THE SINGER.
INCLEDON,
THE SINGER.
'The British National Singer.'
His Majesty King George III.
An artist might have a worse subject for a picture than the interview to which we are about to refer. The Vicar of Manaccan, the Rev. Richard Polwhele, of Polwhele, ever busy in gathering information about Cornwall and Cornishmen, one day near the beginning of the present century, rides over to the quaint and pretty little fishing-cove of Coverack, near the Lizard, to have a chat with old Mrs. Loveday Incledon, the mother of the 'rantin' roarin' blade' (the youngest, I fancy, of a somewhat numerous family) who forms the subject of this memoir. Polwhele probably passed through the quiet little village of St. Keverne (with—that unusual sight in Cornwall—a tall spire and a large church), where our hero was born. Reaching Coverack, the worthy Vicar doubtless opened the siege in due form, and with regular approaches to the old lady; but all his skill and blandishments were in vain. She would tell him plenty about the rebellion of '45, and repeat many scraps of old ballads referring to it; but not one word would she say about her son, then in the meridian of his fame. It was, however, probably she who told Polwhele that all the Incledons were musical, and that her boy Benjamin's aunt was celebrated for her rendering of 'Black-eyed Susan;'—but in the end the Vicar had to remount his nag, and return to his snug Vicarage of Manaccan, not much wiser than when he left it in the morning.
Whether Incledon's mother's reticence was due to old age, or to the almost invariable reluctance of elderly people in the country to discuss family affairs with 'strangers,' it would be hard to say; but it could scarcely be because the mention of her son's name and career gave her pain; for in her declining years he was the main source of her support till she died, after her husband, in 1808, eighty-one years of age. Incledon's father was a member of the medical profession, but probably not entitled to be described, as he was in some of the books of the day, as 'a respectable physician.' There is, however, a cosy little inn at St. Keverne, and on one of the stone posts of the back-door I have seen, deeply cut, the letters 'MICHAEL INCLEDON.' This would seem to give us perhaps the only clue now left to the home, during his boyhood, of the finest English singer of his day.
Cornwall has always been celebrated for the rich quality of its bass voices, but is not remarkable for the number or excellence of those of the tenor register. Incledon may almost be said to have possessed both; for, in his prime, his natural voice ranged from A to G (fourteen notes), and his singularly sweet and powerful falsetto from D to E or F (ten notes). It is not difficult to understand that, even more than a hundred years ago, the fame of a fine voice might travel eastward as far as Exeter Cathedral, where Jackson, whose once popular 'Te Deum' and many pleasing ballads and duets are familiar to most of us, then held the post of organist; and accordingly, under him was little Incledon placed about the year 1772, when eight years old. His voice delighted everybody, and he became 'a little idol.'
Bernard, who wrote the 'Theatrical Retrospections,' made Incledon's acquaintance whilst he was under Dr. Jackson's care, and says he did not at that time perceive anything remarkable in his voice or style. The boy was then a tall, lanky lad of fifteen, chiefly noticeable for his 'courage, gratefulness, and love of the water'—in fact, adds Bernard, more Newfoundland dog than boy. A gentleman of Exeter offered a money reward to any lad who would swim out to a certain moored boat, with a rope on his shoulders, and swim back with it again. The task, however, baffled all the Exeter boys, till young Incledon made the attempt, and, when he had earned the prize, handed the money immediately to a poor widow who had been kind to him. Bernard seems to have been a good friend of Incledon's through life; and Davy, the composer, whose acquaintance was also made about this time, was another. He, too, was a Cornishman, according to some writers,[43] and was Incledon's 'coach' when any new part or song had to be prepared. It was through Bernard that Incledon got his first start in life, at Bath, to which event reference will shortly be made.
But Incledon has not yet left Exeter (although it is not altogether improbable that he had already attempted[44] to do so), and here he continued his duties as chorister for awhile. It is said that when Judge Nares attended service at Exeter Cathedral, he was so entranced by the boy Incledon's singing 'Let the Soul live,' that he burst into tears, and at the end of the service sent the little fellow a present of five guineas. After having failed altogether to trace this piece of music, I am indebted to my friend, Mr. W. H. Cummings, the eminent tenor, and the biographer of Purcell, for the suggestion that it is probably part of one of Jackson's unpublished anthems.
Either the imposed restraint, and the punctuality and decorum of the Cathedral services, were too much for him, or (according to another suggestion) he was witness of some Cathedral scandal which it was thought desirable to keep quiet; at any rate, when about fifteen years old, Master Incledon at length successfully broke his fetters, and went as a sailor in his Majesty's navy, on board the Formidable, Captain Cleland, with whom he sailed to the West Indies. There he afterwards changed his ship, and joined the Raisonnable. He remained in the navy for about four years, and was present in more than one action; notably, whilst on board the Formidable of 90 guns, in the famous fight of 12th April, 1782, between Lord Rodney (then Sir Geo. Brydges Rodney) and the French Admiral, Comte de Grasse, in the West Indian Archipelago,—when, after a fight which lasted the livelong day, and during which 9,000 French and Spaniards were killed and wounded, the British victory saved Jamaica from the enemy, and revived the then drooping fortunes of England.
Incledon seems to have made himself a great favourite amongst all classes on board the fleet, who were not only delighted by his magnificent singing, but also welcomed a boon companion. Admirals Pigot and Hughes were almost always singing glees and catches with the lad. The atmosphere must have been very congenial to him; and it was probably during this period of his life that he not only contracted the low tastes and hard-drinking habits which disfigured his career, yet, doubtless, he also now acquired that sea-faring style which enabled him to sing 'The Storm,'[45] 'Cease, rude Boreas! blustering railer,' etc., in such a way as they have never been sung before or since,
'In notes with many a winding bout
Of linkèd sweetness long drawn out
With wanton heed and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running.'
Admiral Lord Hervey became one of his chief patrons; and, in conjunction with Lord Mulgrave, Admiral Pigot, and others, on Incledon's return to England in 1783, these officers introduced him to Sheridan and to Colman—'the modern Terence,' as the latter was called—with a view to Incledon's appearing on the stage. It was not usual in those days for managers to fail to carry out the wishes of noble and influential patrons; but neither Sheridan nor Colman, whose practised eyes probably at once discovered that Incledon was no actor,—nor ever likely to make one—that his pronunciation was coarse, and that moreover his face and figure were somewhat sailor-like and ungainly,—could be prevailed upon to give the aspirant for histrionic honours, then in his nineteenth year, even a trial.
Not to be balked, however, in his intentions, our hero proceeded to Southampton, where Collins's itinerant dramatic company was then performing; and here he made his début as Alfonso in 'The Castle of Andalusia,' with what result I have been unable to discover, though it would be interesting to learn; his salary (very acceptable, small as it was) was only some ten or fifteen shillings a week. He remained with this company for about a year, travelling with them to Winchester, and thence on foot to Bath, where he arrived 'with his last shilling in his pocket.' At Bath his great musical talents seem first to have been recognised—yet even there tardily, as he was for a long time engaged merely as a chorus singer, and was still miserably paid accordingly; though his salary was now raised to thirty shillings a week. His first appearance as a soloist is said to have been as Edwin, in 'Robin Hood.'
But one night Incledon had to sing a song 'between the acts'—an old practice, now fallen into disuse, but then prevalent at many theatres, and which afforded amusement to the audience whilst the cumbrous scenes were being slowly shifted by few and clumsy hands. One of the audience happened to be Rauzzini, an Italian singer and teacher at the fashionable watering-place; and he (notwithstanding his usual contempt for English singers) instantly detected the exceptional range and quality of Incledon's voice. He is said to have rushed behind the scenes, exclaiming: 'Incledon! Sare! I tank you for the pleasure you af give me: you vas de fus Engleesh singer I have hear vat can sing. Sare! you af got a voice—you af got a voice!' On another occasion, Incledon, at the conclusion of one of his ballads, made a roulade in a way altogether his own—rolling his voice grandly up like the surge of the sea, till, touching the top note, it died away in sweetness—causing Rauzzini to ejaculate: 'Coot Cot! it vas vere lucky dere vas some roof dere, or dat fellow vould be hear by de ainshels in hev'n.' Rauzzini at once became his friend; and, for six or seven years, his instructor; and Incledon, who now joined the 'Noblemen's and Gentlemen's Glee Club,' was at length on the high-road to success.
The London stage was, however, still the object of his ambition; and in the summers of 1786 to 1789, he at length succeeded in procuring engagements at Vauxhall Gardens, which resulted in a great triumph. His singing of 'The Lass of Richmond Hill' was, especially, so popular, that copies of the song were sold at one shilling each, instead of the usual sixpence. Still, Vauxhall was not 'the stage;' and, indeed, the regular actors looked down upon the Vauxhall performers as being artists of an inferior rank, so that poor Incledon's engagement there rather retarded than hastened the gratification of his wishes. At length actors' jealousies and managers' reluctance all had to give way to the sheer force of Incledon's unsurpassable voice and growing fame; and on the 20th January, 1790,[46] he made his début at Covent Garden in the character of Dermot in 'The Poor Soldier.' His engagement was for three years, at £6, £7, and £8 a week. The applause with which he was received was general and sincere; his success was assured; and he became, from his rollicking, generous, sailor-like disposition, a favourite, both before and behind the scenes. He was always either playing off practical jokes upon others, or becoming the butt of them himself; and the latter was notably the case whenever Incledon was about to take his 'benefit.' On these occasions he was always very anxious about his success, and so credulous, that he believed all that the theatrical wags told him. Inquiring on one occasion as to how the list of his patrons was progressing, he was informed that 'the Marquis of Piccadilly' had just taken some tickets, and that 'the Duke of Windsor' had written for a box. 'Ah!' says Incledon, 'he must be one of the Royal Family, I suppose.' He was further delighted—or seemed to be so—when he was told that 'Lord Highgate' and the 'Bishop of Gravesend' were also coming.
But the author of the 'Records of a Stage Veteran' asserts that Incledon was not so silly or unlearned as he pretended to be, and could give a Roland (often coarse enough) for an Oliver. When some of the poorer actresses, relying upon his open-handed generosity, used to besiege him in the cold weather for donations to purchase flannel, they always got some money from him; but they not unfrequently repaired forthwith to the 'Brown Bear,' and invested it in egg-flip, which in consequence, it is said, soon came to bear the alias of 'flannel' in the green-room. When Incledon found this out, he took his revenge by sprinkling some 'flannel' with ipecacuanha, and so saved his pocket from similar forays for the future. In 1804, he joined the Duke of Cumberland's sharp-shooters; but, being so fat, the story goes that he and Cooke were generally last of the skirmishers. On one occasion he gave a butcher-boy a shilling to carry his gun for him, and, on another, a shilling to a little girl to carry his sword, which was always getting between his legs; and he thus appeared with his two young subalterns on parade.
On the 26th February, 1791, Shield's operetta of 'The Woodman' was brought out at Covent Garden; and Incledon, now earning a salary of £16 a week, or £2 more than was then paid to any other English singer, enraptured all his hearers by the way in which he sang 'The Streamlet.' 'The Cabinet,' in which operetta he sang during the winter of 1804, with Braham and Storace, was also, like 'The English Fleet,' highly popular with the public; but Incledon's favourite part was Captain Macheath in the 'Beggar's Opera'—to play which he used to say he would always willingly get up in the middle of the night. And here it may be observed, that Braham gradually delegated to Incledon most of his younger rôles; but Dibdin tells us that, as Incledon's fame advanced, he had to be very cautious, in writing for the stage, to allot equally prominent parts to Incledon and to Braham. 'If one had a ballad, the other was also to have one; each a martial or a hunting song; each a bravura; and if they were to have a duet, each one was to lead alternately.' As an illustration of the relations which existed between the singer and the librettist, I may quote a letter which, about the year 1807, Incledon wrote to Dibdin from Norwich:
'Dear Tom,
'You have on many occasions expressed a wish to serve me: you have it now in your power. I am much distressed for two comic songs for my new entertainment: one to be sung by an Irishman, and I should wish it complimentary to that country; the other to be sung by a funny tailor. Mr. Horn, a very clever young man now with me, will set them. We opened here on Saturday—receipts £103; and I expect nearly as much this night. I shall be at Bury St. Edmund's on Saturday and Sunday next: if you can let me have them by that time, I shall be greatly obliged to you; if not, I shall be at Lynn on the following Wednesday. With best compliments to Mrs. Dibdin,
'I am, dear Tom,
'Your friend,
'C. Incledon.
'P.S. D—n such paper.'
Incledon seems to have been at this time devotedly attached to his profession, and was perfectly furious when hoarseness or any other form of illness prevented his appearing in public. He was now in the zenith of his fame, and a musical critic of the period has thus described his voice and style:
'His natural voice was full and open, neither partaking of the reed nor the string, and was sent forth without the smallest artifice; such was its ductility, that when he sang pianissimo, it retained its original quality. His falsetto was rich and brilliant, but totally unlike the other. He took it without preparation, according to circumstances, either about D, E, or F; or, ascending an octave, which was his most frequent custom, he could use it with facility, and execute in it ornaments of a certain class with volubility and sweetness. His shake was good, and his intonation much more correct than is common to singers so imperfectly educated. His pronunciation of words, however, was thick, coarse, and vulgar. His forte was ballad; and ballad not of the modern cast of whining or rant or sentiment, but the original, manly, energetic strain of an earlier and better age of English poesy and English song-writing: such as "Black-eyed Susan," and "The Storm," the bold and cheering hunting-song, or the love-song of Shield, breathing the chaste, simple grace of genuine English melody.'
Nearly all accounts agree in saying that (notwithstanding Incledon's own very decided opinion to the contrary) he was no actor. Not even his friend and biographer Parkes, the oboe-player, who, with Shield the composer, lived much with Incledon, would allow him to have possessed this merit. Indeed, the story is told that when Incledon was on one occasion enraged at hearing that, on the performance of one of the oratorios at a certain cathedral, the bishop had determined that neither Incledon nor any other actor should sing in such a place, and on such an occasion, Bannister said to our hero, with mock seriousness, 'Incledon, if I were you I should make him prove his words.' Notwithstanding, however, Incledon's obtuseness on some points, he must have possessed a fund of genuine humour, as the following anecdote will show: When he and the elder Mathews (who, by the way, was singularly successful in imitating his friend, notwithstanding their great difference in person) were once playing together at Leicester, Incledon was much in want of a drab suit in which to appear in the character of 'Steady,' a Quaker; so, seeing a portly member of the Society of Friends, a druggist, standing at his shop-door, Incledon entered, consumed some quack medicine or other, and laid his hard case before the Quaker. This he did with such admirable tact that he actually succeeded in persuading the good-natured druggist not only to lend him the desired clothes, but also to appear secretly (against his convictions, of course) at the performance. Truth, however, compels me to add that the roguish songster's success was partly due to his unblushing statement that he and his family were themselves formerly Quakers!
Incledon used also, during Lent, to appear in oratorio, though apparently not with so much success as in performances of secular music. He was not so vain of his own voice as not to be very fond of concerted vocal music. His singing of 'All's Well' with Braham may perhaps be remembered by a few who are still alive; but probably all those who heard Incledon at the old 'Glee Club,' singing with Shield, Johnstone, Bannister the elder, Dignum, C. Ashley, and Parkes, have 'gone over to the majority.' The jolly fellows used to meet every alternate Sunday night at the Garrick's Head Coffee House, in Bow Street.[47]
He retired from Covent Garden in 1815—when he took a parting benefit at the Italian Opera House; but, like so many other public favourites, he made several 'last appearances' on the boards: one of the really last ones being at Southampton, where he commenced his career as a singer.
During the summer months, when the theatre was closed, and, indeed, during most of the latter part of his career, it was Incledon's practice to visit the provinces, giving entertainments, one of which he called 'Variety,' and the other 'The Wandering Melodist,' very much after the style of Dibdin's; and for the nonce styling himself also 'The Wandering Melodist.' It will be readily understood that these performances were highly appreciated in the days when locomotion was so much more difficult than it is nowadays, and when to have 'been to London' was the exception rather than the rule. It was probably on one of these occasions that H. C. Robinson fell in with him, on the top of a coach, and thus records his impressions, in his diary of 4th April, 1811. After noting that Incledon was just the man he expected to find him, with seven rings on his fingers, five seals on his watch-ribbon, and a gold snuff-box in his pocket, Robinson goes on to say:
'I spoke in terms of rapture of Mrs. Siddons. He replied, "Ah! Sally's a fine creature. She has a charming place on the Edgware Road. I dined with her last year, and she paid me one of the finest compliments I ever received. I sang "The Storm" after dinner. She cried and sobbed like a child. Taking both my hands, she said. "All that I and my brother ever did, is nothing compared with the effect you produce!"" Incledon spoke with warmth, and apparent knowledge, of Church music, praising Purcell especially, and mentioning Luther's simple hymns. I was forced to confess that I had no ear for music; and he, in order to try me, sang in a sort of song-whisper some melodies, which I certainly enjoyed more, I thought, than anything I had heard from him on the stage.'
But in order to show that Incledon did not himself exaggerate the effect which the fire of his manner and the sweetness of his singing sometimes produced, let the following story testify. William Robson, in the 'Old Playgoer,' says:
'I remember when the élite of taste, science, and literature were assembled to pay the well-deserved compliment of a dinner to John Kemble, and to present him with a handsome piece of plate on his retirement. Incledon, on being requested, sang, as his best song—on what he, I am sure, considered a great, though melancholy event—"The Storm." The effect was sublime, the silence holy, the feeling intense; and, while Talma was recovering from his astonishment, Kemble placed his hand on the arm of the great French actor, and said in an agitated, emphatic, yet proud tone, "That is an English singer."' Munden adds that Talma jumped up from his seat, and embraced Incledon à la Française.
A list of his favourite songs at these entertainments, preserved at the British Museum, may not be unacceptable, as showing the musical tastes of the day; some of them are still sung occasionally, but most are long since forgotten. The songs in the 'Variety' entertainment, which was in three acts, were an introductory recitation and song entitled 'Variety;' 'The Thorn;' 'Jack Junk;' 'The Glasses Sparkle on the Board;' 'Black-eyed Susan;' 'The Post Captain;' 'Charming Kitty;' 'The Irish Phantasmagoria;' 'The Captive to his Bird;' 'The Storm;' 'Inconstant Sue;' 'Irish Hunting-song;' A new loyal and national song; 'The Maid with the Bosom of Snow;' and, for a finale, 'Loud let the merry, merry welkin sound.'
'The Wandering Melodist' comprised: 'The Married Man;' 'Patrick O'Stern;' 'The Farmer's Treasure;' 'Mr. Mullins and Miss Whack;' 'Mad Tom;' 'The Despairing Damsel;' 'The Sea-Boy on the Giddy Mast' (which, by the way, must have reminded him of old times); 'Fortune's Wheel;' 'Tom Moody;' 'The Siege;' 'Sally Roy;' 'Mariner's Compass;' 'Hail to the Beam of Morning;' 'The Italian Count and English Captain;' 'The Finale; or The Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle.'
Incledon's last benefit at Drury Lane—when Elliston engaged him in 1820, at £15 a week—is said to have brought him £1,000; but, as we have seen, towards the latter part of his career he did not often appear in London, and on 8th October, 1824, he sang, for the last time in public, at Southampton. His voice was observed to falter as he sang the final verse of 'Then Farewell my trim-built Wherry;' and he thus took leave of his audience:
'Ladies and Gentlemen,—It is with the sincerest feelings of gratitude that I acknowledge this evening the distinguished favour you have ever conferred upon me. In this town, and on these boards, I first appeared as a singer; and the encouragement I then received from you was, I may say, the passport to my fame. Since that time I have passed through many vicissitudes. I have served His Majesty in many engagements: there is not a ship in the navy, nor many towns in the country, that I have not sung in; but still your early liberality has never been effaced from my memory. It is now six years ago since I left the stage, but it has always been my wish to appear once more before you. Age, sickness, and infirmities have altered me much from what I once was, but I have always done my best to please; and, I repeat it, while I live I shall never forget the kindly support I have received from the inhabitants of Southampton.'
Another authority (Donaldson) adds that on this occasion Incledon also referred to his darling wives, saying: 'I have had three—the first was the sainted Jane [Miss Lowther, of Bath]; the second the angel Mary [Miss Howell, of Bath—she died May, 1811]; and the third, still living, is the divine Martha.'[48]
It will be seen that each of the entertainments referred to above consisted of fifteen songs, and must have taxed the singer's powers severely. I was a little surprised at not finding either 'The Heaving of the Lead,' or 'My bonny, bonny Bet, sweet Blossom,' on either list; for the latter especially was a great favourite, and Incledon always had to sing it twice, often three times; but probably this was the very reason why he omitted it from these programmes.
I have not been able to put my hand upon more than one example of his talents as a composer, namely, a song called 'Soft as the Morning's blushing Hue,' which he used to sing in 'Family Quarrels' (but Shield used to say that Incledon generally managed to improve his composition). The song mentioned above is a rather pretty, flowing melody, eminently adapted to the remarkable compass and flexibility of Incledon's voice; there is a copy of it at the British Museum, with the initials 'C.I.,' in faded ink, sprawling over the first page. And here it may be well to observe that having added 'Charles' to his Christian name Benjamin, he at length dropped the latter name altogether.
Incledon did not confine his musical experiences to England; but occasionally made trips to Ireland, where 'no singer was ever more caressed.'
R. W. Procter, in his 'Manchester in Holiday Dress,' says: 'When Incledon was returning home from Dublin, on one occasion, the vessel in which he embarked was upset in passing the bar. Several of the passengers were drowned, but the singer saved himself by climbing, in sailor fashion, to the round top, with his wife lashed to him; Incledon all the while uttering a strange mixture of oaths, prayers, and confessions. They remained in that perilous position for several hours, until rescued by some fishermen.'
Once, towards the close of his career, when his powers, enfeebled by his careless manner of life, were on the wane, he even ventured across the Atlantic. In America, however (notwithstanding that a writer in the New Monthly Magazine, for 1838, asserts that he made £5,000 by this trip), he is said to have been a failure; though Incledon himself would insist upon it, to the last, that his want of success there was merely an example of the caprice of the public.
On his return to England he went to Brighton, where, by a slight attack of paralysis, he received his first warning that his career was nearly closed. The 11th of February, 1826, found him, now sixty-four years old, at Worcester, organizing one of his entertainments. Here he attended a meeting of a local glee-club, but declined, for some reason, to take his part in the music. At his inn, however, 'The Reindeer,' he did sing in the kitchen[49]—to gratify the servants—his last song:
'Then farewell, my trim-built wherry!
Coat, and oars, and badge, farewell!'
and a few nights afterwards, on the 19th February, he bade farewell to a world which had often hung upon his lips for the sweetest and manliest strains that any English singer had ever warbled forth. 'The hunting-song, the sea-song, and the ballad,' observes C. R. Leslie, in his autobiography, 'may be said to have expired with Incledon.'
All contemporary accounts agree as to his vocal merits. Parkes says that in twenty-four years he never knew Incledon sing out of tune: indeed, it has been observed that he could not have done so if he had tried, for whilst his ear was marvellously accurate, his knowledge of music was slight. Parkes speaks of his friend's memory being quick and retentive, for melodies; but Incledon seems to have had the greatest difficulty in recollecting any 'part;' and more than once, when he had forgotten it, he has been known to give an impromptu turn to the dialogue in order to introduce some ballad appropriate to the occasion, whilst cudgelling his brains for the lost 'cue.'
The few glimpses we have had of his private character do not prepare us to expect much elegance or refinement in Incledon, off or on the stage. Indeed, it must be confessed that he was vain, coarse, irritable at times, and dissipated; but he had the redeeming traits of frankness and generosity; and allowances must be made for his having lived in 'three-bottle' days. Cyrus Redding tells an amusing story of Incledon's having been invited to a dinner at 'The Pope's Head' Inn, Plymouth, in order that he might be induced to entertain the company afterwards. The wine of course circulated freely, and Incledon, as was his wont, freely partook of it. He attempted a recitation of the lines from 'Samson Agonistes,' beginning 'Total eclipse!' but the good cheer had proved too much for his wits, his head sank upon his shoulders, and he became for a time totally eclipsed himself:—he had been 'dining out' daily, for a week before. It was, however (though he drank hard), very rarely that he succumbed like this. And Fitz Ball (Edward Ball)—who, by the way, mentions that latterly Incledon got very fat—tells a story which may be fitly inserted here. Being once at Bury St. Edmund's, whilst some military ball was going on, Incledon, well in his cups, said something to a young officer about 'featherbed captains,' which the military hero chose to regard as a personal affront, and accordingly, accompanied by some friends (so the story goes), besieged Incledon's room the next morning, and demanded satisfaction. In the first place, there was great difficulty about waking the singer from his deep, vinous slumbers; and when at last he did awake, he was quite at a loss to know why his privacy had been invaded. On learning, however, that 'satisfaction' was what was wanted, he sat up in bed and sang, in his most exquisite manner, 'Black-eyed Susan,' so that there was at last not a dry eye in the room. When he had finished, 'There, my fine fellow!' said Incledon blandly, 'that has satisfied thousands—let it satisfy you;' and, putting out his hand, it was as generously taken as it was offered.
Some accounts give Incledon three wives, others two; but those who are at all acquainted with the history of the stage, seventy or eighty years ago, will admit that this is a point upon which Incledon himself might possibly not have been very clear. There was one 'Mrs. Incledon,' however, who, like the songster himself, was very fond of good living; and there is a story that once, when Incledon was entertaining at dinner, at his house, No. 13, Brompton Crescent, his friend and medical adviser, Dr. Moseley of Chelsea Hospital, and two or three others, the dish of fish was artfully so arranged that a fine dory (to which the host and hostess were both very partial) was completely overlaid by herrings; and it was not until the guests had all been helped to the humbler fish, that the gourmands' favourite was—as if by accident—discovered. On this memorable occasion we hear that 'pink and white champagne' were handed round; that on its production, the trio 'Beviamo tutte tre' was sung by Shield, Parkes, and Incledon, with appropriate action; and that, when the conversation turned upon the sort of deaths which the Chelsea veterans died, Incledon, delighted with Dr. Moseley's satisfactory account of them, got up and persuaded all who were present to join in singing Dr. Callcott's noble glee, 'Peace to the Souls of the Heroes!'
Incledon, though he made plenty of money, was often pecuniarily embarrassed, owing no doubt to that 'lax and sailor-like twist of mind' which, as Leigh Hunt says, always hung about him. An instance of this occurs in a letter preserved among the Egerton MSS., in which Incledon, writing to the magniloquent George Robins, from Ipswich, in February, 1816, tells how he had been arrested a few days before, at Colchester, for £19, by a Mr. Marriot of Fleet Street, for the balance of a bill of over £100. The singer had recently taken a house, and had been put to great expense in furnishing it; and his object in writing to Robins was to get him to contradict, in London, the report that 'Incledon was about to fly from the kingdom.' He adds that he was then going on to Norwich, Aberdeen, Edinburgh, and Dublin, and finishes by saying that his wife was with him, and that his being 'arrested has given my Poor Little Woman so great a Shock that she will not soon get over. She is now very Ill, and continually in Tears.' He nevertheless was supposed[50] to have been worth £8,000 when he died, leaving this third wife a widow with three children. He was buried in Hampstead churchyard, on the 20th February, 1826, aged sixty-four, by the side of his first and second wives, and five of their children.
So lived and so died Charley Incledon—'generous as a prince,' as Charles Mathews wrote of him, 'never ashamed of his antecedents;' and as Dowton says,
'Unrivalled in his native minstrelsy.'
One of his sons, Charles, who had been unsuccessful as a farmer near Bury St. Edmund's, attempted, under Braham's auspices, to succeed as a singer: he made his début either as Hawthorn in 'Love in a Village,' or as Young Meadows, at Covent Garden, on the 3rd October, 1829; but in this attempt, too, the poor fellow (who had a large family, and who had, moreover, a strong objection to the stage on moral and religious grounds) failed. Another son, Frank, became a well-to-do London tradesman; and a daughter married well, and settled in Sunderland.