The Orpheus of the English orchestra, Cramer, descended amongst us last week. On a visit to Lord Curzon, he loitered a few days in our little city, allured by the society of his friend Saville. Four of those evenings were devoted to music at Mr Parker’s, Mr S. Simpson’s, and twice at my house. We sat down twenty to supper each night, and the parties were at once harmonic and convivial. Nothing could exceed Mr Cramer’s amiable desire to please and oblige. He not only played overtures, solos, and quartettos, in the divinest manner, in concert, before supper; but after supper, convulsed us all with laughing at the humorous ingenuity of his violin. He contrived to represent upon it a convent of old nuns, singing hymns at midnight, with their cracked voices, and shivering with cold. Then he set the young folks to dancing, and played country dances to them an whole hour! Thus did he give them to boast through life of having danced to Cramer’s violin. That humane soul went to Birmingham, through the bitter severity of last Monday’s weather; to play gratis, as Mr Saville sung gratis, for a brother-musician’s concert, who has a large family. I went thither also, by invitation, with Mrs Ironmonger to Mr E. Simpson’s; but repented the temerity of such an excursion, taken beneath the mal-influence of a violent cold. I was extremely ill all the while I was at Birmingham, and obliged to leave the divine concert before it was half over: 

––––––––“For to the fever'd frame,

The warbling strains of softest melody

Seem but discordant harshness.” 

I could hardly attend to Cramer’s solo, or Saville’s enchanting song.