V

_Saturday night, November 25, '43._

Why do I love music enough to be only a lover, and cannot offer it a
life-devoted service? Yet the lover serves in his sort, and if I may not
minister to it, it cannot fail to dignify and ennoble my life. I am just
from hearing Ole Bull, who this evening made his first appearance in
America. How shall I fitly speak to you of him, how can I now, while the
new vision of beauty that he caused to sweep by still lingers? Yet itself
shall inspire me. The presence of so noble a man allures to light whatever
nobility lies in us.

He came forward to a house crowded in every part with the calm simplicity
of Genius. There was no grimace, no graces, but a fine grace that adorned
his presence and assured one that nothing could disappoint--that the
simplicity of the man was the seal and crown of his genius. A fair-haired,
robust, finely formed man, the full bloom of health shining on his face,
he appeared as the master of the great instrument, as the successor, in
point of time, of the world-famous Paganini. Yet was one confident that
here was no imitator, but a pupil who had sat thoughtfully at the master's
feet and felt that beneath the depth of his expression there was yet a
lower depth, who knew himself consecrated by a will grander than his will
to the service of an art so divine and so loved. In him there was that
sure prophecy of latent power which surrounds genius, and assures us that
the thing done is an echo only and shadow of the possible performance.

The playing followed this simple, majestic appearance. It was full of
music, irregular, wild, yearning, trembling. His violin lay upon his arm
tenderly as a living thing; and such rich, mellow, silver, shining tones