persons, men and women, of S. Keverne, were returning from Falmouth in
a fishing boat of about five tons burden, without deck or covering,
after having done their marketing at a fair there.
When they had got to sea, about a league from the mouth of the Fal and
about two leagues off S. Keverne, suddenly there rose a storm of wind
from the west, and the sea rising and rolling in great crested waves
round the terrible points of the Manacles, the rowers were unable to
make headway against it. If they could not reach Porthoustock, for which
they were bound, they hoped at least to run into Porthallow. But even
this they were unable to effect. The fury of the blast and the great
masses of water heaved against the little boat made progress impossible,
and they resolved on running back into Falmouth harbour. Accordingly the
vessel was turned, but the raging wind and sea and the tide setting out
from the land swept them from the coast. Moreover, the short winter day
was closing in. The sun went down behind a wild and inky bank of cloud,
and speedily night set in dark and terrible. The unfortunate boatload of
marketers could do no more than invoke God's protection, and bail out
the water as fast as it poured over the gunwale. The oars were shipped,
and the boatmen declared that there was nothing to be done but to let
loose the helm and allow the boat to drive.
The night was cold as well as tempestuous. On the blast of the wind
came down torrents of rain. The men and women alike laboured hard to
cast out of the boat the water that poured in. For sixteen hours
darkness lasted. How may each have said with Gonzalo: "Now would I
give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground, long
heath, brown furze, anything. I would fain die a dry death." At length
there rose a raw light in the south-east, against which the billows
stood up black as ink. As the light grew, those in the boat found
themselves encircled with sea, out of sight of land, and with the
clouds scudding overhead, as if running a race. The storm continued
all that day and the night following. Not only so, but also the third
day and night the battle with the influx of water continued. There was
no sleep for any; all had to fight the water for their lives. Happily
they were not starving, for Mr. Sands had taken over to Falmouth in
the boat a woman, the taverner's wife of the "Three Tuns," who had
brought with her from Falmouth a shilling's worth of bread and three
or four gallons of brandy. On this they subsisted.
On the fourth day in the morning, the gale abated, and at ten o'clock
land was descried. Forthwith the rowers bent to their oars and steered
towards it. When the whole party landed they discovered that they had
been wafted over to the coast of Normandy; and they found themselves
on French soil at the time that Queen Anne was engaged in war with
Louis XIV. Marlborough had been in the Netherlands, and had reduced
Venloo, Ruremonde, and the citadel of Liége. At sea Rooke had captured
six vessels and sunk thirteen at Vigo, and Admiral Benbow had done
wonders against a French fleet in the West Indies. The French were
sore and irritated. So soon as Mr. Sands and his little party stepped
on shore they were encountered by several men armed, who demanded who
they were. They replied that they were English. One of the party
stopping them understood our language, and inquired the occasion of
these visitors landing on the enemy's shores, and by what expedient
they had come over. They replied, and gave an account of their
perilous voyage of three nights and four days.
Upon this a gentleman of the company asked Mr. Sands from what part of
England he came, and when he replied that they were all from Cornwall,
the same gentleman inquired further whether the leader of the party
was named Sands; to this he replied, in some surprise, that he was.
"Then, monsieur," said the Frenchman, "I know you, and I can well
remember your kindness and hospitality when I was wrecked off the
Lizard some years ago. Then you received me into your house, and
entertained me most generously."
This was an unexpected and welcome encounter. The gentleman then
required the party to surrender what arms and money they had with
them, and Mr. Sands handed over forty guineas that he had received at
Falmouth for pilchards just before he was driven out to sea in the
boat. He and his companions were required to yield themselves
prisoners of war; and Mr. Sands was received into the gentleman's
home. All next day were brought before a magistrate and examined, and
orders were given that they should not be kept in custody as prisoners
of war, but should be permitted to go about at liberty, and beg alms
of the people. And the kind-hearted Normandy peasants and gentlemen
showed them great favour, and supplied all their pressing wants.
The news of the event not only flew over the country, but reached the
ears of the King, who thereupon ordered that the whole party should be
sent back to England by the first transport ship for prisoners of war;
which happened soon after.
Mr. Sands took leave of his kind host in whose house he had been
hospitably entertained, and begged him to accept the forty guineas as
some acknowledgment of his kindness. This, however, the gentleman
refused to do, saying that he would take nothing at his hands, since God
in such a wonderful manner had preserved him and his companions from the
perils of the deep. Then Mr. Sands pressed five guineas on the wife of
his host, begging her with that sum to purchase something which might
remind her of him and his party; and this she reluctantly received.
So they parted, and all went on board a transport ship and were safely
landed at Portsmouth; and in eight weeks after their departure from
England returned to S. Keverne, to the great joy and surprise of
their friends and relations, who had concluded that all of them had
been drowned.
The Rev. Sampson Sandys was grandson of the gentleman who was carried
over to France, as described. He lived at Lanarth to a great age. His
daughter Eleanor married Admiral James Kempthorne, R.N. He was
succeeded at Lanarth by his nephew, William Sandys, a colonel in the
army of the East India Company, who rebuilt the house. It must be
added that the original name of the family was not Sandys but Sands,
and that it assumed the former name as more euphonious and as
supposing a connection which, however, has not been proved to exist,
with Lord Sandys of The Vine, and Ombersley, Worcestershire, and the
Cumberland family of Graythwaite. At the same time, it assumed the
arms of the same distinguished family, _or_, a fesse dancetté between
three crosses crosslet fichée _gules_.
CHARLES INCLEDON
This, one of the sweetest tenor singers England has produced, was born
at S. Keverne in Cornwall, in 1764, and was the son of a petty local
surgeon and apothecary practising there.
At the age of seven he was introduced by Mr. Snow, one of the minor
canons of Exeter Cathedral, to the organist, then named Langdon, and he
afterwards became the pupil of William Jackson the composer, who was for
many years organist of the cathedral. Jackson took great notice of the
boy, and made him sing his own compositions at concerts in the city. On
one occasion, when the assizes were on at Exeter, Judge Nares attended
in state at the morning service in the cathedral, when Incledon sang the
solo "Let my soul love," in the anthem, "Let my complaint come before
Thee, O Lord," with such effect and beauty that the tears rolled down
the judge's cheeks, and at the conclusion of Divine service he sent for
the boy and presented him with five guineas.
Incledon was wont, on summer evenings, to seat himself on a rail in
the cathedral close and sing, to the delight of an audience that
always collected as soon as his bird-like voice was heard. On one such
occasion he was singing the song "When I was a shepherd's maid," from
_The Padlock_, when a gentleman in regimentals stepped forward and
asked his name. Next day this officer, the Hon. Mr. Trevor, called on
Jackson and asked permission to take the lad with him to Torquay,
where he was going to visit Commodore Walsingham of the _Thunderer_,
and he desired to give his friend and all on board ship the pleasure
of hearing Incledon sing. Permission was accorded, and the boy was on
board the vessel for three days, and sang several nautical and other
songs, beginning with "Blow high, blow low." The Commodore was so
delighted that he wrote to Incledon's parents and asked that the lad
might be placed under him in the vessel; but the mother declined, and
well was it that she did, for the _Thunderer_ went down in a storm in
the West Indies, and all hands on board were lost.
The kind reception accorded to Charles Incledon on board induced him
to harbour the resolution to become a sailor, and accompanied by a
fellow chorister, and carrying a bundle of linen, he ran away, hoping
to reach Plymouth; but he was overtaken and brought back, and as a
punishment was not allowed to wear his surplice in choir for a week.
But when his voice broke, then he was allowed to follow his bent, and he
embarked on board the _Formidable_ under Captain Stanton, and remained
in her two years, till, disabled by a wound, he was left at Plymouth,
and on his recovery was placed in a vessel commanded by Lord Harvey,
afterwards Earl of Bristol. With this nobleman he sailed to Sta. Lucia,
where the whole fleet was at anchor. Whilst there, Lord Harvey gave a
dinner on board to his fellow commanders and other officers. At the same
time the sailors before the mast enjoyed themselves with grog and songs.
When Incledon sang, the lieutenant on deck ran to the cabin where the
officers were regaling themselves, and told them that they had a
nightingale on board, and would do well to hear it sing. Lord Harvey at
once proceeded to the quarter-deck, heard Incledon sing the fine old
traditional ballad, "'Twas Thursday in the Morn," and was so impressed
that he bade him at once change his apparel and come to the state cabin.
He did so and sang there "The Fight of the Monmouth and Foudroyant,"
"Rule Britannia," and some of Jackson's favourite canzonets. The
officers applauded enthusiastically, and jocularly appointed him Singer
to the British Fleet. He was released from the performance of manual
duty, and sent for to assist at every entertainment that succeeded. He
rose high in the favour of Admiral Pigot, the Commander-in-Chief, and
made numerous friends and patrons.
[Illustration:
Singleton pinx. J. Thomson Sculp.
M^r. Incledon, as Macheath
But now again, my spirits sink,
I'll raise them high with wine. [Drinks]
Beggars Opera Act 3 Scene 3
Engraved for the Theatrical Inquisitor
London Published Nov^r. 1^{st}. 1816, by C. Chapple Pall Mall.
]
In 1782 Incledon was in the engagement between the English fleet under
Admiral Sir George Bridges, afterwards Lord Rodney, and the French
fleet commanded by the Count de Grasse, when the former gained a
complete victory.
At the expiration of the war Incledon was discharged at Chatham and
proceeded to London, with strong recommendations from Lord Mulgrave
and others to Mr. Colman of the Haymarket Theatre. Colman received him
coldly, and gave him no hopes of an engagement. Then he went to
Southampton, where he obtained an engagement at ten shillings and
sixpence a week. But soon after, owing to some dispute, he left the
company and went to Salisbury with a travelling company, and fell into
great poverty and misery. However, he succeeded in obtaining an
engagement at Bath with Mr. Palmer, the well-known theatrical manager,
and the man who introduced mail-coaches into England. Here he received
thirty shillings a week. He attracted the attention of Ranzzini, the
arbiter of the musical entertainments at Bath; and this able man gave
him valuable instruction in scientific singing. One evening, hearing
Incledon sing Handel's "Total Eclipse," the Italian was so delighted
that, catching hold of his hand, he left the piano, and leading him to
the front of the platform exclaimed, "Ladies an jentleman, dis is my
scholar!"
Thomas Harris, hearing him at Bath, proposed that he should sing and
act at Covent Garden Theatre, and engaged him for three years at six,
seven, and eight pounds a week. Hardly was this agreement made, when
Linley, of Drury Lane, offered him twelve pounds a week, and to retain
him for five years. But, although only a verbal agreement had been
entered into with Harris, Incledon, to his honour, rejected the offer
of Linley. It was unfortunate in more ways than one, as he would have
profited by Linley's exquisite taste and instruction, as well as have
earned nearly double what Harris offered. Moreover, he was very badly
treated at Covent Garden, and often not given parts in which he could
do himself justice. In 1809 came a rupture, and the managers dismissed
him, and Incledon quitted London on a provincial tour. After two years
he was re-engaged by Harris, at a salary of seventeen pounds a week,
for a term of five years; but he stipulated that he should be given
such rôles as suited him. This engagement was not fulfilled, and a
fresh quarrel ensued that led to a final rupture at the end of three
years, and he quitted Covent Garden for ever, refusing even to sing in
the Oratorios performed there during Lent.
He had made his first appearance at Covent Garden in October, 1790, as
Dermont in _The Poor Soldier_, by Shield. His vocal endowments were
certainly great; he had a voice of uncommon power and sweetness, both
in the natural and falsetto. The former was from A to G, a compass of
about fourteen notes; the latter he could use from D to E or even F,
or about ten notes. His natural voice was full and open, and of such
ductility, that when he sang _pianissimo_ it retained its original
quality. His falsetto was rich, sweet, and brilliant, and totally
unlike the other. 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. But he never quite got over his
West-country pronunciation. His strong point was the ballad, and that
not the modern sentimental composition, but of the robust old school.
When Ranzzini first heard him at Bath, rolling his voice upwards like
a surge of the sea, till, touching the top note, it expired in
sweetness, he exclaimed in rapture, "_Corpo di Dio!_ it was ver' lucky
dere vas some roof above or you would be heard by de angels in Heaven,
and make dem jealous."
Incledon himself used to tell a story of the effect he produced upon
Mrs. Siddons: "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 to the effect you produce.'"
"I remember," says William Robson, in _The Old Playgoer_, "when the
élite of taste and 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 sang,
when requested, his best song, '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, and proud tone,
'_That_ is an English singer.'" Marsden adds that Talma jumped up from
his seat and embraced him.
Incledon sang with great feeling, and in "The Storm" he was able to
throw his whole heart into the ballad, for not only had he encountered
many a storm at sea, but he had been shipwrecked on a passage from
Liverpool to Dublin, on the bar. Some of those on board were lost, but
he saved himself and his wife by drawing her up to the round-top and
lashing her and himself to it. From this perilous position, after a
duration of several hours, they were rescued by some fishermen who saw
the wreck from the shore.
Incledon belonged in town to "The Glee Club," composed of Shield,
Bannister, Dignum, himself, and one or two others. It met on Sunday
evenings during the season at the Garrick Coffee House, in Bow Street,
once a fortnight. At one of these little gatherings Incledon was
amusingly hoaxed. Though an admirable singer, he was a shockingly bad
actor. When he came in one of the party informed him that an intended
musical performance for a charitable purpose, in which he, Incledon,
was to sing, had been abandoned, on account of the Bishop of London
objecting to an actor performing in church. Incledon, who was an
extremely irritable man, broke out in a violent strain, conceiving the
word _actor_ to have been employed as a term of reproach, and
addressing himself to Bannister, said with great vehemence, "There,
Charles, do you hear that?" "Why," said Bannister, "if I were you, I'd
make his lordship _prove his words_."
Incledon one day was at Tattersall's, when Suett, the actor, also
happened to be there, and asked him whether he had come to buy a
horse. "Yes," said Charles, "I have. I must ride, it is good for my
health. But why are you here, Dickey? Do you think that you know the
difference between a horse and an ass?"
"Oh, yes," replied the comedian. "If you were among a thousand horses,
I would know you immediately."
There was a public-house in Bow Street called "The Brown Bear," which
was famous for a compound liquor, a mixture of beer, eggs, sugar, and
brandy. Incledon and Jack Johnstone were partial to this, and
frequently indulged themselves with it during the evening at the
theatre, and, as a jest, occasionally obtained it in the following
manner. When there happened to be several ladies of the theatre in the
green-room, they took that opportunity to represent to them the hard
case of the widow of a provincial actor, left with her children in
great distress, and to solicit from them a few shillings to enable
them to purchase some _flannel_ during that inclement season. Having
obtained contributions, they despatched the dresser to "The Brown
Bear" for a quart of egg-hot, and had the modesty not to drink it all
themselves, but to present a glass to each of the females who had
subscribed, requesting them to drink to the health of the widow and
the flannel. When Incledon and Johnstone had practised this trick
several times, Quick, the comedian of the same theatre, bribed the
dresser to infuse into the mixture a dose of ipecacuanha, and that
brought the joke to an end. But the mixture thenceforth, without the
last ingredient, was popularly called Flannel.
Incledon was a notoriously vain man. Vanity was his besetting sin. "In
pronouncing his own name," says Mr. Matthews, "he believed he
described all that was admirable in human nature. It would happen,
however, that this perpetual veneration of self laid him open to many
effects which, to any man less securely locked and bolted in his own
conceit, would have opened the door to his understanding. But he had
no room there for other than what it naturally contained; and the bump
of content was all-sufficient to fill the otherwise aching void.
Incledon called himself the 'English Ballad Singer' _per se_; a
distinction he would not have exchanged for the highest in the realm
of talent. Among many self-deceptions arising out of his one great
foible, he was impressed with the belief that he was a reading man."
One day Matthews found him in his house deep in study. Incledon looked
up at his visitor, and said, "My dear Matthews, I'm improving my mind.
I'm reading a book that should be in the hands of every father and
husband."
"What is it, Charles?" asked Matthews, and leaning over him saw that
it was a volume of the _Newgate Calendar_!
It had become a habit, during a fagging run of a new opera at Covent
Garden Theatre one season, for certain performers to club a batch or so
of Madeira, of which they took a glass to their dressing-rooms. Incledon
was continually finding fault with the quality, and praising up his own
private stock of the same wine. At the close of the season, his brother
actors had become weary of Incledon's grumbling over the Madeira, which
they knew to be excellent. One night a fellow-actor, seeing a large key
lying upon Incledon's dressing-table, labelled "_Cellar_," and Incledon
happening at the time to be engaged on the stage till the end of the
opera, despatched the dresser to Brompton Crescent with the key, with a
request to Mrs. Incledon from her husband that she would send one dozen
of his best Madeira by the bearer. Mrs. Incledon, wholly unsuspicious
of any trick, did so. When Incledon left the stage, the confederates
told him that they had got fresh and very first-rate Madeira now, as he
had disliked what had been provided before. Incledon took a glass, made
a wry face, took another, and said, "Beastly stuff! Never in my life
tasted such cheap, vile stuff."
"Sorry, Incledon, you do not appreciate _your own_ Madeira."
Incledon drank pretty heavily, but did not get drunk. Here is a bill
for a slight evening collation at the Orange Coffee House, for him and
two friends:
£ _s._ _d._
Mr. Shield, Welsh Rabbit 0 1 0
" 2 glasses of Brandy and water 0 2 0
Mr. Parke, Welsh Rabbit 0 1 0
" 2 glasses of Brandy and water 0 2 0
Mr. Incledon, Welsh Rabbit 0 1 0
" 2 bottles of Madeira 1 4 0
Parke, in his _Musical Memoirs_, relates an instance of Incledon's
selfishness. He says of him that he was a singular compound of
contrarieties, amongst which frugality and extravagance were
conspicuous. "Mr. Shield the composer, Incledon, and I, lived for many
years a good deal together. On one occasion Shield and myself dined
with Incledon at his house in Brompton in the month of February. When
I had arrived there, Incledon said to me, 'Bill, do you like ducks?'
Conceiving, from the snow lying on the ground, that he meant wild
ones, I replied, 'Yes, I like a good wild duck very well.' 'D---- wild
ducks!' said he: 'I mean tame ducks, my boy'; adding, 'I bought a
couple in town for which I gave eighteen shillings.' Soon afterwards a
letter arrived, announcing that Mr. Raymond, the stage-manager of
Drury Lane Theatre, who was to have been of the party, could not come;
in consequence of which, I presume, only one duck was placed on the
dinner table, with some roast beef, etc. When Mrs. Incledon (who, as
well as her husband, was fond of good living) had carved the duck,
like a good wife she helped her husband to the breast part and to one
of the wings, taking at the same time the other wing to herself,
reserving for Shield and me the two legs and the back. Shield, who
looked a little awkward at this specimen of selfishness and
ill-manners, at first refused the limb offered to him, and I had
declined taking the other: there appeared to be but a poor prospect of
the legs walking off, till Shield relented and took one, and Incledon
the other, so that they were speedily out of sight. The back, however,
remained behind, and afforded a titbit for the servants."
On another occasion he was giving a dinner party, and a dish was
brought to table heaped up, apparently, with fresh herrings. All the
company, except Incledon and his wife, partook of these fish; some
were helped a second time. When the herrings had been cleared away,
there appeared beneath one fine white fish. "My dear," said Incledon,
"what can that be?" "I believe it is a John Dory, Charles."
Some of the John Dory was offered to the company, but they had eaten
enough fish, and so Incledon and his wife ate the John Dory between
them.
Incledon, whilst very willing to hoax others, was easily taken in
himself. As his dependence was entirely on his voice, he was very
apprehensive of catching cold, which, in consequence, rendered him the
occasional dupe of quackery.