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 a faire de la poesie, et an musicien a 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—­