in “Lucrezia Borgia,” in 1842, Marietta then having reached the age of twenty.  She was then transferred to the La Scala, at Milan, where she performed with marked success in “La Favorita.”  Rossini himself signed her contract, saying, “I am the subscribing witness to your union with renown.  May success and happiness attend the union!” Her engagement was renewed at the La Scala for four successive seasons.  A tempting offer from Vienna carried her to that musical capital, and during the three years she remained there she won brilliant laurels and a fame which had swiftly coursed through Europe; for musical connoisseurs visiting Vienna carried away with them the most glowing accounts of the new contralto.  Her triumphs were renewed in Russia, Belgium, Holland, and Prussia, where her glorious voice created a genuine furore, not less flattering to her pride than the excitement produced at an earlier date by Pasta, Sontag, and Malibran.  An interesting proof of her independence and dignity of character occurred on her first arrival in Berlin, before she had made her debut in that city.

She was asked by an officious friend “if she had waited on M------.” 
“No! who is this M------,” was the reply.  “Oh!” answered her inquisitor,
“he is the most influential journalist in Prussia.”  “Well, how does
this concern me?” “Why,” rejoined the other, “if you do not contrive
to insure his favorable report, you are ruined.”  The young Italian drew
herself up disdainfully.  “Indeed!” she said, coldly; “well, let it be as
Heaven directs; but I wish it to be understood that in my breast the
woman is superior to the artist, and, though failure were the result,
I would never degrade myself by purchasing success at so humiliating a
price.”  The anecdote was repeated in the fashionable saloons of
Berlin, and, so far from injuring her, the noble sentiment of the young
debutante was appreciated.  The king invited her to sing at his court,
where she received the well-merited applause of an admiring audience;
and afterward his Majesty bestowed more tangible evidences of his
approbation.

It was not till 1847 that Marietta Alboni appeared in England.  Mr. Beale, the manager of the Royal Italian Opera, the new enterprise which had just been organized in the revolutionized Covent Garden Theatre, heard her at Milan and was charmed with her voice.  Rumors had reached England, of course, concerning the beauty of the new singer’s voice, but there was little interest felt when her engagement was announced.  The “Jenny Lind” mania was at its height, and in the company in which Alboni herself was to sing there were two brilliant stars of the first luster, Grisi and Persiani.  So, when she made her bow to the London public as Arsace, in “Semiramide,” the audience gazed at her with a sort of languid and unexpectant curiosity.  But Alboni found herself the next morning a famous woman.  People were astounded by this wonderful voice, combining luscious