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.