"In his wine he would volunteer an imitation of somebody, generally of Incledon. His imitation was vocal; I made pretensions to the oratorical parts; and between us, we boasted, that we made up the entire phenomenon."
LEIGH HUNT'S BYRON.
"Of Incledon? poor Charles Incledon!" said I, turning to his portrait in the "Storm," hanging in goodly fellowship with a few of the idols of my theatrical days, Siddons, Kemble, Bannister, Mrs. Jordan, and G. Cook, in my little book-room—"Poor Charles Incledon! The mighty in genius, the high in birth, the conceited in talent, have not forgotten thee, then—and will even condescend to imitate thee, to imitate thee who wast inimitable!" I arose and walked about my little sanctum in meditative mood. The days of old came o'er me—the benefit nights—the play-bills, with the "Storm," "Black-eyed Susan," &c. in the largest type, as forming the most attractive morceaux in the bill of fare. Then followed the squeeze in June! through that horrid passage in the old Covent Garden Theatre!—then the well-earned climax—Incledon in blue jacket, white trousers, red waistcoat, smart hat and cane—the representative of Britain's best defenders, in holiday garb—unaccompanied by orchestra or instruments, depending upon naught but "the human voice divine," after his usual walk before the lights, and repeatedly licking his lips, (as if he thought that the sweet sounds which were accustomed to flow from them must leave honey behind),—rolling forth with that vast volume of voice, at once astonishing and delightful—"All in the downs the fleet lay moored;" and then followed the strain of love, manly love and constancy, in the beautiful language of Gay, and in tones so rich, so clear, so sweet! every faculty was absorbed in the sense of hearing! the hair seemed to rise, the flesh to stir! the silence of the audience was holy—they durst not, they could not, even applaud that which so enchanted them, for fear of losing a note—I really think I could have struck any one who could have shouted a "bravo!"—Never were Milton's lines,
"Soft Lydian airs
Married to immortal verse,
Such as the meeting soul may pierce
In notes, with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out,
With wanton heed and giddy cunning;
The melting voice through mazes running,
Untwisting all the chains that tie