Her eyes have a far away expression, dreamy and tender, that soon affects the music. The magic violin sighs and breathes in melting tenderness. The melody floats upward, melting and fading away, exhaled into palpable silence. Not quite, for just as it seems ready to languish into nothing, a soft, sweet chord from the band completes the cadence and brings it to a natural end. Shouts of “bravo” and loud applause greet this splendid effort, and she nods and smiles with a pleased and natural expression. Still, she is not satisfied. The band are not sufficiently delicate and light in the treatment of the last chord or two, and she bids them try it again. Three times they go over it, before her exacting and lofty standard of perfection is reached. Then comes the last movement. Vivacious, animated, and merry, it seems to suit her happy hearted nature, and she fairly revels in its brilliant melodies. Difficulties vanish like mist before the sun. It becomes a delight to dash through the sparkling passages. Clear, clean cut, vivid and sharp, like cut glass, the music stands out in bold characters. Not a note slighted or blurred. No obscurity or doubt about the most intricate passage. Curious little effects of _staccato_ mingled with the most linked together _legato_. Bold flashes through chain lightning scales. Chords pouring forth in torrents, and then airy scraps of melody, as if the theme had broken up into shining bits, glistening drops, and sparkles of song. An artist soul blooms before us. Her face is rapt, and almost severe. In a moment it is over, and her features break into a pleasant, natural smile. Amid the applause she returns to the floor and mingles with the people. No affectation, no looking for praise; nothing but sweetness and friendliness. No common-place woman, with brush or needle in hand, could be more simple and winsome, no genius could be more self-forgetting. We may now properly close the chapter, and bring this story of an artist life up to the present time by a brief sketch of a series of classical concerts given by Madam Urso in the Spring of 1874, in Boston. They were remarkable concerts; both in the character of the music given, and in the crowded and appreciative audiences that attended them. As an expression of Madam Urso’s present ability as an artist, we offer the opinion of the _Boston Daily Advertiser_, our best local critical paper, and, for the present, bring this story to its logical end. May it be many years before it becomes necessary to add anything more to it, except to record her continued success as an artist, and happiness as a good and true woman. The _Advertiser’s_ criticism upon the first concert of the series we present in full for the reason that it expresses the critic’s opinion of Madam Urso’s general character as a musical _artiste_, directress, and manager, as well as of her rank and position as a violinist: