In instrumental music there has been a steady advance from the merely showy and technical to the purely classical. Ten years since they would crowd the hall to hear the “Carnival.” Had Madam Urso presented the Beethoven Spohr, or the Mendelssohn Concertos, the people would not have listened in patience through a single performance. If they heard it at all, it would be under a sort of silent protest, and the next time the piece was offered there would be nobody there. These remarks apply to the country generally. In some of the older cities classical music of a high order would have found a certain proportion of listeners. From year to year, all this has changed. By introducing into the lightest and most popular programmes some short selection from the great masters of violin music, Madam Urso has gradually taught her audiences what they should admire, and, by persistent and gentle urging, she has led them to a knowledge of the best and highest in art. In this Madam Urso is not alone. All true artists do thus teach the people and try to lift them up to something higher and purer. It is this that makes the divine in music. Happily, our people are willing enough to be taught. The general education, and our freedom from precedents enables all art to grow faster here than anywhere else. We are still, as a people, crude and musically ignorant, but we are fast learning. The changes in the character of concert music may be seen almost from year to year; the standard continually advances and, certainly, there is everything to encourage and satisfy the most ardent lover of music in the country. While we have such artists as Madam Urso among us we have much to be thankful for, and may press on till we reach the high standard of excellence she ever keeps before herself. We may here offer a short sketch of Madam Urso’s personal appearance and manners, when free from the restraint of public life. The ideas generally held concerning her “personally” are somewhat incorrect, as the following will show: * * * * * It was a cloudy, winter’s afternoon, and the place seemed dull and gloomy. The Boston Music Hall is, at best, bare and vast, and by daylight is particularly unattractive. The great organ pipes appear cold and lustreless, and the light tints on the walls are not very comforting. The orchestra of the Harvard Musical Association were upon the stage, under the leadership of Carl Zerrahn, and a few privileged subscribers, numbering a hundred or two, were gathered together at one side, as if to keep each other in countenance. Over such a wide floor it takes a thousand or more to make a comfortable and social company.