em 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--

"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 babbl