During the summer months, when the theatre was closed, and, indeed, during most of the latter part of his career, it was Incledon's practice to visit the provinces, giving entertainments, one of which he called 'Variety,' and the other 'The Wandering Melodist,' very much after the style of Dibdin's; and for the nonce styling himself also 'The Wandering Melodist.' It will be readily understood that these performances were highly appreciated in the days when locomotion was so much more difficult than it is nowadays, and when to have 'been to London' was the exception rather than the rule. It was probably on one of these occasions that H. C. Robinson fell in with him, on the top of a coach, and thus records his impressions, in his diary of 4th April, 1811. After noting that Incledon was just the man he expected to find him, with seven rings on his fingers, five seals on his watch-ribbon, and a gold snuff-box in his pocket, Robinson goes on to say: 'I spoke in terms of rapture of Mrs. Siddons. He replied, "Ah! Sally's a fine creature. She has a charming place on the Edgware Road. I dined with her last year, and she paid me one of the finest compliments I ever received. I sang "The Storm" after dinner. She cried and sobbed like a child. Taking both my hands, she said. "All that I and my brother ever did, is nothing compared with the effect you produce!"" Incledon spoke with warmth, and apparent knowledge, of Church music, praising Purcell especially, and mentioning Luther's simple hymns. I was forced to confess that _I_ had no ear for music; and he, in order to try me, sang in a sort of song-whisper some melodies, which I certainly enjoyed more, I thought, than anything I had heard from him on the stage.' But in order to show that Incledon did not himself exaggerate the effect which the fire of his manner and the sweetness of his singing sometimes produced, let the following story testify. William Robson, in the 'Old Playgoer,' says: 'I remember when the _élite_ of taste, science, and literature were assembled to pay the well-deserved compliment of a dinner to John Kemble, and to present him with a handsome piece of plate on his retirement. Incledon, on being requested, sang, as his best song--on what he, I am sure, considered a great, though melancholy event--"The Storm." The effect was sublime, the silence holy, the feeling intense; and, while Talma was recovering from his astonishment, Kemble placed his hand on the arm of the great French actor, and said in an agitated, emphatic, yet proud tone, "_That_ is an English singer."' Munden adds that Talma jumped up from his seat, and embraced Incledon _à la Française_.