We cannot omit another little extract from a notice of _Semiramide_:-- "Of the gems of this sublime opera we must particularly direct attention to Mrs. Alfred Shaw's manner and divinely expressive way of singing her Cavatina, 'Ah! that day I well remember,' where her sublime contralto, controlled by the most scientific skill, and whose soft diapason tones fall like seraphs' harmony, penetrates the heart with chastening ardour and inspiring effect. Again the contralto and soprano duet, 'Dark days of Sorrow,' between Miss Kemble and Mrs. Shaw; what deep pathos! what eloquence discoursing! Mark the clear, brilliant, towering sublimity of expression as Semiramide holds on the C in alt., while the thirds and fifths of Assaca's deep mellow notes from D to G in a full octave and a half are filling in a sublime harmony of melody of the most touching and refined order." But if extravagant homage was paid to the queens of song much was also expected of them. The truth of this is seen in the episode chronicled under the heading "Persiani at Sea":-- An enthusiastic audience is assembled to hurrah Persiani--to cry _brava_--to throw bouquets, etc. The crowd open their mouths to receive the honeyed voice of a _prima donna_, and Doctor Wardrop throws blue pills into them. The following notice proves the truth of our metaphor:-- "Madame Persiani continues to _suffer so severely from the effects of sea-sickness, accompanied with violent retching_, that it is impossible for her to appear this evening. "JAMES WARDROP, M.D." On this, says _The Times_, "the audience were at first disposed to grumble, and gave many signs of dissatisfaction." The audience were perfectly right. They were justified in becoming very savage at the violent retching of a sea-sick St. Cecilia; and had she had the effrontery to die, they would, we are convinced, have been perfectly exonerated, by all the laws of English freedom, in breaking the chandeliers and tearing up the benches! [Illustration: THE SKATING BALLET]