ecution 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.

II.

M. Duponchel, the manager of the Opera in Paris, hastened to London to
hear Alboni sing, and immediately offered her an engagement. In October,
1847, she made her Parisian _debut_. Her first appearance in concert was
with Alizard and Barroilhet. "Many persons, artists and amateurs," said
Fiorentino, "absolutely asked on the morning of her _debut_, Who is
this Alboni? Whence does she come? What can she do?" And their
interrogatories were answered by some fragments of those trifling and
illusory biographies which always accompany young vocalists. There was,
however, intense curiosity to hear and see this redoubtable singer who
had held the citadel of the Royal Italian Opera against the attraction
of Jenny Lind, and the theatre was crowded to suffocation by rank,
fashion, beauty, and notabilities on the night of her first concert,
October 9th. When she stepped quietly on the stage, dressed in black
velvet, a brooch of brilliants on her bosom, and her hair cut _a la
Titus_, with a music-paper in her hand, there was just one thunder-clap
of applause, followed by a silence of some seconds. She had not one
acknowledged advocate in the house; but, when Arsace's cavatina, "Ah!
quel giorno," gushed from her lips in a rich stream of melodious sound,
the entire audience was at her feet, and the critics coul