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.
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