while they were moved to laughter and tears as they caught glimpses back of him of our people and grand, beautiful nature; thus one may understand theconfidence, the faith, the pride he awakened,—he the foremost of all in our Norse independence. Henrik Wergeland expresses this when he makes Norway thus sing to Ole Bull:—“Oh, world–wide is my son’s fair fame!Anew my eye is proud aflame.“On, on, my son! when thou art blest,’Tis blessing in thy Mother’s breast.“A poet I, for ages long;The Norsemen’s legends are my song.“My epic have I written too,A noble thought each hero true.”On his first return from his triumphs abroad it was a festival but to look at him. When he played the folk–songs, which had been timidly hidden, though cherished in memory, now through him applauded by mighty rulers, that generation felt themselves borne to the same heights; Ole Bull became the first and greatest festival in this people’s life; he gave us self–respect, the greatest gift possible at that time.This is Ole Bull’s undying honor, this the supreme accomplishment of his life.If one would measure the depth of an impression, he must seek its expression in literature. Read Welhaven’s poem at that time to Ole Bull. Any man with a knowledge of European literature will not hesitate to say that it is one of the most beautiful lyrics ever written.How happened it that he was the one to accomplishall this? His birth of a musical race had not sufficed without the fervor of his patriotism. During our war for independence he was still a boy at play, and his childish voice was among the first to shout for our young freedom. When a youth—I speak whereof I know—his violin, with its boundless, exultant joy, sang our first national songs in Henrik Wergeland’s college–room, and became the overture to Wergeland’s inspiration of our national observance of the 17th of May. These feelings Ole Bull carried with him to other lands.Patriotism was the creative power in his life. When he established the Norse theatre, assisted Norse art, helped the national museum, his mighty instrument singing for other patriotic ends; when he helped his countrymen and others wherever he found them, it was not so much for the object, or the person, but for the honor of Norway. He always felt himself our representative; and, if he felt there was need, let it be at home or abroad, that “Ole Olsen Viol, Norse Norman from Norway”[25]should appear, he never failed us.His patriotism had a certain tinge ofnaïveté, of morbidity, about it; it was a consequence of the times. But it was of importance to us that our finest gentleman, coming from Europe’s most cultured salons, could and would go arm in arm with our poor Norse beginnings. It lies in the nature of things that first attempts are never popular; they only become so when developed and recognized by all; but, as a rule, they have then outlived their usefulness.It was this sturdy faithfulness in Ole Bull, spite ofhis impulsive temperament, that made him dear to our people; in other words, it was his patriotism.So it was with Henrik Wergeland. Ole Bull and Henrik Wergeland were of the same age and temperament. The one responded to the other as in the spring the wood–song answers the green of the meadows, or on the western coast the sea skerries and irregular mountain groups—the flickering sunshine on their grassy slopes, their shifting lights and shadows—answer the wooded ridges, the great, broad, rich landscape of the east, with Mjosen’s gleaming surface in its midst. The one was the blue boy of the west, with the ocean’s salt flavor, the restless spirit of the Vikings; the other, the gray boy of the east.[26]There was western blood in Henrik Wergeland; but his genius had the color of the mild, broad outlook of an eastern landscape, with the mountains in the distance.When Ole Bull talked of his art, he was wont to say that he had learned to “sing” of the Italians. Without doubt this was true; the outer form he had learned from them, but the genius and the colors were from the soul of our soul, the most spontaneous message of the folk–song, as love of country made it glow in his consciousness. An old, world–renowned artist[27]said to me: “Faults in Ole Bull’s playing are more noticeable as he advances in age; but no artist in our time has possessed Ole Bull’s poetic power; no one has ever surpassed his playing of the ‘Adagio.’ I think all his cultivated auditors will say the same.”

Ole Bull was loved; this we see to–day; he was honored, but it is more to be loved than to be honored!

If we would understand this deep attachment from its inception, understand him, what he was, what he is to us, then we must go far back to the time when he first appeared among us.

We were a poor, a small nation, with glorious traditions of earlier times, starting afresh with longings not soon to be realized, longings for which we were sometimes mocked.

Even of our own intellectual and spiritual inheritance but few crumbs had fallen to us, Denmark having taken the loaf. They said we were incapable of an independent intellectual existence, and our best men believed this. A Norse literature was deemed an impossibility,though the ample foundations were there to build upon; an individual Norse school of history, a thing to be laughed at; even our language was not acceptable unless spoken with a Danish accent and soft consonants; a national theatre not even to be thought of.

Our political situation was equally unfortunate. We had been newly bought and sold, and what little liberty we had presumed to seize, and had succeeded in extending, gave us no security, but much concern.

We dared have no official celebrations, since it might offend in high places. But a young generation came, nourished on freedom, and without the fear and prudence of their elders, but with more of defiance, more of anger. They lived in the morning of freedom and honor, and in this dawn came Ole Bull’s tones like the first rays of the sun over the mountain tops.

At that time the folk–melodies invaded our music, the democratic invaded the aristocratic, the national the abstract, the individual the formulated ideal. To our honor be it said, we followed.

Older men have told you of the giant form which suddenly stood forth, not in the low, no, in the highest places, before kings and the most cultured, and played with a wild power, possessed by only one man before, but in Ole Bull more original, more humanly sympathetic,—a power for the first time Norse. When they read how he stood and sang Norwegian melodies from his violin to other nations, we felt that they were one with us while they were moved to laughter and tears as they caught glimpses back of him of our people and grand, beautiful nature; thus one may understand theconfidence, the faith, the pride he awakened,—he the foremost of all in our Norse independence. Henrik Wergeland expresses this when he makes Norway thus sing to Ole Bull:—

“Oh, world–wide is my son’s fair fame!Anew my eye is proud aflame.“On, on, my son! when thou art blest,’Tis blessing in thy Mother’s breast.“A poet I, for ages long;The Norsemen’s legends are my song.“My epic have I written too,A noble thought each hero true.”

“Oh, world–wide is my son’s fair fame!Anew my eye is proud aflame.

“On, on, my son! when thou art blest,’Tis blessing in thy Mother’s breast.

“A poet I, for ages long;The Norsemen’s legends are my song.

“My epic have I written too,A noble thought each hero true.”

On his first return from his triumphs abroad it was a festival but to look at him. When he played the folk–songs, which had been timidly hidden, though cherished in memory, now through him applauded by mighty rulers, that generation felt themselves borne to the same heights; Ole Bull became the first and greatest festival in this people’s life; he gave us self–respect, the greatest gift possible at that time.

This is Ole Bull’s undying honor, this the supreme accomplishment of his life.

If one would measure the depth of an impression, he must seek its expression in literature. Read Welhaven’s poem at that time to Ole Bull. Any man with a knowledge of European literature will not hesitate to say that it is one of the most beautiful lyrics ever written.

How happened it that he was the one to accomplishall this? His birth of a musical race had not sufficed without the fervor of his patriotism. During our war for independence he was still a boy at play, and his childish voice was among the first to shout for our young freedom. When a youth—I speak whereof I know—his violin, with its boundless, exultant joy, sang our first national songs in Henrik Wergeland’s college–room, and became the overture to Wergeland’s inspiration of our national observance of the 17th of May. These feelings Ole Bull carried with him to other lands.

Patriotism was the creative power in his life. When he established the Norse theatre, assisted Norse art, helped the national museum, his mighty instrument singing for other patriotic ends; when he helped his countrymen and others wherever he found them, it was not so much for the object, or the person, but for the honor of Norway. He always felt himself our representative; and, if he felt there was need, let it be at home or abroad, that “Ole Olsen Viol, Norse Norman from Norway”[25]should appear, he never failed us.

His patriotism had a certain tinge ofnaïveté, of morbidity, about it; it was a consequence of the times. But it was of importance to us that our finest gentleman, coming from Europe’s most cultured salons, could and would go arm in arm with our poor Norse beginnings. It lies in the nature of things that first attempts are never popular; they only become so when developed and recognized by all; but, as a rule, they have then outlived their usefulness.

It was this sturdy faithfulness in Ole Bull, spite ofhis impulsive temperament, that made him dear to our people; in other words, it was his patriotism.

So it was with Henrik Wergeland. Ole Bull and Henrik Wergeland were of the same age and temperament. The one responded to the other as in the spring the wood–song answers the green of the meadows, or on the western coast the sea skerries and irregular mountain groups—the flickering sunshine on their grassy slopes, their shifting lights and shadows—answer the wooded ridges, the great, broad, rich landscape of the east, with Mjosen’s gleaming surface in its midst. The one was the blue boy of the west, with the ocean’s salt flavor, the restless spirit of the Vikings; the other, the gray boy of the east.[26]There was western blood in Henrik Wergeland; but his genius had the color of the mild, broad outlook of an eastern landscape, with the mountains in the distance.

When Ole Bull talked of his art, he was wont to say that he had learned to “sing” of the Italians. Without doubt this was true; the outer form he had learned from them, but the genius and the colors were from the soul of our soul, the most spontaneous message of the folk–song, as love of country made it glow in his consciousness. An old, world–renowned artist[27]said to me: “Faults in Ole Bull’s playing are more noticeable as he advances in age; but no artist in our time has possessed Ole Bull’s poetic power; no one has ever surpassed his playing of the ‘Adagio.’ I think all his cultivated auditors will say the same.”

The criticism has been made that Ole Bull has failed in not leaving behind him great musical works. This is unjust. A man that could so fully give what he at times gave us could not do more. In proportion to the ability for the one, is the other impossible.But it was important for us at that time, as it is always important for a small nation, that we had a man of the first rank among us. It was a direct connection with the outside world. It exalted our aims. As far as human power could, it spurred our ambition,—and that in all directions. Let us then, at the grave of our greatest citizen, say honor to him beyond all the artists who have broken a way for us,—he who not alone inspired followers in his profession, but also awakened ambition and happiness wherever he was known; helping the moral and intellectual forces,—the greatest legacy one can bequeath.I love to remember him on the great 17th of May celebrations; for he was a celebration himself, majestic, fascinating, as he walked among us. And a gesture of his hand, a look, raised in him who received it a holiday mood.Thus hand in hand with all our national development, ennobling it, cherishing in his love the least with the greatest, always ennobling,—this was his life, this his inspiration. Such a love of country rewards, as by miracle, him who cherishes it. When I read every year how he came home with summer, like the bird of passage, how he came this summer, and that his love of country, of home, bore him on, spite of distance, the advice of physicians, and all hindrances, I thought ofHenrik Wergeland’s words of Robert Major: “First thence and then to heaven would the old gray republican.” His eye would fondly rest on that land he loved before it closed in death.Countrymen! let us not leave this spot till we have thanked her who did what a nation could not—opened to his age a home of beauty and comfort....Always before when we have spoken in Ole Bull’s honor we have closed with a “Long live Ole Bull!” This we may never say again—though dead to us he is not,—he will be with us when we return to our homes. Let my last words be an appeal to the young here present. True to the dead one, as your elders who knew him, ye cannot be; but by this grave, mark the wonders worked by love of country, the miracle revealed forever in this rich life of which we solemnize the earthly close.

But it was important for us at that time, as it is always important for a small nation, that we had a man of the first rank among us. It was a direct connection with the outside world. It exalted our aims. As far as human power could, it spurred our ambition,—and that in all directions. Let us then, at the grave of our greatest citizen, say honor to him beyond all the artists who have broken a way for us,—he who not alone inspired followers in his profession, but also awakened ambition and happiness wherever he was known; helping the moral and intellectual forces,—the greatest legacy one can bequeath.

I love to remember him on the great 17th of May celebrations; for he was a celebration himself, majestic, fascinating, as he walked among us. And a gesture of his hand, a look, raised in him who received it a holiday mood.

Thus hand in hand with all our national development, ennobling it, cherishing in his love the least with the greatest, always ennobling,—this was his life, this his inspiration. Such a love of country rewards, as by miracle, him who cherishes it. When I read every year how he came home with summer, like the bird of passage, how he came this summer, and that his love of country, of home, bore him on, spite of distance, the advice of physicians, and all hindrances, I thought ofHenrik Wergeland’s words of Robert Major: “First thence and then to heaven would the old gray republican.” His eye would fondly rest on that land he loved before it closed in death.

Countrymen! let us not leave this spot till we have thanked her who did what a nation could not—opened to his age a home of beauty and comfort....

Always before when we have spoken in Ole Bull’s honor we have closed with a “Long live Ole Bull!” This we may never say again—though dead to us he is not,—he will be with us when we return to our homes. Let my last words be an appeal to the young here present. True to the dead one, as your elders who knew him, ye cannot be; but by this grave, mark the wonders worked by love of country, the miracle revealed forever in this rich life of which we solemnize the earthly close.

Again a hymn was sung, and Edward Grieg then said with emotion:—

Because more than any other thou wast the glory of our land, because more than any other thou hast carried our people with thee up towards the bright heights of art, because thou wast more than any other a pioneer of our young national music, more, much more, than any other the faithful, warm–hearted conqueror of all hearts, because thou hast planted a seed which shall spring up in the future and for which coming generations shall bless thee—with the gratitude of thousands upon thousands, for all this, in the name of our Norse memorial art, I lay this laurel wreath on thy coffin. Peace be with thy ashes!

Mr. Bendixen, on behalf of the National Theatre, said:—

With grateful remembrance that our great artist, ardently loving his native land, saw with clear, penetrating vision the influence of art on the development of a people,—especially of an independent dramatic art springing up in its midst,—with earnest and heartfelt thanks, because we owe to his inspiring energy and example the presence of that art in his own native city, recognizing that his name will be always connected with its history,—in the name of Bergen’s National Theatre, I lay this wreath upon his grave.

“After the coffin had been put in the grave, and the relatives had gone away, there was paid a last tribute to Ole Bull,—a tribute more touching and of more worth than the king’s message, the gold crown, all the orders, and the flags of the world at half–mast, meaning more love than the pine–strewn streets of the silent city, and the tears on its people’s faces; a tribute from poor peasants, who had come in from the country far and near, men who knew Ole Bull’s music by heart,—who, in their lonely, poverty–stricken huts had been proud of the man who had played their ‘Gamle Norge’ before the kings of the earth. These men were there by hundreds, each bringing a green bough, or a fern, or a flower; they waited humbly till all others had left the grave, then crowded up, and threw in, each man, the only token he had been rich enough to bring. The grave was filled to the brim. And it is not irreverent to say, that to Ole Bull, in heaven, there could come no gladder memory of earth than that the last honors paid him there were wild leaves and flowers of Norway, laid on his body by the loving hands of Norway peasants.”

“Now long that instrument has ceased to sound,Now long that gracious form in earth hath lain,Tended by nature only, and unwoundAre all those mingled threads of love and pain;So let us weep, and bendOur heads, and wait the end,Knowing that God creates not thus in vain.”

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 bringsVoices 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 tofind 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.

Fig. 1.

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 notheld, butrestsupon 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.

PALMAR SURFACE OF LEFT HAND. After Gray.Fig. 2.

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 withoutdifficulty, 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 violinrestswithout 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 upperpart 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. Thecurve 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.

Fig. 3.

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. 4.

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. 5.

Fig. 6 shows the fourth position. The index finger here rests at the commencement of the last fourth ofthe 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 thehighest 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.

Fig. 6.

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

Fig. 7.

It is a well known fact that playing on the violindevelops 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.

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