A MUSICAL CRITIQUE.

[Illustration: THE ROTUND URSO.]

The second lecture of the Library Association course was delivered on
Tuesday evening by a female lecturer named Camilla Urso, on a fiddle. The
lecturer was supported by a female singer, two male clamsellers, and a
piano masher, all of them decidedly talented in their particular lines.
The lecture on the fiddle gave the most unbounded satisfaction, and the
Association in taking this new departure, has struck a popular chord.
Scarcely a person in the vast audience but would prefer such an
entertainment to a dry lecture by some dictionary sharp. Of the
performance, it is unnecessary to go into details, as all our readers were
there, with few exceptions. The fat female, Urso, more than carved the
fiddle. She dug sweet morsels of music out of it, all the way from the
wish-bone to the part that goes over the fence last. She made it talk
Norwegian, and squeezed little notes out of it not bigger than a cambric
needle, and as smooth as a book agent. The female singer was fair, though
nothing to brag on, while the male grasshopper sufferers sang as well as
was necessary. But the most agile flea-catcher that has been here since
Anna Dickinson's time, was sixteen-fingered Jack, the sandhill
crane that had the disturbance with the piano. We never knew what the row
was about, but when he walked up to the piano smiling, and shied his
castor into the ring, everybody could see there was going to be trouble.
He spit on his hands, sparred a little, and suddenly landed a stunning
blow right on the ivory, which staggered the piano, and caused an
exclamation of agony. First knock down for Jack. He paused a moment and
then began putting in blows right and left, in such a cruel manner that
the spectators came near breaking into the ring. Whenever a key showed its