sweetness with great volume and capacity.  It was no timid debutante, but a finished singer whose voice rolled out in a swelling flood of melody such as no English opera-house had heard since the palmiest days of Pisaroni.  Musical London was electrified, and Grisi, who sang in “Semiramide,” sulked, because in the great duet, “Giorno d’orrore,” the thunders of applause evidently concerned themselves with her young rival rather than with herself.  Another convincing proof of her power was that she dared to restore the beautiful aria “In si barbara,” which had been hitherto suppressed for lack of a contralto of sufficient greatness to give it full effect.  In one night she had established herself as a trump card in the manager’s hand against the rival house, an accession which he so appreciated that, unsolicited, he raised her salary from five hundred to two thousand pounds.

Mlle. Alboni’s voice covered nearly three octaves, from E flat to C sharp, with tones uniformly rich, full, mellow, and liquid.  The quality of the voice was perfectly pure and sympathetic, the articulation so clear and fluent, even in the most difficult and rapid passages, that it was like a performance on a well-played instrument.  The rapidity and certainty of her execution could only be compared to the dazzling character of Mme. Persiani’s vocalization.  Her style and method were considered models.  Although her facility and taste in ornamentation were of the highest order, Alboni had so much reverence for the intentions of the composer, that she would rarely add anything to the music which she interpreted, and even in the operas of Rossini, where most singers take such extraordinary liberties with the score, it was Alboni’s pride neither to add nor omit a note.  Perhaps her audiences most wondered at her singular ease.  An enchanting smile lit up her face as she ran the most difficult scales, and the extreme feats of musical execution gave the idea of being spontaneous, not the fruit of art or labor.  Her whole appearance, when she was singing, as was said by one enthusiastic amateur, conveyed the impression of exquisite music even when the sense of hearing was stopped.

Alboni’s figure, although large, was perfect in symmetry, graceful and commanding, and her features regularly beautiful, though better fitted for the expression of comedy than of tragedy.  The expression of her countenance was singularly genial, vivacious, and kindly, and her eyes, when animated in conversation or in singing, flashed with great brilliancy.  Her smile was bewitching, and her laugh so infectious that no one could resist its influence.

Fresh triumphs marked Mlle. Alboni’s London season to its close.  In “La Donna del Lago,” “Lucrezia Borgia,” “Maria de Rohan,” and “La Gazza Ladra” she was pronounced inimitable by the London critics.  Mme. Persiani’s part in “Il Barbiere” was assumed without rehearsal and at a moment’s notice, and given in a way which satisfied the most exacting judges.  It sparkled from the first to the last note with enchanting gayety and humor.