;
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, cl