Part 3

One fine evening whilst walking on the deck, he carelessly observed, that there would be a heavy sea gale, accompanied by rain, before morning. The captain of the vessel, who happened to be within hearing, cursed the poor fellow for his prediction, declaring that he kept the whole crew in a state of alarm, and vowing that if he foretold another tempest he would throw him overboard. The old man, who had a considerable opinion of his own talents, calmly replied, "_experientia docet_."

Cedric, from being one of the most daring and reckless spirits of his age, on hearing the above parley, and aware of their proximity to a rocky and dangerous shore, became terrified. The fear of a wreck overcame his once undaunted but now agitated frame, and a stiff glass of grog was found necessary to support him.

At midnight (having previously been sleeping soundly, composed by the soporific effects of the dram, lulled by the music of the rising breeze, and the gentle undulations of the reeling vessel) he was flung several yards from his hammock, and received a contusion on the head, which for some time deprived him of his senses. When he had somewhat recovered, the rocking of the vessel, the howling of the wind, and the creeking of the timbers, told him but too truly that the old man's prophecy was being fulfilled.

He went hastily on deck, half dressed and nearly frantic through fear, to ascertain his opinion of the probable extent of the danger to which they were exposed. But, alas! the old man, who had been placed at the helm as the only person capable of conducting the vessel in so perilous a situation, had been swept overboard by one of the early surges. He spoke to many, but none seemed disposed to listen to him; each person being too much engaged with his own concerns to attend to those of others.

Every hand seemed paralyzed; the vessel without a steersman at the helm--without a sailor to haul down a shroud, was cleaving the ocean at the mercy of the winds and the waves!

His sense of guilt at this moment was overpowering; hitherto (partly occasioned by ignorance, and partly by depraved habits of life) a degree of thoughtlessness had possessed him, which it is almost impossible to conceive could reign in the breast of a being endued with reason. Now indeed his eyes were open to his fate--to his earthly fate; a strange foreboding came upon him; it was a species of instinctive horror; he could not look beyond it. Whether there was a being who ruled the world, or whether there was not, had never been the subject of his meditations; yet a secret whisper intimated to him that death would not be the bound of his hopes and his fears--of his joys and his sorrows.

He was conscious of the blackness of his crime, which indeed was of the deepest dye, and that he had never till then experienced the arm of vengeance. He shuddered as the violence of the tempest increased.

He had braved the seas--he had fought with the enemies of his country; but never did fear paralyze the daring Cedric before. He fell senseless on the deck entangled in the shattered cordage, whereby he was preserved from being washed overboard by the mountain billows, which every moment engulfed the vessel, threatening immediate destruction to all on board.

The murkiest cloud that ever hid the skies from the view of man, now rode in universal blackness over the horror-stricken crew, which, opening every pore, as though at once to overwhelm creation, poured forth its contents like one vast sea descending to overflow another. The winds gathered from every quarter with unparalleled fury. Thunders rolled with that incessant clamour which pervades a field of earthly battle; but artillery, whose dreadful note hath made the hardiest and the boldest quake, utters with but feeble voice to that which that night growled on the craggy shores of India. And lightnings fell, as when Elijah called on heaven to answer him, and fire descended to proclaim the true Jehovah's name, and hail the one true prophet!

The Levantine now struck with tremendous force against a rock, which lay concealed amidst the swelling waters, and instantaneously disappeared, leaving the wretched crew floating on the surface--borne on the billows!

Cedric, by the tumultuous fury of the element, was thrown on a shelf of one of the steep rocks which form a natural barrier between the sea and land; being recovered from his stupor, he was again awake to the horrors that surrounded him; what had become of his comrades he knew not--he thought not. He clung to a fragment of the precipice with the desperation and firm grasp of madness--while every successive tide that rolled over his head became stronger and stronger.

He counted the billows as they passed over him; he watched the receding wave--he looked sternly at the approaching one. Time with him was fast ebbing. The wave that was to wash him into eternity was already curling towards him in fearful whiteness, which the glare of lightnings that seemed to illuminate the universe showed him in all its terrors.

At the same time he distinguished a towering rock which the darkness had hitherto obscured, but which now rose in awful majesty before him, amidst the spray and foam of the heaving surges, and seemed a sea-god's throne! The sublimity and magnificence of the storm were now at their height! On the summit of the conical rock, which was reddened by the fierce blaze of the brilliant fires that incessantly played around it, appeared a colossal figure, arrayed in white, whose long tresses and flowing robes streamed with the wind. The figure pointed at the hopeless Cedric with a deadly smile on his countenance. Cedric glared wildly at the unearthly vision. The last whelming wave approached and buried him for ever in the foaming sea.

The spectre mounted his car, attended by an innumerable host of tributary spirits, and was borne on the whirlwind to visit other climes. He was the Spirit of the Storm!

CYMBELINE.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

RECOLLECTIONS OF AN OLD FAVOURITE.

"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._

* * * * *

THE GATHERER.

A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.

Shakspeare.

_The following is inscribed on a black Tablet in Sherborne Church, Dorset:_

This Monument was erected by Mr. Thomas Mansel, of this Towne, in remembrance of a great hailstorme, May 16th, 1709, between the hours of one and four in the afternoon; which stopping the course of a small river, west of this church, caused of a sudden an extraordinary flood in the Abbey Garden and Green, running with so rapid a stream, that it forced open the north door of the church, displaced and removed about 1,222 feet of the pavement, and was two feet and ten inches high as it passed out at this south door.

_Sturminster._

RURIS.

* * * * *

ANTIQUITY AND INTEREST.

In the kitchen of a public house called the Cross in Hand, at Waldron, in Sussex, there is an ancient couple, who appear to have been companions for more than seven hundred years. These are a pair of dog, or brandirons, with the date of 1115 on each. Suppose their original cost to have been five shillings; this sum put out at simple interest, together with the principal, would now have amounted to nine pounds, twelve shillings, and sixpence; but at compound interest it would be two hundred and fifty eight billions, seven hundred and eighty four millions, two hundred and thirty thousand, six hundred and fifty six pounds sterling.

J.B.--Y.

* * * * *

King James I. mounting a horse that was unruly, said, "The de'il tak' my saul, sirrah, and ye be na quiet, I'll send ye to the five hundred kings in the House of Commons--they'll soon tame you."

On the road to Hastings are two hotels, nearly opposite one another, the one kept by a person of the name of Hogsflesh, the other by a person named Bacon.

T.R.W.

* * * * *

A JUDICIOUS TITLE.

On a vacancy on the Scotch bench, a certain advocate of some standing at the bar, but by no means remarkable for the brilliancy of his parts, or the extent of his legal knowledge, was in full expectation of being appointed to the vacant gown. This is done by a court letter, signed with the King's sign manual. In the full flutter of his darling hopes, he one day encountered an old brother lawyer, notorious for the acidity of his temper, and the poignancy and acrimony of his remarks. "Weel, friend Robby," said the latter, "I hear you're to get the vacant gown."--"Yes, Mr. C--k, I have every reason to believe so."--"Have ye gotten doon your letter yet frae London?"--"No: but I expect an express every minute."--"Nae doot, nae doot; have you bethocht yoursel o' what teetle ye're to tak'? Lord H--n will never do; ye ken that's the teetle o' ane o' oor grandest dukes. Gudesake, for a bit session lordy, like you, to gang by that style and teetle o' ane high and michty prince! that wad be a bonny boorlesque on a' warldly honours and dignities. Weel a weel, let that be a pass over. Noo a teetle ye maun hae, that's as clear as the licht, and there's ane come just now into my head that will answer ye to a T; when ye're a lord, freend, Robby, ye'll be Lord Preserve Us?"--"You are very impertinent Mr. C--k," replied the nettled judge expectant; "I am sure you may find a waur."--There never, perhaps, was, or will be, comprehended so much pithy meaning and bitter sarcasm in a single syllable, as that which formed the astounding response--"Whaur (where)?"

* * * * *

GREGORY THE GREAT A PUNSTER.

Gregory the great was a punster, as appears from an anecdote related of him, and which gave the first impulse to his exertions to promulgate Christianity in this country. It was sometime before he was advanced to St. Peter's chair, and when he was only a deacon in the church, that he saw some handsome youths for sale in the open market: struck with their appearance, he inquired whence they were, and was answered they were _Angli (English.)_ "They are rightly called," said he, "for they seem Angeli," (of or belonging to angels,) and asking what province they were of among the Angli; he was told of _Deira_ (part of the kingdom of Northumbria.) Ah, exclaimed he, _De ira Dei sunt liberandi_. Learning farther that their king was named _Alle_, he said how fitly may he sing _Alle_lujahs to God, who possesseth such subjects. From that time he seriously endeavoured to bring about the conversion of the English nation, and a few years afterwards, being Pope, he happily effected it by the travels and labours of St. Augustine, who was the first Archbishop of Canterbury.

* * * * *

EPITAPH

_In St. Mary's Churchyard, Lambeth._