came before the curtain and bowed, with his hand upon his
heart. There is something different in his performance from that of
any other artist, and yet it is difficult to describe the
peculiarity of his style, except that he touches all the strings at
once, and plays a distinct accompaniment with the fingers of his
right hand. But the charm is in the genius of the man and the
grandeur of his compositions. He knows how to play upon the silver
cord of the heart which binds us to a world of beauty, and vibrates
only when touched by a master hand."

The sentiments and emotions aroused in the breast of this critic appear
to have been those with which Paganini inspired his audience, when he
played a duet on two strings, as related in an earlier chapter. Ole Bull
was a child of nature, he gave his audience a description of the
beauties of nature, and behold! it is interpreted as a story of human
passions,--a high tribute to descriptive music.

The following criticism seems more in keeping with the ideas known to
have been held by the violinist, and almost leads one to imagine that
the critic was fortunate enough to obtain an interview with the virtuoso
before writing his account:

"FEBRUARY, 1844.

"To what shall we compare Ole Bull's playing? Was it like some
well-informed individual who has seen the world and who spices his
tales of men and things with song and story--now describing the
beauties of Swiss scenery, now repeating the air which he caught up
one moonlight night on the Bosphorus, and anon relating a stirring
joke which he gleaned on the Boulevard. Such a man would create an
impression on any small tea-party, but that violin did more--the
comparison fails. There might be to him who chose to give rein to
his fancy a vision at one moment of the old ivy-covered church and
the quiet graveyard, the evening sun streaming through the rich
stained glass, the organ faintly heard through the long aisles and
the deep chancel, and around and about the singing of some bird of
late hours, and the hum of the bee as he flew by, well laden, to
his storehouse of sweets.

"Then the clouds flew fearfully, and the wind moaned through the
boughs of the old oak-tree in its winter dishabille, and so down to
the seashore, when it rushed over cliffs and crags and knocked off
the caps of the mad waves a