The spirit of a people waked
By Freedom’s battle cry;
The “Memory of their Washington,”
Their song of victory.
Take back with thee a loftier fame,
A prouder niche in art,
Fresh laurels from our virgin soil,
And take—a nation’s heart!
The wife and children of Ole Bull awaited his coming in Paris. His letters make frequent mention of his children, for whom he had many pet names, and he delighted to tell his friends about them. In one of his last letters from New York he said:—
I have dreamed of Alexander and Thorvald, and my soul is filled with grief—for they would not recognize me.... I must play to–morrow, and this kills one.[14] I shall soon come to you myself, and you will hear more from my own lips than I will trust to this cold paper.
It is easy to imagine the pleasure of the meeting,—and also the pain, since he could not yet feel that his independence was sufficiently secured to justify him in giving up his professional tours. He had not received the proportion of the returns from his two years’ work that was fairly his due. He had left, as he habitually did, his business settlements till the last moment, and often trusted his funds in what proved to be unsafe hands. As a consequence, he was still obliged to think of the pecuniary results of his work.
In the spring of 1846 he appeared several times in Paris, and on the 19th of April he gave a concert at the Italian Opera. The following is an extract from an advance notice in the Corsaire Satan, of the 15th of April:—
Each year public opinion, having fluttered about for a time, at last settles upon an artist, who, to use an English phrase, becomes the lion of the season. This happy advantage has been accorded this year to Ole Bull. After the extraordinary success which he had attained at Roger’s entertainments, he could not leave Paris without giving a grand concert at the Théâtre Italien. This is a custom made fashionable by Liszt, Thalberg, Madame Pleyel,—in fact, by all great artists; a fashion which some lesser stars with more boldness than success have followed. Ole Bull was not too sanguine in regard to his strength, for all the tickets are already sold. This part of the problem has been solved; to solve the other half he only needs to play, as he has done at the Grand Opéra, and the Opéra Comique, and his victory will be both brilliant and complete.... Ole Bull’s violin does not pipe and shriek like those of some of his confrères, who whine when they pretend to sing; his bow really possesses something magic and inspired. It is the human voice in its most exalted expression.