During Mr. Kemble's management of Covent Garden Theatre, one of the wags among his fellow-actors informed him that a patent lozenge had just been invented and sold only at a jeweller's in Bond Street, which was an infallible cure for hoarseness. In order that he might the more readily take the bait, he was told that Kemble made frequent use of it. Incledon immediately inquired of the great actor, who very gravely answered, "Oh, yes, Charles; the patent lozenge is an admirable thing. I have derived the greatest benefit from it, when I kept it in my mouth all night." Incledon accordingly went to Bond Street to purchase the valuable lozenge, and the man, who had been previously instructed, gave him a small pebble in a pill-box. Incledon arrived at the theatre next day with the stone in his mouth and spitting frequently. He was, of course, asked if the patent lozenge did him any good. "Yes," replied he, spitting; "I kept it in my mouth (spitting) all night, and (spitting again) it has this remarkable property, that it does not dissolve," and he spat again. The wag requested to see it, and the production of the pebble provoked a general laugh. "Why, Charles," said Kemble, "this is a stone! I meant a patent lozenge. You should have gone to an apothecary's and not to a jeweller's for it." Incledon, when he found that he was hoaxed, was full of wrath; his anger, however, soon subsided. "Well," said he, "I can't grumble, for an apothecary who pretended to have supplied the jeweller with the lozenge, and who has received from me a letter belauding the nostrum, has undertaken in return to dispose of forty pounds' worth of tickets for my benefit." On the occasion of this, or some other benefit, he could not refrain from going every morning to the box-office to see how many places were taken; and a week before the last, observing the names to be few besides those of his own private friends, he said to the box-keeper, Brandon, "D---- it, Jem, if the nobility don't come forward, I shall cut but a poor figure this time." "Don't be afraid," said Brandon; "I dare say we shall do a good deal for you to-day." "I hope so," replied Incledon, "and as I go home to dinner I will look in again." Incledon, who was not very familiar with _Debrett's Peerage_, returning at five o'clock in the afternoon, hastened to the book, and read aloud the following fictitious names, which Brandon, by way of a joke, had put down in his absence: "The Marquis of Piccadilly," "The Duke of Windsor." "Ah, ha!" exclaimed Incledon, "that must be one of the Royal Family." "Lord Highgate"--"The Bishop of Gravesend." "Well," said he to Brandon, quite delighted, "if we get on as well to-morrow as we have to-day, I shall have a number of distinguished titles present."