"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
The hidden soul of harmony."
so illustrated as in the last line of Gay's "Black-eyed Susan,"--
"Adieu, she cried, and waved her lily hand,"
as sung by Incledon in his prime.
'Tis strange! here was "a voice that hath failed," and little or nothing
said of it--"Died at Worcester, on ----, the celebrated vocalist,
Charles Incledon," without further comment, was all that most of the
periodicals said at his decease. I recollect nothing worthy of him being
put forth, no essay upon his voice and style--and why? because poor
Charles Incledon had ceased to be the fashion!
The time is somewhat advanced, but the quotation at the head of this
article has brought to my mind what ought to have been done by abler
hands; and I will endeavour to point out what we possessed in this
singer, and what we have lost by his death.
And how am I qualified, for the task? With respect to the knowledge of
the _science_ of music I cannot boast--but Rousseau says--"Disoit
autrefois un sage, c'est an poete à faire de la poesie, et an musicien à
faire de la musique; mais il n'appartient qu'au philosophe de _bien_
parle de l'une et de l'autre." And there are hearts, such as inspired
the poet when he wrote--
"Withdraw yourself
Unto this neighbouring grove; there shall you see
How the sweet treble of the chirping birds,
And the sweet stirring of the moved leaves,
Running delightful descant to the sound
Of the base murmuring of the bubbling brook,
Becomes a concert of good instruments,
While twenty babbling echoes round about,
Out of the stony concave of their mouths,
Restore the vanish'd music of each close,
And fill your ears full with redoubled pleasure."[4]
such as warmed Spenser when he wrote his "Bowre of Blesse;" Tasso his
"Gardens of Armida;" Collins his "Melancholy," who
"Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul"--
such hearts, I say, and such as have drunk with unsatiated thirst at the
fountains of these "masters of the lay," are better qualified to speak
upon a question of the "concord of sweet sounds" than all the merely
scientific musicians, whether professors or amateurs, in the world.
[4] "Lingua." Dodsley's Old Plays.
"Of melody aye held in thrall," I profess myself an admirer of that
English music which preceded the appearance of Mr. Braham--the music of
Arne, Jackson, Carter, Storace, Linley, Shield, Davy, even of Dibdin,
and of those fine airs, (the names of whose composers are now little
better than traditional), which glow in the Beggar's Opera. And of this
music there never was heard a singer equal to Incledon, and perhaps
never will. The pathos, the richness, the roundness, the satisfying
fulness to the ear, which characterize these composers, can never be
mastered by the _merely scientific_ singer; _they_ composed for the
_voice_, and without that organ in its most perfect state, complete
justice can never be done to their strains.
I before said these masters flourished previous to the debut of Mr.
Braham; for it is in a great measure owing to that gentleman, and the
false taste he introduced and has kept alive, that they are now so
seldom heard in our theatres, concerts, or drawing-rooms. We have lost
the notes of melody and feeling, and what have we in their stead? The
glitter and plagiarism of Rossini, the ponderous science of Weber, and
the absolute trash of all our English composers. The last mentioned
gentlemen certainly came into court "in forma pauperis,"--satisfied with
the merit of arrangers, harmonizers, &c., and are found to confess, when
detection is probable, that the very soul of their pieces--the
melody[5]--is taken from such an Italian, such a Sicilian, Greek, nay
even Russian air.
[5] "Melody is the essence of Music," said Mozart to Michael
Kelly; "I compare a good melodist to a _fine racer_, and
counter-points to _hack post-horses_."
I think I can, in some degree, account for the fashion these composers
have gained, and why, I fear, they are likely to maintain it. It is that
the _public have become too musical_. Every female, from the highest to
the lowest, whose parents can purchase a piano-forte, and pay a master,
_must_ learn music; the number of teachers and pupils are multiplied
without end; and out of either class how many are there qualified by
nature as singers? Not two in fifty. What follows? By labour and
attention _science_ may be acquired, although _voice_ cannot. The
voiceless teacher may instruct his voiceless pupil in the foppery of an
art, the _spirit_ of which is unattainable by either; pieces merely
scientific are placed by him on her piano--are performed to the credit
of both, with vast execution, as far as respects the science and the
harmony---but as for the singing, as singing ought to be, 'tis
"Worse than the howling of Irish wolves against the moon."
Well--_Miss_, from the expense and pains bestowed upon her, must, of
course, be the musical oracle of the family; the father must forego his
favourite old songs, written by "_honest_ Harry Carey," (as Ritson
insists on his being called); the mother is laughed to scorn if she
mentions "Auld Robin Gray," "Mary's Dream," "Oh, Nanny, wilt thou gang
wi' me?"--or such obsolete stuff;--and even the brothers, who might
stickle a little for Moore's melodies,
"With thoughts that breathe and words that burn,"
are silenced with, "Pooh! any body can sing them."
Thus is the family taste made up; and this extends to the patronage of
singers in the style alone deemed correct, as it is the quantity of
public patronage which must influence the manager of either theatre or
concert in the persons he engages. And thus has the great extension of
musical taste been injurious to music.
But, to return to our old favourite. All who remember him must likewise
remember his powers of attraction ere this blight of _fashion_ had come
over us. Witness his various benefits, and above all, that at the Opera
House, producing, it is said, 1,500_l_. Such marks of public favour,
added to the constant request of company, both public and private, and
to a man who, like Incledon, _loved_ his art, were sure to be productive
of _vanity_--vanity, the besetting sin of all great men, from Alexander
on his Persian throne, to Mr. Kean enthroned in the Coal Hole.--His
education had been limited. The songs chiefly in vogue at the early part
of the late war were _nautical_, which led him to a bold, free style;
these were his faults--vanity, want of cultivation, and a freedom of
manner approaching to excess. But he had a qualification as a singer
which threw all these into shade. The "Spectator," I believe, somewhere
says it is necessary for a good dancer to have a good understanding; but
I think it is much more necessary for a good singer to have a _good and
feeling heart_; and whether singing or acting his part in the drama of
life, with family, friends, or brother (not forgetting sister)
performers, Charles Incledon had as warm a heart as ever beat.
I cannot completely effect my purpose of reminding the public of what
they have lost in this fine singer, without recurrence to the songs in
which he earned his fame. "Pleasant is the recollection of the joys that
are passed," says Ossian; and what a delightful store-house of melody is
opened by the remembrance of these songs! At the head of the list, in
unapproachable beauty, stand his "Black-eyed Susan," "Storm," "Old
Towler," and "Lads of the Village;" songs which few voices can attempt,
and none dare hope to equal him in. Then, as operas, we had first his
Macheath, a part in which, notwithstanding what has been said of his
slovenly acting, I think him unequalled. His was the voice to burst
forth in the rich melodies of that _equivocal_ piece--_he_ was the
_gentleman_ who, if ruined by excess, could become the _highwayman_--his
was the dashing, manly style to ensnare either a Polly or a Lucy. Poor
Macheath is now emasculated, because _no man_ has voice to sing his
songs. I have heard Mr. Young has played the part, and "report speaks
goldenly" of his singing, and I deeply regret not having heard him. I
understand he sings Moore's melodies better than any body; and think it
likely, from the few "snatches" I have heard him give. By the bye,
excepting the hurried, thick utterance of Incledon when speaking, there
is great resemblance, as far as regards voice, between that singer and
Mr. Young.
As a Shakspearean, I must class next his two sweet songs in "As You Like
it." His was the pipe to be listened to amongst the warblers of
"Ardenne," in Dr. Arne's delicious "Blow! blow! thou Winter's wind," and
"Under the green-wood tree." "Oh!" as Jaques says, "I can suck
melancholy from the recollection of these songs as a weasel sucks eggs."
Then follow Jackson of Exeter's "Lord of the Manor," and Dibdin's
"Quaker" and "Waterman;" pieces after Incledon's own heart; all free,
rich, clear melody, without glitter.
But of all the composers of his own day, Shield[6] was his favourite;
and justly. He furnished him with most of his popular songs. The singer
was the peculiar organ of the composer--his "Thorn," his "Mouth which a
Smile," "Tom Moody," "Heaving the Lead," and many, many others, seem to
have faded away with the voice of the melodist.
[6] Let the lover of melody look over the list of works
published, in the obituary of that beautiful composer!
But I find, were I to run through, as I proposed, all the songs
_peculiar_ to my hero, I should, most likely, tire my reader. The
delight with which I dwell upon them is a species of egotism; I will
therefore only name a few more, and "leave him alone with his
glory."--"Sally in our Alley," the song Addison was so fond of; what an
_association!_ "Post Captain," "Brown Jug." In his decline, even "His
father he lost," and "On Lethe's banks," in Artaxerxes;--hear the
singers of the present day sing these songs! "Bay of Biscay," "When
Vulcan forged," the second of "All's Well," "Bet, sweet blossom," "Will
Watch," "Last Whistle," &c. &c. Alas! alas! and all this over! He has
piped his last whistle, and poor Charles "sleeps in peace with the
dead!"
In concluding, I cannot but observe, that no singer has so completely
identifies himself with particular songs. Those in which he most
excelled, he stamped as his own--no one can touch them "while his memory
be green."
When the race who heard him has faded away, some one may attempt them;
but I should as soon think of going to see Mr. Kean play Coriolanus, as
to hear another sing "Black-eyed Susan." My mind is filled--I have
Kemble's noble patrician _perfect_ before me; I have Gay's ballad in
Incledon's notes as fully in "my mind's _ear_," and I would not have
them displaced.
_Blackwood's Magazine._
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