received every poffible mark of approbation and regard in that capital, both for her mufical abilities and innocent and amiable difpofition.

When the arrived in England, about a month or fix weeks ago, the brought letters from perfons of the first rank to her Majefty, the Imperial minifter, and other powerful patrons, as well as to the principal mufical profeffors in London. Meffrs. Cramer, Abel, Salomon, and other eminent German muficians, have interefted themselves very much in her welfare; not only as their countrywoman bereaved of fight, but as an admirable performer.

She has been at Windfor, to prefent her letters to the Queen, and has had the honour of playing there to their Majefties, who were extremely fatisfied with her performance, and treated her with that condefcenfion and kindnefs which all who are fo happy as to be admitted to the prefence of our gracious fovereigns, in moments of domeftic privacy, experience, even when lefs entitled to it by merit and misfortunes than Mad. Paradis.

She has fince performed to his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, at a grand concert at Carlton-house, to the entire fatisfaction and wonder of all who heard her.

Since her arrival in England fhe has received a cantata, written for her in the German language, by the celebrated profeffor of mathematics, M. Pfeffel, of Colmar, who is himself blind. This cantata has been admirably fet to mufic for her own voice and accompanyment on the piano forte, and the executes it in a truely pathetic and able manner. Her voice is not fo powerful as her hand; but it is touching in itself, and her knowledge of mufic and circumstances render it doubly interesting.

by her blind friend M. Pfeffel, of Colmar, and Jet to music by her mufic-mafter, M. Leopold Kozeluch, of Vienna, 11th November, 1784.

Imitated by Dr. BURNEY.

THE new born infect sporting in the fun,
When ev'ry prize for which life's race is run
Is the true femblance of my infant ftate,

Was hidden from me by malignant fate.

Inftant deftruction quench'd each visual ray,

No mother's tears, no objects were reveal'd! Extinguish'd was the glorious lamp of day, And ev'ry work of God at once concealed! Where am I plunged! trembling voice I cried,

Ah! why this premature, this fudden night! What from my view a parent's looks can hide, Those looks more chearing than celestial light! Vain are affliction's fobs, or piercing cries,

The fatal mischief baffles all relief!

The healing art no fuccour can devise,

Nor balm extract from briny tears and grief! How should I wander through the gloomy maze, Or bear the black monotony of woe, Did not maternal kindness gild my days, And guide my devious footfteps to and fro!

Upon a festival defigned

To praife the father of mankind,
When joining in the lofty theme,
I tried to hymn the great Supreme,
A ruftling found of wings I hear,
Follow'd by accents fweet and clear,
Such as from infpiration flow

When Haydn's fire and fancy glow. "I am the genius of that gentle art

Which foothes the forrows of mankind, And to my faithful votaries impart

Extatic joys the most refin'd.

"On earth, each bard fublime my power difplays; Divine Cecilia was my own;

In heav'n each faint and feraph breathes my lays
In praifes round th' eternal throne.

"To thee, afflicted maid,
I come with friendly aid,
To put defpair to flight

And cheer thy endless night." Then, gently leaning to the new-made lyre, He plac'd my fingers on the speaking keys; "With thefe (he cries) thou liftening crouds fhalt fire,

"And Rapture teach on every heart to feize."

Elaftic force my nerves new brac'd,

And from my voice new accents flow; My foul new pleasures learn'd to tafte, And found's fweet power alleviates woe. Therefa! great in goodness as in power, Whofe fav'rite ufe of boundless fway, Was benefits on all to shower,

CANTATA

Written in German for Mademoiselle Paradis,

And wipe the tear of wretchedness away. When firit my hand and voice effay'd, Sweet Pergolefi's pious strains,

To cherish and reward my pains. But now, alas! this friend to woe, This benefactress is no more!

And though my eyes no light beftow

They'll long with tears her lofs deplore! Yet ftill where e'er my footsteps bend, My helpless ftate has found a friend. How sweet the pity of the good! How grateful is their praife! How every forrow is fubdued,

When they applaud my lays!

The illuftrious patrons I have found, Whofe approbation warms my heart, Excite a with that every found

Seraphic rapture could impart. The wreathes my feeble talents share, The balmy folace friends employ, Lifting the foul above defpair, Convert calamity to joy.

MAGAZINE. PUFFING!

MR. EDITOR,

S puffing is now fo univerfal a requifite for the ftatesman, operafinger, charity fermon preacher, actor, painter, dancer, poet, and mufician, not forgetting the managers of all our public entertainments, who, it must be confeffed, are tolerable adepts in it, I am humbly of opinion that a code of puffs, or a vade mecum for felf adulators, would be of national utility! The whole arcana might be alphabetically arranged, and adapted to the meaneft capacities (exempli gratia). Suppofe a new play was ufhered forth to the world as laft night, the fub-manager, or play-house paragraphift, might turn to the letter P, and find the following rhetorical flourish (viz.) "The new comedy (called) The Lady in the Lobster, was yesterday performed, for the first time, to a moft brilliant, crowded, fqueezed, and overflowing audience: it was received with fhouts of applaufe, and reiterated burfts of pleafure ecchoed from every part of the houfe: the fits and roars of laughter were inceffant, loud, and tumultuous! Several ladies of the first rank were obliged to leave the house, and three perfons abfolutely died with laughter! Ladies and gentlemen are refpectfully acquainted that as the demand for boxes is fo urgent, that the comedy will be repeated every night for three months, till further notice!"

If the piece fhould die away in three or four nights, as is often the cafe, how eafy is it to make the following apology:-" On account of the fudden indifpofition of Mifs Younge, or Mifs any-body elfe, the comedy of the Lady

in the Lobster is neceffarily deferred till further notice." In the interim fome newer piece fucceeds, and the former is abfolutely forgotten. Now, fuppofe a tragedy makes its firft appearance; turn to the letter T, and you will find the following exquifite morceau: "The new tragedy called • The Newgate Cut-throat, or HounflowHeath,' was received with fuch unprecedented applaufe, fuch rivers of tears, fuch groans, fighs, fits, faintings, finkings, rifings, and fallings, that the audience feemed dumb with grief, till the thunders of applaufe waked them from their ftupor. On account of the enormous demand for places, the public are refpectfully acquainted that it will be done every night, till Mrs. Siddons is unable to play any longer!-And by reafon of the vaft crowds that will nightly flock to this tragedy, the managers have engaged a number of furgeons to be in readinefs, to give the earlieft affistance to thofe unhappy perfons, whofe legs and arms muft neceffarily be broken in crowding into the house."

Befides the above paragraph from authority, feveral little fkirmishing puffs may be interfperfed in various parts of the newfpapers, for inftance The new tragedy rather rifes than falls in the public eftimation, and from motives of humanity, we would advife the fair fex to stay away from its fafcinating and pervading powers; as feveral officers of the guards, and ladies of diftinction, fell into hyfterics, long before The Siddons's dying fpeech! Then, the effect on the audience was truely awe

ful;

ful; fuch fcreams of applaufe, and groans of approbation, fuch fobbing, crying, and dying filled the houfe; that nature herself feemed about to give a fhove; and pop off like the actors at the end of the play!" Then, for inftance, fuppofe a new actor or actress appears; fome fuch intelligence as the following might admirably fuit the newspaper editors: A young gentleman made his first appearance last night (on any stage) in the character of Hamlet; fuch a first appearance was never seen! he united in his own perfon the excellent comprehenfion of a Sheridan; the grace and sweetness of a Barry; the tenderness of a Powell; the majefty of a Betterton; the eafe of a Wilks; and the fire, fpirit, energy, pathos, and verfatilities of the immortal Rofcius!His voice was sweet, full, deep, high, clear, and brilliant; his perfon made to engage all hearts and eyes, and his toute enfemble fo ftriking, that we are affured he has had feveral confiderable overtures from ladies of the first rank! If this inimitable and faultless performer has any

fault, it is in in giving too immoderate an impreffion of grief. If he continues to tyrannize over the public feelings, half the town will be tragedy-mad, before the winter is half expired. Let him be cautious how he overfteps the modefty of nature, and then we will anfwer that his fame will be firmly established." Here Mr. Editor you fee the great fkill and contrivance of this puff, the only fault found with this new candidate is a redundance of the pathos, a fault not often reprehenfible on our ftages now! Befides the very circumftance of criticifing on a real and rare perfection fills the minds of men with astonishment at the man's abilities whofe only fault is too much merit! In my next you shall have a fpecimen of various other puffs, fuitable to an infinity of profeflions, in the mean time (without a puff) I am Your's fincerely,

PHILO-PUFF.

From my Garret, at the PaftryCook's-hop, Blow-BladderLane.

MAGAZINE.

WH

HAT foft voice of forrow is in the breeze? What lovely fun-beam of beauty trembling on the rock? Its bright hair is bathed in fhowers; and it looks faint and dim through its mift on the rufhy plain. Why art thou alone, maid of the mournful look? The cold dropping rain is on the rocks of Torlena; the blait of the defert lifts thy yellow locks. Let thy fteps be in the hall of fhells, by the blue-winding ftream of Clutha: let the harp tremble beneath thy fingers; and the fons of heroes liften to the mufic of fongs.

Shall my steps be in the hall of fhells, and the aged low in the duft? The father of Selama is low behind this rock, on his bed of withered leaves; the thistle's down is ftrewed over him by the wind, and mixes with his grey hair. Thou art fallen, Chief of Etha! without thy fame; and there is none to revenge thy death. But thy daughLOND. MAG. Jan. 1785.

ter will fit pale befide thee, till the finks a faded flower upon thy lifeless form.-Leave the maid of Clutha a fon of the ftranger! in the red eye of her tears!

How fell the car-borne Connalblue-eyed mourner of the rock? Mine arm

is not weakened in battle; nor my fword without its fame.

Connal was a fire in his youth, that lightened through fields of renown; but the flame weakly glimmered through grey afhes of age. His courfe was like a ftar moving through the heavens: it walketh in brightnefs, but leaveth no track behind; its filver path cannot be found in the fky. The ftrength of Etha is rolled away like a tale of other years; and his eyes have failed. Feeble and dark, he fits in the hall, and hears the diftant tread of a ftranger's fteps; the haughty fteps of Tonthormo, from the roar of Duvrarmo's echoing ftream. He ftood in the F

hrall

hall like a pillar of darkness, on whofe top is the red beam of fire: wide rolled his eyes beneath the gloomy arch of his brow; as flames in two caves of a rock, over-hung with the black pine of the defert. They had rolled on Selama, and he asked the daughter of Connal. Tonthormo-breaker of fhields! thou art a meteor of death in war, whofe fiery hair ftreams on the clouds, and the nations are withered beneath its path. Dwell, Tonthormo! amidft thy hundred hills, and liften to thy torrents' roar; but the foft figh of the virgin is with the chief of Crono. Hidallan is the dream of Selama; the dweller of her fecret thoughts. A rufhing ftorm in war; a breeze that fighs over the fallen foe: pleafant are thy words of peace, and thy fongs at the moffy brook. Thy fmiles are like the moon-beams, trembling on the waves; thy voice is like the gale of fummer that whispers among the reeds of the lake, and as wakens the harp of Modena with all its lightly-trembling ftrings. Oh! that thy calm light was around me! My foul fhould not fear the gloomy chief of Duvrarmo. He came with his ftately fteps. My fhield is before thee, maid of my love! a wall of shelter from the lightning of fwords. They fought. Tonthormo bends, in all his pride, before the arm of youth. Put a voice was in the breaft of Hidallan-fhall I flay the love of Selama? Selama dwells in thy dark bofom; fhall my feel enter there? Live, thou ftorm of war! He gave again his fword. But, carelefs as he ftrode away, rage arofe in the troubled thoughts of the vanquifhed. He mark ed his time, and fide-long pierced the heart of the fon of Semo. His fair hair is fpread on the duft; his eyes are bent on the trembling beam of Clutha. Farewell, light of my foul! They are clofed in darknefs! Feeble was thou then, my father! And in vain didft thou call for help. Thy grey locks are fcattered, as a wreath of fnow on the top of a withered trunk; which the boy brushes away with his ftaff, and careless fingeth as he walks. Who fhall defend thee, my daughter? faid the broken voice of Etha's chief. Fair

flower of the defert! the tempeft shall rush over thee, and thou shalt be low beneath the foot of the favage fon of prey. But I will wither, my father! in thy tomb. Weak and alone I dwell amidít my tears; there is no young warriour to lift the fpear; no brother of love! Oh, that mine arm were ftrong! I would rush amidst the battles. Selama has no friend!

But Selama has a friend, faid the kindling foul of Ruthamir. I will fight thy battles, lovely daughter of kings; and the fun of Davrarmo shall not fet in blood! But when I return in peace, and the fpirits of the foes are on my fword, meet me with thy fmiles of love.-Maid of Clutha! with thy flow-rolling eyes, let the foft found of thy fteps be heard in my halls, that the mother of Ruthamir may rejoice. -Whence, fhe will fay, is this beam of the diftant land?-Thou shalt dwell in her bosom.

My thoughts are with him who is low in the duft-fon of Cormac! But lift the fpear, thou friend of the unhappy! The light of my foul may

return.

He ftrode in his rattling arms. Tall, in a gloomy foreft, ftood the furly ftrength of Duvrarmo. Gleaming behind the dark trees was his broad shield; like the moon when it rifes in blood, and the dufky clouds fail low and heavy athwart its path. Thoughts, like the troubled ocean, rufhed over his foul; and he ftruck with his spear the founding pine. Starting! he mixed in battle with the chief of woody Marna. Long was the ftrife of arms; and the giant fons of the foreft tremble at their ftrokes. At length Tonthormo fell. The fword of Ruthamir waved a blue flame around him. He bites the ground in rage; his blood is poured-a dark red ftream—into Orthona's trembling waves. Joy brightened in the foul of Ruthamir; when a young warriour came with his forward fpear. He moved in the light of beauty; but his words were haughty and fierce. Is Tonthormo fallen in blood! the friend of my early years! Do thou, dark-fouled chief! for never fhall Selama be thine-the maid

of

of his love. Lovely fhone her eyes, through tears in the hall of her grief, when I ftood by the chief Duvrarmo, in the rifing ftrife of Clutha.

Retire, thou fwelling voice of pride! thy fpear is light as the taper reed. Pierce the roes of the defert; and call the hunter to the feaft of fongs. But fpeak not of the daughter of Connal, fon of the feeble arm! Selama is the love of heroes.

Try thy ftrength with the feeble arm, faid the rifing pride of youth. Thou fhalt vanish like a cloud of mift before the fun, when he looks abroad in the power of his brightness.

But thou thyself didft fall before Ruthamir, in all thy boafting words. As a tall afh of the mountain, when the tempeft takes its green head, and lays it level on the plain.

Come from thy fecret cave, Selama! thy foes are filent and dark. Thou dove that hideft in the clefts of the rocks! The ftorm is over and past. Come from thy rock, Selama! and give thy white hand to the chief, who never fled from the face of glory, in all its terrible brightness.

She gave her hand, but it was trembling and cold; for the fpear was deep in her fide. Red, beneath her mail, the curtain of crimson wandered down her white breast; as the track of blood on Cromla's mountains of fnow, when the wounded deer flowly croffes the heath, and the hunters' cries are in

the breeze. Bleft be the fpear of Ruthamir! faid the faint voice of the lovely; I feel it cold in my heart; lay me by the fon of Lemo. Why fhould I know another love? Raife the tomb of the aged; his thin form fhall rejoice as he fails on a low hung cloud, and guides the wintry ftorm. Open your airy halls, fpirits of my love!

And have I quenched the light which was pleasant to my foul? faid the chief of Morna. My fteps moved in darkness. Why were the words of ftrife in thy tale? Sorrow, like a cloud, comes over my foul, and shades the joy of mighty deeds. Soft be your reft in the narrow houfe, children of grief! The breeze, in the long whiftling grafs, fhall not awaken you. The tempeft shall rush over you, and the bulrush bow its head upon your tomb; but filence shall dwell in your habitation; long repofe, and the peace of years to come. The voice of the bard fhall raise your remembrance in the diftant land, and mingle your tale of woe with the murmur of other streams. Often fhall the harp fend forth a mournful found; and the tear dwell in the foft eyes of the daughters of Morna.

Such were the words of Ruthamir, while he raised the tombs of the fallen. Sad were his fteps towards the towers of his fathers, as, mufing, he croffed the dark heath of Lena; and truck, at times, the thistle's beard.