Memoirs of Joseph Grimaldi
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Title: Memoirs of Joseph Grimaldi
Author: Joseph Grimaldi
Editor: Charles Dickens
Illustrator: George Cruikshank
Release date: August 28, 2014 [eBook #46709]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMOIRS OF JOSEPH GRIMALDI ***
[Illustration: JOSEPH GRIMALDI.]
MEMOIRS
OF
JOSEPH GRIMALDI
EDITED
BY "BOZ"
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK_
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL
NEW YORK: 416 BROOME STREET
GEORGE CRUIKSHANK
_Price 2s. each, boards._
The Greatest Plague of Life; or, The Adventures
of a Lady in Search of a Good Servant.
Edited by the BROTHERS MAYHEW. With
Illustrations by GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
Whom to Marry and How to Get Married; or, The
Adventures of a Lady in Search of a Good
Husband. Edited by the BROTHERS MAYHEW, and
Illustrated by GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
Mornings at Bow Street. With Steel Frontispiece
and 21 Illustrations by GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER
It is some years now, since we first conceived a strong veneration for
Clowns, and an intense anxiety to know what they did with themselves
out of pantomime time, and off the stage. As a child, we were
accustomed to pester our relations and friends with questions out of
number concerning these gentry;--whether their appetite for sausages
and such like wares was always the same, and if so, at whose expense
they were maintained; whether they were ever taken up for pilfering
other people's goods, or were forgiven by everybody because it was only
done in fun; how it was they got such beautiful complexions, and where
they lived; and whether they were born Clowns, or gradually turned
into Clowns as they grew up. On these and a thousand other points our
curiosity was insatiable. Nor were our speculations confined to Clowns
alone: they extended to Harlequins, Pantaloons, and Columbines, all of
whom we believed to be real and veritable personages, existing in the
same forms and characters all the year round. How often have we wished
that the Pantaloon were our god-father! and how often thought that to
marry a Columbine would be to attain the highest pitch of all human
felicity!
The delights--the ten thousand million delights of a pantomime--come
streaming upon us now,--even of the pantomime which came lumbering down
in Richardson's waggons at fair-time to the dull little town in which
we had the honour to be brought up, and which a long row of small boys,
with frills as white as they could be washed, and hands as clean as
they would come, were taken to behold the glories of, in fair daylight.
We feel again all the pride of standing in a body on the platform, the
observed of all observers in the crowd below, while the junior usher
pays away twenty-four ninepences to a stout gentleman under a Gothic
arch, with a hoop of variegated lamps swinging over his head. Again we
catch a glimpse (too brief, alas!) of the lady with a green parasol in
her hand, on the outside stage of the next show but one, who supports
herself on one foot, on the back of a majestic horse, blotting-paper
coloured and white; and once again our eyes open wide with wonder,
and our hearts throb with emotion, as we deliver our card-board check
into the very hands of the Harlequin himself, who, all glittering with
spangles, and dazzling with many colours, deigns to give us a word of
encouragement and commendation as we pass into the booth!
But what was this--even this--to the glories of the inside, where,
amid the smell of saw-dust, and orange-peel, sweeter far than violets
to youthful noses, the first play being over, the lovers united, the
ghost appeased, the baron killed, and everything made comfortable and
pleasant,--the pantomime itself began! What words can describe the
deep gloom of the opening scene, where a crafty magician holding a
young lady in bondage was discovered, studying an enchanted book to the
soft music of a gong!--or in what terms can we express the thrill of
ecstasy with which, his magic power opposed by superior art, we beheld
the monster himself converted into Clown! What mattered it that the
stage was three yards wide, and four deep? _we_ never saw it. We had
no eyes, ears, or corporeal senses, but for the pantomime. And when
its short career was run, and the baron previously slaughtered, coming
forward with his hand upon his heart, announced that for that favour
Mr. Richardson returned his most sincere thanks, and the performances
would commence again in a quarter of an hour, what jest could equal
the effects of the Baron's indignation and surprise, when the Clown,
unexpectedly peeping from behind the curtain, requested the audience
"not to believe it, for it was all gammon!" Who but a Clown could have
called forth the roar of laughter that succeeded; and what witchery but
a Clown's could have caused the junior usher himself to declare aloud,
as he shook his sides and smote his knee in a moment of irrepressible
joy, that that was the very best thing he had ever heard said!
We have lost that clown now;--he is still alive, though, for we saw
him only the day before last Bartholomew Fair, eating a real saveloy,
and we are sorry to say he had deserted to the illegitimate drama, for
he was seated on one of "Clark's Circus" waggons:--we have lost that
Clown and that pantomime, but our relish for the entertainment still
remains unimpaired. Each successive Boxing-day finds us in the same
state of high excitement and expectation. On that eventful day, when
new pantomimes are played for the first time at the two great theatres,
and at twenty or thirty of the little ones, we still gloat as formerly
upon the bills which set forth tempting descriptions of the scenery
in staring red and black letters, and still fall down upon our knees,
with other men and boys, upon the pavement by shop-doors, to read them
down to the very last line. Nay, we still peruse with all eagerness and
avidity the exclusive accounts of the coming wonders in the theatrical
newspapers of the Sunday before, and still believe them as devoutly
as we did before twenty years' experience had shown us that they are
always wrong.
With these feelings upon the subject of pantomimes, it is no matter
of surprise that when we first heard that Grimaldi had left some
memoirs of his life behind him, we were in a perfect fever until we had
perused the manuscript. It was no sooner placed in our hands by "the
adventurous and spirited publisher,"--(if our recollection serve us,
this is the customary style of the complimentary little paragraphs
regarding new books which usually precede advertisements about Savory's
clocks in the newspapers,)--than we sat down at once and read it every
word.
See how pleasantly things come about, if you let them take their own
course! This mention of the manuscript brings us at once to the very
point we are anxious to reach, and which we should have gained long
ago, if we had not travelled into those irrelevant remarks concerning
pantomimic representations.
For about a year before his death, Grimaldi was employed in writing a
full account of his life and adventures. It was his chief occupation
and amusement; and as people who write their own lives, even in the
midst of very many occupations, often find time to extend them to a
most inordinate length, it is no wonder that his account of himself was
exceedingly voluminous.
This manuscript was confided to Mr. Thomas Egerton Wilks: to alter
and revise, with a view to its publication. Mr. Wilks, who was well
acquainted with Grimaldi and his connexions, applied himself to the
task of condensing it throughout, and wholly expunging considerable
portions, which, so far as the public were concerned, possessed neither
interest nor amusement, he likewise interspersed here and there the
substance of such personal anecdotes as he had gleaned from the writer
in desultory conversation. While he was thus engaged, Grimaldi died.
Mr. Wilks having by the commencement of September concluded his
labours, offered the manuscript to the present publisher, by whom it
was shortly afterwards purchased unconditionally, with the full consent
and concurrence of Mr. Richard Hughes, Grimaldi's executor.
The present Editor of these Memoirs has felt it necessary to say thus
much in explanation of their origin, in order to establish beyond doubt
the unquestionable authenticity of the memoirs they contain.
His own share in them is stated in a few words. Being much struck
by several incidents in the manuscript--such as the description of
Grimaldi's infancy, the burglary, the brother's return from sea under
the extraordinary circumstances detailed, the adventure of the man
with the two fingers on his left hand, the account of Mackintosh and
his friends, and many other passages,--and thinking that they might
be related in a more attractive manner, (they were at that time told
in the first person, as if by Grimaldi himself, although they had
necessarily lost any original manner which his recital might have
imparted to them;) he accepted a proposal from the publisher to edit
the book, and _has_ edited it to the best of his ability, altering its
form throughout, and making such other alterations as he conceived
would improve the narration of the facts, without any departure from
the facts themselves.
He has merely to add, that there has been no _book-making_ in this
case. He has not swelled the quantity of matter, but materially
abridged it. The account of Grimaldi's first courtship may appear
lengthy in its present form; but it has undergone a double and most
comprehensive process of abridgment. The old man was garrulous upon a
subject on which the youth had felt so keenly; and as the feeling did
him honour in both stages of life, the Editor has not had the heart to
reduce it further.
Here is the book, then, at last. After so much pains from so many
hands--including the good right hand of GEORGE CRUIKSHANK, which has
seldom been better exercised,--he humbly hopes it may find favour with
the public.
DOUGHTY STREET,
_February, 1838_.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
Introductory Chapter page v
CHAPTER I.
His Grandfather and Father--His Birth and first appearance
at Drury Lane Theatre and at Sadler's Wells--His Father's
severity--Miss Farren--The Earl of Derby and the Wig--the
Fortune-box and Charity's reward--His Father's pretended Death,
and the behaviour of himself and his brother thereupon 1
CHAPTER II.
1788 to 1794.
The Father's real Death--His Will, and failure of the
Executor--Generous conduct of Grimaldi's Schoolmaster,
and of Mr. Wroughton the Comedian--Smart running against
time--Kindness of Sheridan--Grimaldi's industry and
amusements--Fly-catching--Expedition in search of the "Dartford
Blues"--Mrs. Jordan--Adventure on Clapham Common: the piece of
Tin--His first love and its consequences 17
CHAPTER III.
1794 to 1797.
Grimaldi falls in Love--His success--He meets with an accident
which brings the Reader acquainted with that invaluable
specific "Grimaldi's Embrocation"--He rises gradually in his
Profession--The Pentonville Gang of Burglars 28
CHAPTER IV.
1797 to 1798.
The Thieves make a second attempt; alarmed by their perseverance,
Grimaldi repairs to Hatton Garden--Interview with Mr. Trott;
ingenious device of that gentleman, and its result on the third
visit of the Burglars--Comparative attractions of Pantomime and
Spectacle--Trip to Gravesend and Chatham--Disagreeable recognition
of a good-humoured friend, and an agreeable mode of journeying
recommended to all Travellers 40
CHAPTER V.
1798.
An extraordinary circumstance concerning himself, with another
extraordinary circumstance concerning his Grandfather--Specimen
of a laconic epistle, and an account of two interviews with Mr.
Hughes, in the latter of which a benevolent gentleman is duly
rewarded for his trouble--Preparations for his marriage--Fatiguing
effects of his exertions at the Theatre 51
CHAPTER VI.
1798.
Tribulations connected with "Old Lucas," the constable, with an
account of the subsequent proceedings before Mr. Blamire, the
magistrate, at Hatton Garden, and the mysterious appearance of a
silver staff--A guinea wager with a jocose friend on the Dartford
Road--The Prince of Wales, Sheridan, and the Crockery Girl 62
CHAPTER VII.
1798 to 1801.
Partiality of George the Third for Theatrical
Entertainments--Sheridan's kindness to Grimaldi--His
domestic affliction and severe distress--The production of
Harlequin Amulet a new era in Pantomime--Pigeon-fancying and
Wagering--His first Provincial Excursion with Mrs. Baker, the
eccentric Manageress--John Kemble and Jew Davis, with a new
reading--Increased success at Maidstone and Canterbury--Polite
interview with John Kemble 76
CHAPTER VIII.
1801 to 1803.
Hard work to counterbalance great gains--His discharge _from_
Drury Lane, and his discharge _at_ Sadler's Wells--His return to
the former house--Monk Lewis--Anecdote of him and Sheridan, and of
Sheridan and the Prince of Wales--Grimaldi gains a son and loses
all his capital 88
CHAPTER IX.
1803.
Containing a Very Extraordinary Incident Well Worthy of the
Reader's Attention 97
CHAPTER X.
1803 to 1805.
Bologna and his Family--An Excursion into Kent with that
personage--Mr. Mackintosh, the gentleman of landed property,
and his preserves--A great day's sporting; and a scene at the
Garrick's Head in Bow Street, between a Landlord, a Gamekeeper,
Bologna and Grimaldi 106
CHAPTER XI.
1805 to 1806.
Stage Affairs and Stage Quarrels--Mr. Graham, the Bow Street
Magistrate and Drury Lane Manager--Mr. Peake--Grimaldi is
introduced to Mr. Harris by John Kemble--Leaves Drury Lane Theatre
and engages at Covent Garden--Mortification of the authorities at
"the other house"--He joins Charles Dibdin's Company and visits
Dublin--The _wet_ Theatre--Ill success of the speculation, and
great success of his own Benefit--Observations on the comparative
strength of Whisky Punch and Rum Punch, with interesting experiment
115
CHAPTER XII.
1806 to 1807.
He returns to town, gets frozen to the roof of a coach on the
road, and pays his rent twice over when he arrives at home--Mr.
Charles Farley--His first appearance at Covent Garden--Valentine
and Orson--Production of "Mother Goose," and its immense
success--The mysterious adventure of the Six Ladies and the Six
Gentlemen 124
CHAPTER XIII.
1807.
The mystery cleared up chiefly through the instrumentality of Mr.
Alderman Harmer; and the characters of the Six Ladies and the Six
Gentlemen are satisfactorily explained--The Trial of Mackintosh
for Burglary--Its result 133
CHAPTER XIV.
1807 to 1808.
Bradbury, the Clown--His voluntary confinement in a Madhouse,
to screen an "Honourable" Thief--His release, strange conduct,
subsequent career, and death--Dreadful Accident at Sadler's
Wells--The night-drives to Finchley--Trip to Birmingham--Mr.
Macready, the Manager and his curious Stage-properties--Sudden
recall to Town 148
CHAPTER XV.
1808 to 1809.
Covent Garden Theatre destroyed by fire--Grimaldi makes a trip
to Manchester: he meets with an accident there, and another at
Liverpool--The Sir Hugh Myddleton Tavern at Sadler's Wells, and
a description of some of its frequenters, necessary to a full
understanding of the succeeding chapter 158
CHAPTER XVI.
1809.
Grimaldi's Adventure on Highgate Hill, and its consequences 165
CHAPTER XVII.
1809 to 1812.
Opening of the new Covent Garden Theatre--The great O. P.
Rows--Grimaldi's first appearance as Clown in the public
streets--Temporary embarrassments--Great success at Cheltenham and
Gloucester--He visits Berkeley Castle, and is introduced to Lord
Byron--Fish sauce and Apple Pie 172
CHAPTER XVIII.
1812 to 1816.
A Clergyman's Dinner-party at Bath--First Appearance of Grimaldi's
Son, and Death of his old friend Mr. Hughes--Grimaldi plays at
three Theatres on one night, and has his salary stopped for his
pains--His severe illness--Second journey to Bath--Davidge, "Billy
Coombes" and the Chest--Facetiousness of the aforesaid Billy 183
CHAPTER XIX.
1816 to 1817.
He quits Sadler's Wells in consequence of a disagreement with
the Proprietors--Lord Byron--Retirement of John Kemble--Immense
success of Grimaldi in the provinces, and his great gains--A scene
in a Barber's Shop 194
CHAPTER XX.
1817.
More provincial success--Bologna and his economy--Comparative
dearness of Welsh Rare-bits and Partridges--Remarkably odd modes
of saving money 203
CHAPTER XXI.
1817 to 1818.
Production of "Baron Munchausen"--Anecdote of Ellar the Harlequin,
showing how he jumped through the Moon and put his hand
out--Grimaldi becomes a Proprietor of Sadler's Wells--Anecdotes of
the late Duke of York, Sir Godfrey Webster, a Gold Snuff-box, his
late Majesty, Newcastle Salmon, and a Coal Mine 209
CHAPTER XXII.
1818 to 1823.
Profit and Loss--Appearance of his Son at Covent Garden--His
last engagement at Sadler's Wells--Accommodation of the Giants
in the Dublin Pavilion--Alarming state of his health--His
engagement at the Coburg--The liberality of Mr. Harris--Rapid
decay of Grimaldi's constitution, his great sufferings, and last
performance at Covent Garden--He visits Cheltenham and Birmingham
with great success--Colonel Berkeley, Mr. Charles Kemble, and Mr.
Bunn 218
CHAPTER XXIII.
1823 to 1827.
Grimaldi's great afflictions augmented by the dissipation and
recklessness of his Son--Compelled to retire from Covent Garden
Theatre, where he is succeeded by him--New Speculation at Sadler's
Wells--Changes in the system of Management, and their results--Sir
James Scarlett and a blushing Witness 229
CHAPTER XXIV.
1828.
Great kindness of Miss Kelly towards Grimaldi--His farewell
benefit at Sadler's Wells; last appearance, and farewell
address--He makes preparations for one more appearance at Covent
Garden, but, in a conversation with Mr. Charles Kemble, meets with
a disappointment--In consequence of Lord Segrave's benevolent
interference, a benefit is arranged for him at Drury Lane--His
last interview with Mr. Charles Kemble and Fawcett 236
CHAPTER XXV.
1828 to 1836.
The farewell benefit at Drury Lane--Grimaldi's last appearance and
parting address--The Drury Lane Theatrical Fund, and its prompt
reply to his communication--Miserable career and death of his
Son--His Wife dies, and he returns from Woolwich (whither he had
previously removed) to London--His retirement 244
Concluding Chapter 253
MEMOIRS
OF
JOSEPH GRIMALDI.
CHAPTER I.
His Grandfather and Father--His Birth and first appearance at
Drury Lane Theatre, and at Sadler's Wells--His Father's
severity--Miss Farren--The Earl of Derby and the Wig--The
Fortune-box and Charity's reward--His Father's pretended death,
and the behaviour of himself and his brother thereupon.
The paternal grandfather of Joseph Grimaldi was well known, both to
the French and Italian public, as an eminent dancer, possessing a most
extraordinary degree of strength and agility,--qualities which, being
brought into full play by the constant exercise of his frame in his
professional duties, acquired for him the distinguishing appellation
of "Iron Legs." Dibdin, in his History of the Stage, relates several
anecdotes of his prowess in these respects, many of which are current
elsewhere, though the authority on which they rest would appear from
his grandson's testimony to be somewhat doubtful; the best known of
these, however, is perfectly true. Jumping extremely high one night
in some performance on the stage, possibly in a fit of enthusiasm
occasioned by the august presence of the Turkish Ambassador, who,
with his suite, occupied the stage-box, he actually broke one of the
chandeliers which in those times hung above the stage doors; and one
of the glass drops was struck with some violence against the eye or
countenance of the Turkish Ambassador aforesaid. The dignity of this
great personage being much affronted, a formal complaint was made to
the Court of France, who gravely commanded "Iron Legs" to apologize,
which "Iron Legs" did in due form, to the great amusement of himself,
and the court, and the public; and, in short, of everybody else but
the exalted gentleman whose person had been grievously outraged. The
mighty affair terminated in the appearance of a squib, which has been
thus translated:--
Hail, Iron Legs! immortal pair,
Agile, firm knit, and peerless,
That skim the earth, or vault in air,
Aspiring high and fearless.
Glory of Paris! outdoing compeers,
Brave pair! may nothing hurt ye;
Scatter at will our chandeliers,
And tweak the nose of Turkey.
And should a too presumptuous foe
But dare these shores to land on,
His well-kicked men shall quickly know
We've Iron Legs to stand on.
This circumstance occurred on the French stage. The first Grimaldi[1]
who appeared in England was the father of the subject of these
Memoirs, and the son of "Iron Legs," who, holding the appointment of
Dentist to Queen Charlotte, came to England in that capacity in 1760;
he was a native of Genoa, and long before his arrival in this country
had attained considerable distinction in his profession. We have not
many instances of the union of the two professions of dentist and
dancing-master; but Grimaldi, possessing a taste for both pursuits, and
a much higher relish for the latter than the former, obtained leave
to resign his situation about the Queen, soon after his arrival in
this country, and commenced giving lessons in dancing and fencing,
occasionally giving his pupils a taste of his quality in his old
capacity. In those days of minuets and cotillions, private dancing was
a much more laborious and serious affair than it is at present; and
the younger branches of the nobility and gentry kept Mr. Grimaldi in
pretty constant occupation. In many scattered notices of OUR Grimaldi's
life, it has been stated that the father lost his situation at court in
consequence of the rudeness of his behaviour, and some disrespect which
he had shown the King; an accusation which his son always took very
much to heart, and which the continual patronage of the King and Queen,
bestowed upon him publicly, on all possible occasions, sufficiently
proves to be unfounded.
His new career being highly successful, Mr. Grimaldi was appointed
ballet-master of old Drury Lane Theatre and Sadler's Wells, with which
he coupled the situation of primo buffo; in this double capacity he
became a very great favourite with the public, and their majesties,
who were nearly every week accustomed to command some pantomime of
which Grimaldi was the hero. He bore the reputation of being a very
honest man, and a very charitable one, never turning a deaf ear to the
entreaties of the distressed, but always willing, by every means in his
power, to relieve the numerous reduced and wretched persons who applied
to him for assistance. It may be added--and his son always mentioned
it with just pride--that he was never known to be inebriated: a rather
scarce virtue among players of later times, and one which men of far
higher rank in their profession would do well to profit by.
He appears to have been a very singular and eccentric man. It would be
difficult to account for the little traits of his character which are
developed in the earlier pages of this book, unless this circumstance
were borne in mind. He purchased a small quantity of ground at
Lambeth once, part of which was laid out as a garden; he entered into
possession of it in the very depth of a most inclement winter, but he
was so impatient to ascertain how this garden would look in full bloom,
that, finding it quite impossible to wait till the coming of spring and
summer gradually developed its beauties, he had it at once decorated
with an immense quantity of artificial flowers, and the branches of
all the trees bent beneath the weight of the most luxuriant foliage,
and the most abundant crops of fruit, all, it is needless to say,
artificial also.
A singular trait in this individual's character, was a vague and
profound dread of the 14th day of the month. At its approach he was
always nervous, disquieted, and anxious: directly it had passed he was
another man again, and invariably exclaimed, in his broken English,
"Ah! now I am safe for anoder month." If this circumstance were
unaccompanied by any singular coincidence it would be scarcely worth
mentioning; but it is remarkable that he actually died on the 14th day
of March; and that he was born, christened, and married on the 14th of
the month.
There are other anecdotes of the same kind told of Henri Quatre, and
others; this one is undoubtedly true, and it may be added to the list
of coincidences or presentiments, or by whatever name the reader
pleases to call them, as a veracious and well-authenticated instance.
These are not the only odd characteristics of the man. He was a most
morbidly sensitive and melancholy being, and entertained a horror of
death almost indescribable. He was in the habit of wandering about
churchyards and burying-places, for hours together, and would speculate
on the diseases of which the persons whose remains occupied the graves
he walked among, had died; figure their death-beds, and wonder how
many of them had been buried alive in a fit or a trance: a possibility
which he shuddered to think of, and which haunted him both through life
and at its close. Such an effect had this fear upon his mind, that he
left express directions in his will that, before his coffin should
be fastened down, his head should be severed from his body, and the
operation was actually performed in the presence of several persons.
It is a curious circumstance, that death, which always filled his
mind with the most gloomy and horrible reflections, and which in his
unoccupied moments can hardly be said to have been ever absent from his
thoughts, should have been chosen by him as the subject of one of his
most popular scenes in the pantomimes of the time. Among many others
of the same nature, he invented the well-known skeleton scene for the
clown, which was very popular in those days, and is still occasionally
represented. Whether it be true, that the hypochondriac is most prone
to laugh at the things which most annoy and terrify him in private, as
a man who believes in the appearance of spirits upon earth is always
the foremost to express his unbelief; or whether these gloomy ideas
haunted the unfortunate man's mind so much, that even his merriment
assumed a ghastly hue, and his comicality sought for grotesque objects
in the grave and the charnel-house, the fact is equally remarkable.
This was the same man who, in the time of Lord George Gordon's
riots, when people, for the purpose of protecting their houses
from the fury of the mob, inscribed upon their doors the words "No
Popery,"--actually, with the view of keeping in the right with all
parties, and preventing the possibility of offending any by his form of
worship, wrote up "No religion at all;" which announcement appeared in
large characters in front of his house, in Little Russell-street.[2]
The idea was perfectly successful; but whether from the humour of the
description, or because the rioters did not happen to go down that
particular street, we are unable to determine.
On the 18th of December, 1779, the year in which Garrick died, Joseph
Grimaldi, "Old Joe," was born, in Stanhope-street,[3] Clare-market; a
part of the town then as now, much frequented by theatrical people,
in consequence of its vicinity to the theatres. At the period of his
birth, his eccentric father was sixty-five years old, and twenty-five
months afterwards another son was born to him--Joseph's only brother.
The child did not remain very long in a state of helpless and
unprofitable infancy, for at the age of one year and eleven months
he was brought out by his father on the boards of Old Drury, where
he made his first bow and his first tumble.[4] The piece in which
his precocious powers were displayed was the well-known pantomime
of Robinson Crusoe, in which the father sustained the part of the
Shipwrecked Mariner, and the son performed that of the Little Clown.
The child's success was complete; he was instantly placed on the
establishment, accorded a magnificent weekly salary of fifteen
shillings, and every succeeding year was brought forward in some new
and prominent part. He became a favourite behind the curtain as well as
before it, being henceforth distinguished in the green-room as "Clever
little Joe;" and Joe he was called to the last day of his life.
In 1782, he first appeared at Sadler's Wells, in the arduous character
of a monkey; and here he was fortunate enough to excite as much
approbation, as he had previously elicited in the part of clown at
Drury Lane. He immediately became a member of the regular company at
this theatre, as he had done at the other; and here he remained (one
season only excepted) until the termination of his professional life,
forty-nine years afterwards.
Now that he had made, or rather that his father had made for him, two
engagements, by which he was bound to appear at two theatres on the
same evening, and at very nearly the same time, his labours began in
earnest. They would have been arduous for a man, much more so for a
child; and it will be obvious, that if at any one portion of his life
his gains were very great, the actual toil both of mind and body by
which they were purchased was at least equally so. The stage-stricken
young gentlemen who hang about Sadler's Wells, and Astley's, and the
Surrey, and private theatres of all kinds, and who long to embrace the
theatrical profession because it is "so easy," little dream of all the
anxieties and hardships, and privations and sorrows, which make the sum
of most actors' lives.
We have already remarked that the father of Grimaldi was an eccentric
man; he appears to have been peculiarly eccentric, and rather
unpleasantly so, in the correction of his son. The child being bred up
to play all kinds of fantastic tricks, was as much a clown, a monkey,
or anything else that was droll and ridiculous, off the stage, as on
it; and being incited thereto by the occupants of the green-room, used
to skip and tumble about as much for their diversion as that of the
public. All this was carefully concealed from the father, who, whenever
he did happen to observe any of the child's pranks, always administered
the same punishment--a sound thrashing; terminating in his being lifted
up by the hair of the head, and stuck in a corner, whence his father,
with a severe countenance and awful voice, would tell him "to venture
to move at his peril."
Venture to move, however, he did, for no sooner would the father
disappear, than all the cries and tears of the boy would disappear
too; and with many of those winks and grins which afterwards became so
popular, he would recommence his pantomime with greater vigour than
ever; indeed, nothing could ever stop him but the cry of "Joe! Joe!
here's your father!" upon which the boy would dart back into the old
corner, and begin crying again as if he had never left off.
This became quite a regular amusement in course of time, and whether
the father was coming or not, the caution used to be given for the mere
pleasure of seeing "Joe" run back to his corner; this "Joe" very soon
discovered, and often confounding the warning with the joke, received
more severe beatings than before, from him whom he very properly
describes in his manuscript as his "severe but excellent parent." On
one of these occasions, when he was dressed for his favourite part of
the little clown in Robinson Crusoe, with his face painted in exact
imitation of his father's, which appears to have been part of the fun
of the scene, the old gentleman brought him into the green-room, and
placing him in his usual solitary corner, gave him strict directions
not to stir an inch, on pain of being thrashed, and left him.
The Earl of Derby, who was at that time in the constant habit of
frequenting the green-room, happened to walk in at the moment, and
seeing a lonesome-looking little boy dressed and painted after a manner
very inconsistent with his solitary air, good-naturedly called him
towards him.
"Hollo! here, my boy, come here!" said the Earl.
Joe made a wonderful and astonishing face, but remained where he was.
The Earl laughed heartily, and looked round for an explanation.
"He dare not move!" explained Miss Farren, to whom his lordship was
then much attached, and whom he afterwards married; "his father will
beat him if he does."
"Indeed!" said his lordship. At which Joe, by way of confirmation, made
another face more extraordinary than his former contortions.
"I think," said his lordship, laughing again, "the boy is not quite so
much afraid of his father as you suppose. Come here, sir!"
With this, he held up half-a-crown, and the child, perfectly well
knowing the value of money, darted from his corner, seized it with
pantomimic suddenness, and was darting back again, when the Earl caught
him by the arm.
"Here, Joe!" said the Earl, "take off your wig and throw it in the
fire, and here's another half-crown for you."
No sooner said than done. Off came the wig,--into the fire it went; a
roar of laughter arose; the child capered about with a half-crown in
each hand; the Earl, alarmed for the consequences to the boy, busied
himself to extricate the wig with the tongs and poker; and the father,
in full dress for the Shipwrecked Mariner, rushed into the room at the
same moment. It was lucky for "Little Joe" that Lord Derby promptly
and humanely interfered, or it is exceedingly probable that his father
would have prevented any chance of _his_ being buried alive at all
events, by killing him outright.
As it was, the matter could not be compromised without his receiving
a smart beating, which made him cry very bitterly; and the tears
running down his face, which was painted "an inch thick," came to the
"complexion at last," in parts, and made him look as much like a little
clown as like a little human being, to neither of which characters he
bore the most distant resemblance. He was "called" almost immediately
afterwards, and the father being in a violent rage, had not noticed the
circumstance until the little object came on the stage, when a general
roar of laughter directed his attention to his grotesque countenance.
Becoming more violent than before, he fell upon him at once, and beat
him severely, and the child roared vociferously. This was all taken by
the audience as a most capital joke; shouts of laughter and peals of
applause shook the house; and the newspapers next morning declared,
that it was perfectly wonderful to see a mere child perform so
naturally, and highly creditable to his father's talents as a teacher!
This is no bad illustration of some of the miseries of a poor actor's
life. The jest on the lip, and the tear in the eye, the merriment on
the mouth, and the aching of the heart, have called down the same
shouts of laughter and peals of applause a hundred times. Characters
in a state of starvation are almost invariably laughed at upon the
stage--the audience have had their dinner.
The bitterest portion of the boy's punishment was the being deprived
of the five shillings, which the excellent parent put into his own
pocket, possibly because he received the child's salary also, and in
order that everything might be, as Goldsmith's Bear-leader has it, "in
a concatenation accordingly," The Earl gave him half-a-crown every time
he saw him afterwards though, and the child had good cause for regret
when his lordship married Miss Farren,[5] and left the green-room.
[Illustration: George Cruikshank
_Joe's debut into the Pit, at Sadler's Wells._]
At Sadler's Wells he became a favourite almost as speedily as at Drury
Lane. King, the comedian,[6] who was principal proprietor of the
former theatre and acting manager of the latter, took a great deal
of notice of him, and occasionally gave the child a guinea to buy a
rocking-horse or a cart, or some toy that struck his fancy. During
the run of the first piece in which he played at Sadler's Wells, he
produced his first serious effect, which, but for the good fortune
which seems to have attended him in such cases, might have prevented
his subsequent appearance on any stage. He played a monkey, and had
to accompany the clown (his father) throughout the piece. In one of
the scenes, the clown used to lead him on by a chain attached to his
waist, and with this chain he would swing him round and round, at
arm's length, with the utmost velocity. One evening, when this feat
was in the act of performance, the chain broke, and he was hurled a
considerable distance into the pit, fortunately without sustaining the
slightest injury; for he was flung by a miracle into the very arms
of an old gentleman who was sitting gazing at the stage with intense
interest.
Among the many persons who in this early stage of his career behaved
with great kindness to him, were the famous rope-dancers, Mr. and Mrs.
Redigé, then called Le Petit Diable,[7] and La Belle Espagnole; who
often gave him a guinea to buy some childish luxury, which his father
invariably took away and deposited in a box, with his name written
outside, which he would lock very carefully, and then, giving the boy
the key, say, "Mind, Joe, ven I die, dat is your vortune." Eventually
he lost both the box and the fortune, as will hereafter appear.
As he had now nearly four months vacant out of every twelve, the run
of the Christmas pantomime at Drury Lane seldom exceeding a month, and
Sadler's Wells not opening until Easter, he was sent for that period
of the year to a boarding-school at Putney, kept by a Mr. Ford, of
whose kindness and goodness of heart to him on a later occasion of his
life, he spoke, when an old man, with the deepest gratitude. He fell in
here with many schoolfellows who afterwards became connected one way
or another with dramatic pursuits, among whom was Mr. Henry Harris, of
Covent Garden Theatre. We do not find that any of these schoolfellows
afterwards became pantomime actors; but recollecting the humour and
vivacity of the boy, the wonder to us is, that they were not all clowns
when they grew up. In the Christmas of 1782, he appeared in his
second character[8] at Drury Lane, called "Harlequin Junior; or, the
Magic Cestus," in which he represented a demon, sent by some opposing
magician to counteract the power of the harlequin. In this, as in his
preceding part, he was fortunate enough to meet with great applause;
and from this period his reputation was made, although it naturally
increased with his years, strength, and improvement.
In the following Easter[9] he repeated the monkey at Sadler's Wells
without the pit effect. As the piece was withdrawn at the end of a
month, and he had nothing to do for the remainder of the season, he
again repaired to Putney.
In Christmas 1783, he once more appeared at Drury Lane, in a pantomime
called "Hurly Burly."[10] In this piece he had to represent, not
only the old part of the monkey, but that of a cat besides; and in
sustaining the latter character he met with an accident, his speedy
recovery from which would almost induce one to believe that he had
so completely identified himself with the character as to have eight
additional chances for his life. The dress he wore was so clumsily
contrived, that when it was sewn upon him he could not see before
him; consequently, as he was running about the stage, he fell down a
trap-door, which had been left open to represent a well, and tumbled
down a distance of forty feet, thereby breaking his collar-bone,
and inflicting several contusions upon his body. He was immediately
conveyed home, and placed under the care of a surgeon, but he did not
recover soon enough to appear any more that season at Drury Lane,
although at Easter he performed at Sadler's Wells as usual.
In the summer of this year, he used to be allowed, as a mark of high
and special favour, to spend every alternate Sunday at the house
of his mother's father, "who," says Grimaldi himself, "resided in
Newton-street, Holborn, and was a carcase butcher, doing a prodigious
business; besides which, he kept the Bloomsbury slaughter-house, and,
at the time of his death, had done so for more than sixty years."
With this grandfather, "Joe" was a great favourite; and as he was
very much indulged and petted when he went to see him, he used to
look forward to every visit with great anxiety. His father, upon
his part, was most anxious that he should support the credit of the
family upon these occasions, and, after great deliberation, and much
consultation with tailors, the "little clown" was attired for one of
these Sunday excursions in the following style. On his back he wore a
green coat, embroidered with almost as many artificial flowers as his
father had put in the garden at Lambeth; beneath this there shone a
satin waistcoat of dazzling whiteness; and beneath that again were a
pair of green cloth breeches (the word existed in those days) richly
embroidered. His legs were fitted into white silk stockings, and his
feet into shoes with brilliant paste buckles, of which he also wore
another resplendent pair at his knees: he had a laced shirt, cravat,
and ruffles; a cocked-hat upon his head; a small watch set with
diamonds--theatrical, we suppose--in his fob; and a little cane in his
hand, which he switched to and fro as our clowns may do now.
Being thus thoroughly equipped for starting, he was taken in for his
father's inspection: the old gentleman was pleased to signify his
entire approbation with his appearance, and, after kissing him in the
moment of his gratification, demanded the key of the "fortune-box."
The key being got with some difficulty out of one of the pockets of
the green smalls, the bottom of which might be somewhere near the
buckles, the old gentleman took a guinea out of the box, and, putting
it into the boy's pocket, said, "Dere now, you are a gentleman, and
something more--you have got a guinea in your pocket." The box having
been carefully locked, and the key returned to the owner of the
"fortune," off he started, receiving strict injunctions to be home by
eight o'clock. The father would not allow anybody to attend him, on
the ground that he was a gentleman, and consequently perfectly able to
take care of himself; so away he went, to walk all the way from Little
Russel-street, Drury-lane, to Newton-street, Holborn.
The child's appearance in the street excited considerable curiosity,
as the appearance of any other child, alone, in such a costume, might
very probably have done; but he was a public character besides, and
the astonishment was proportionate. "Hollo!" cried one boy, "here's
'Little Joe!'" "Get along," said another, "it's the monkey." A third,
thought it was the "bear dressed for a dance," and the fourth suggested
"it might be the cat going out to a party," while the more sedate
passengers could not help laughing heartily, and saying how ridiculous
it was to trust such a child in the streets alone. However, he walked
on, with various singular grimaces, until he stopped to look at a
female of miserable appearance, who was reclining on the pavement, and
whose diseased and destitute aspect had already collected a crowd. The
boy stopped, like others, and hearing her tale of distress, became so
touched, that he thrust his hand into his pocket, and having at last
found the bottom of it, pulled out his guinea, which was the only coin
he had, and slipped it into her hand; then away he walked again with a
greater air than before.
The sight of the embroidered coat, and breeches, and the paste buckles,
and the satin waistcoat and cocked-hat, had astonished the crowd not
a little in the outset; but directly it was understood that the small
owner of these articles had given the woman a guinea, a great number of
people collected around him, and began shouting and staring by turns
most earnestly. The boy, not at all abashed, headed the crowd, and
walked on very deliberately, with a train a street or two long behind
him, until he fortunately encountered a friend of his father's, who no
sooner saw the concourse that attended him, than he took him in his
arms and carried him, despite a few kicks and struggles, in all his
brilliant attire, to his grandfather's house, where he spent the day
very much to the satisfaction of all parties concerned.
[Illustration: George Cruikshank
_Master Joey going to visit his Godpapa._]
When he got safely home at night, the father referred to his watch,
and finding that he had returned home punctual to the appointed time,
kissed him, extolled him for paying such strict attention to his
instructions, examined his dress, discovered satisfactorily that no
injury had been done to his clothes, and concluded by asking for the
key of the "fortune-box," and the guinea. The boy, at first, quite
forgot the morning adventure; but, after rummaging his pockets for
the guinea, and not finding it, he recollected what had occurred,
and, falling upon the knees of the knee-smalls, confessed it all, and
implored forgiveness.
The father was puzzled; he was always giving away money in charity
himself, and he could scarcely reprimand the child for doing the same.
He looked at him for some seconds with a perplexed countenance, and
then, contenting himself with simply saying, "I'll beat you," sent him
to bed.
Among the eccentricities of the old gentleman, one--certainly not his
most amiable one--was, that whatever he promised he performed; and
that when, as in this case, he promised to thrash the boy, he would
very coolly let the matter stand over for months, but never forget it
in the end. This was ingenious, inasmuch as it doubled, or trebled,
or quadrupled the punishment, giving the unhappy little victim all
the additional pain of anticipating it for a long time, with the
certainty of enduring it in the end. Four or five months after this
occurrence, and when the child had not given his father any new cause
of offence, he suddenly called him to him one day, and communicated
the intelligence that he was going to beat him forthwith. Hereupon the
boy began to cry most piteously, and faltered forth the inquiry, "Oh!
father, what for?"--"Remember the guinea!" said the father. And he gave
him a caning which he remembered to the last day of his life.
The family consisted at this time of the father, mother, Joe, his only
brother John Baptist, three or four female servants, and a man of
colour who acted as footman, and was dignified with the appellation of
"Black Sam."
The father was extremely hospitable, and fond of company; he rarely
dined alone, and on certain gala days, of which Christmas-eve
was one, had a very large party, upon which occasions his really
splendid service of plate, together with various costly articles of
_bijouterie_, were laid out for the admiration of the guests. Upon
one Christmas-eve, when the dining-parlour was decorated and prepared
with all due gorgeousness and splendour, the two boys, accompanied by
Black Sam, stole into it, and began to pass various encomiums on its
beautiful appearance.
"Ah!" said Sam, in reply to some remark of the brothers, "and when old
Massa die, all dese fine things vill be yours."
Both the boys were much struck with this remark, and especially John,
the younger, who, being extremely young, probably thought much less
about death than his father, and accordingly exclaimed, without the
least reserve or delicacy, that he should be exceedingly glad if all
these fine things were his.
Nothing more was said upon the subject. Black Sam went to his work,
the boys commenced a game of play, and nobody thought any more of
the matter except the father himself, who, passing the door of the
room at the moment the remarks were made, distinctly heard them. He
pondered over the matter for some days, and at length, with the view
of ascertaining the dispositions of his two sons, formed a singular
resolution, still connected with the topic ever upwards in his mind,
and determined to feign himself dead. He caused himself to be laid out
in the drawing-room, covered with a sheet, and had the room darkened,
the windows closed, and all the usual ceremonies which accompany death,
performed. All this being done, and the servants duly instructed, the
two boys were cautiously informed that their father had died suddenly,
and were at once hurried into the room where he lay, in order that he
might hear them give vent to their real feelings.[11]
When Joe was brought into the dark room on so short a notice, his
sensations were rather complicated, but they speedily resolved
themselves into a firm persuasion that his father was not dead. A
variety of causes led him to this conclusion, among which the most
prominent were, his having very recently seen his father in the best
health; and, besides several half-suppressed winks and blinks from
Black Sam, his observing, by looking closely at the sheet, that his
deceased parent still breathed. With very little hesitation the boy
perceived what line of conduct he ought to adopt, and at once bursting
into a roar of the most distracted grief, flung himself upon the floor,
and rolled about in a seeming transport of anguish.
John, not having seen so much of public life as his brother, was not
so cunning, and perceiving in his father's death nothing but a relief
from flogging and books (for both of which he had a great dislike), and
the immediate possession of all the plate in the dining room, skipped
about the room, indulging in various snatches of song, and, snapping
his fingers, declared that he was glad to hear it.
"O! you cruel boy," said Joe, in a passion of tears, "hadn't you any
love for your dear father? Oh! what would I give to see him alive
again!"
"Oh! never mind," replied the brother; "don't be such a fool as to cry;
we can have the cuckoo-clock all to ourselves now."
This was more than the deceased could bear. He jumped from the bier,
opened the shutters, threw off the sheet, and attacked his younger son
most unmercifully; while Joe, not knowing what might be his own fate,
ran and hid himself in the coal-cellar, where he was discovered some
four hours afterwards, by Black Sam, fast asleep, who carried him to
his father, who had been anxiously in search of him, and by whom he was
received with every demonstration of affection, as the son who truly
and sincerely loved him.
From this period, up to the year 1788, he continued regularly employed
upon the same salaries as he had originally received both at Drury Lane
and Sadler's Wells.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Giuseppe Grimaldi was really "Iron Legs;" of the grandfather no
particulars are known. The father of our Joe was originally a pantomime
actor at the fairs in Italy and France, at the time these fairs
supplied the French Theatre with some of the finest dancers that have
conferred distinction on that stage. His first employment in England
was at the King's Theatre in the Haymarket, where the lighter kind of
ballet proving attractive, similar dances were introduced early in
the season 1758, 1759, on the boards of Drury Lane and Covent Garden
Theatres. At the former, under Garrick's management, a new pantomime
dance, entitled "The Millers," was performed for the first time,
October 12th, 1758; in which Signor Grimaldi, it was announced, made
his first appearance on the English Stage. A writer in the "London
Chronicle," in reference to this piece, observes, as regards the
debutant--"Grimaldi is a man of great strength and agility; he indeed
treads the air. If he has any fault, he is rather too comical; and from
some feats of his performing, which I have been a witness to, at the
King's Theatre, in the Haymarket, those spectators will see him, it is
my opinion, with most pleasure, who are least solicitous whether he
breaks his neck, or not." In reference to the dance of "The Millers,"
composed by Grimaldi, then deemed an innovation, he continues:--
"Some people hold dancing to be below the dignity of a regular theatre;
but I can by no means subscribe to their opinion, since one of the
principal ends of every theatre, is to delight; and everything that can
contribute to that purpose, under proper restrictions, has an undoubted
right to a place there. I shall not affect to show my learning, by
adding, the ancients not only admitted dancing, but thought it a
necessary ornament in the performance of the most celebrated tragedies.
"The French in this kind of merit, for many years carried all before
them; but of late the Italians seem to have the start of them; and
it must be allowed, the latter are much better actors, which, in the
comic dance that now almost everywhere prevails, is infinitely more
requisite, than those graceful postures and movements on which the
French dancers for the most part pique themselves; but in this case a
vast deal depends on the Maître de Ballet; and whoever composed 'The
Millers,' has, I think, shown himself a man of genius; the figure of
the contra-danse being pleasingly intricate, and the whole admirably
well adapted to the music. I cannot, however, help observing, he has
been indebted to Don Quixote; for when Signor Grimaldi comes in asleep
on his ass, it is stolen from under him in the same manner that Gines
de Passamont robs poor Sancho of his, and the same joy is testified by
both parties in the recovery of the beloved brute."
The Drury Lane playbill, October 10, 1761, announced as "not acted this
season," a Comedy called the Confederacy; Brass, Mr. King; Flippanta,
Mrs. Clive. At the end of Act II. an entertainment of Dancing, called
the Italian Gardener, by Signor Grimaldi, Miss Baker, &c. Garrick's
Pageant of the Coronation concluded the night's diversion.
From his first appearance in October, 1758, Grimaldi continued at
Drury Lane as Maître de Ballet, Primo Buffo, Clown, Pantaloon, or
Cherokee, or any part required in the ballet, till his death. The
dancers, it would appear, were not paid during the whole season, but
for certain periods; in the interim they were employed, under certain
restrictions, at other places of amusement. Those belonging to Drury
Lane, in Garrick's time, were in the summer months, and from Easter
to Michaelmas attached to Sadler's Wells; and in the bills which
announced the opening of that suburban theatre, at Easter, 1763 and
1764, Signor Grimaldi appears as Maître de Ballet, and chief dancer.
On May 1, in the latter year, Grimaldi, and an English dancer named
Aldridge, of considerable eminence in his profession, jointly had a
benefit; Shakspeare's "Tempest" was performed, as also the pantomime
of "Fortunatus," Harlequin by Signor Grimaldi. In the September of the
same year, at Sadler's Wells, the Signor had another benefit; the bill
of the evening is subjoined:
FOR THE BENEFIT OF SIGNOR GRIMALDI.
AT SADLER'S WELLS, ISLINGTON.
On Wednesday, September 19, 1764, will be exhibited a Variety of New
Performances.
Dancing both serious and comic, viz.:--1. "The Miller's Dance," by
Signor Duval, Signor Amoire, Signora Mercucius, Mrs. Preston, and
others.--2. "The Shoemakers," by Signor Grimaldi, Signor Amoire,
Miss Wilkinson, and others.--3. "The Country Wedding," by Signor
Duval, Signor Amoire, Signora Mercucius, Miss Wilkinson, and
Signor Grimaldi, and others.
And by particular desire, for that night only,
A Double Hornpipe by Master Cape and Miss Taylor.
Tumbling by Mr. Sturgess, Signor Pedro, and Mr. Garman.
Singing by Mr. Prentice, Mr. Cooke, and Miss Brown.
With a variety of Curious Performances by
THE VENETIAN AND HIS CHILDREN.
The Wire by Master Wilkinson.
The Musical Glasses by Miss Wilkinson, accompanied by Master Wilkinson.
The whole to conclude with a New Entertainment of Music and Dancing,
called
D O N Q U I X O T E.
Harlequin Mr. Banks.
Don Quixote, Mr. Niepeker. Sancho, Mr. Warner.
Columbine Miss Wilkinson.
The Paintings, Music, and Habits, are all entirely New.
Pit and Boxes, 2s. 6d. Gallery, 1s. 6d.
[To begin exactly at Six.] [Vivant Rex et Regina.]
Tickets and Places to be had of Signor Grimaldi, at the New
Tunbridge Wells; and he begs the favour of those Ladies and
Gentlemen, who have already taken Places, to send their
servants by Half-an-Hour after Four o'clock.
At Drury Lane, December 26, in the same year, was performed the Tragedy
of "The Earl of Essex" at the end of Act IV. a Dance called "The Irish
Lilt," by Mr. Aldridge, Miss Baker, and others. After which, not
performed these three years, an Entertainment in Italian Grotesque
Characters, called "Queen Mab." Harlequin, by Mr. Rooker; Pantaloon,
by Signor Grimaldi; Silvio, by Mr. Baddeley; Puck, Master Cape; Queen
Mab, by Miss Ford; Columbine, by Miss Baker. The facetious Ned Rooker,
principal Harlequin at Drury Lane, was a painter of great excellence:
his paintings and drawings are still held in high repute, and his
theatrical scenery was not surpassed in his time; some of it was in use
till recently at the Haymarket Theatre.
Grimaldi continued at Sadler's Wells till the close of the season of
1767, and never afterwards was employed there. Signor Spinacuti and his
"funambulistical" monkey, so took the town by surprise in 1768, that
dancing at that theatre was altogether thrown into the back-ground.
[2] Henry Angelo, in his _Reminiscences_, gives a different version
of this story. "The father of Grimaldi, for many years the favourite
clown, was my dancing-master when I was a boy, and encouraged my
harlequin and monkey tricks; he related the anecdote to me, himself,
and I am therefore justified in repeating it. At the time of the riots,
in June, 1780, he resided in a front room, on the second floor in
Holborn, on the same side of the way near to Red Lion Square, when the
mob passing by the house, and Grimaldi being a foreigner, they thought
he must be a papist. On hearing he lived there, they all stopped,
and there was a general shouting; a cry of 'No Popery!' was raised,
and they were about to assail the house, when Grimaldi, who had been
listening all the time, and knew their motives, put his head out of the
window from the second floor, and making comical grimaces, called out,
'Genteelmen, in dis hose dere be no religion at all.' Laughing at their
mistake, the mob proceeded on, first giving him three huzzas, though
his house, unlike all the others, had not written on the door--'No
Popery!'"
[3] Joe, from some erroneous information he had received, always
stated he was born in Stanhope-street, Clare-market, December 18,
1779; he mentioned this in his farewell address at Sadler's Wells,
and again subscribed that date at the end of his autobiographical
notes. He was in error: a reference to the baptismal register of St.
Clement's Danes, proved he was born on December 18, 1778, and that he
was baptized as the son of Joseph and Rebecca, on the 28th of the same
month and year. From this entry, it might be inferred that Joe was
legitimate; but we are sorry to be compelled to record that he was not
so. Rebecca was Mrs. Brooker, who had been from her infancy a dancer
at Drury Lane, and subsequently, at Sadler's Wells, played old women,
or anything to render herself generally useful. Mr. Hughes and others
who well remember her, describe her as having been a short, stout, very
dark woman. The same baptismal register from 1773 to 1788, has been
carefully inspected, but no mention occurs of Joe's only brother, John
Baptist, or of any other of the Grimaldi family.
[4] Joe's first appearance was at Sadler's Wells, not at Drury Lane;
the announcement bill for the opening on April 16, Easter Monday,
1781, of the former theatre, tells us of Dancing by Mr. Le Mercier,
Mr. Languish, Master and Miss Grimaldi, and Mrs. Sutton. Here we see
Joe, and his sister Mary, afterwards Mrs. Williamson, thrust forward
sufficiently early to earn their bread. Grimaldi, in his farewell
address, on his last appearance at Sadler's Wells, pathetically alluded
to this fact--"at a very early age, before that of three years, I was
introduced to the public, by my father, at this theatre."
That Joe did not play the "Little Clown" in Sheridan's Pantomime of
"Robinson Crusoe," is evident from the construction of the drama. On
January 29, 1781, after the "Winter's Tale," Florizel, Mr. Brereton;
Perdita, Mrs. Brereton, afterwards Mrs. J. P. Kemble; and Hermione,
Miss Farren; was performed, for the first time, "Robinson Crusoe;
or, Harlequin Friday." The bill of the night lets us know, that the
principal characters were by Mr. Wright, Mr. Grimaldi, Mr. Delpini,
Mr. Suett, Mr. Gaudry, and Miss Collett. This pantomime was performed
thirty-eight times that season. Grimaldi played Friday, not the
"Shipwrecked Mariner;" and the probability is, that young Joe made his
first appearance on the boards of Old Drury, in the Pantomime of 1782,
entitled "The Triumph of Mirth; or, Harlequin's Wedding," the principal
characters in which were by Wright, Grimaldi, and Delpini. There were
many minor persons of the drama.
[5] Miss Farren, previously to her marriage with the Earl of Derby,
took her final leave of the stage, as Lady Teazle, in "The School for
Scandal," April 8, 1797.
[6] Tom King was the manager of Sadler's Wells Theatre from Easter,
1772, till the close of the season, 1782; when, on Sheridan's
resignation as manager of Drury Lane, King succeeded him in September,
1782, and relinquished the management of Sadler's Wells to Wroughton,
whose term commenced at Easter, 1783. We have already explained that
Joe's father was not employed at Sadler's Wells in 1781; and yet,
perhaps in consideration of Master and Miss, Signor Grimaldi had a
benefit at that theatre, on Thursday, September 12, 1782; the usual
diversions were announced, but he did not take any part in the business
of the evening. The bills announced, "Tickets and Places to be had only
of Mr. Grimaldi, at No. 5, Princes Street, Drury Lane, and opposite
Sadler's Wells Gate." Signor Placido's night followed on Monday,
September 16, when, with other new amusements, was introduced "A new
Pantomime Dance, for the first time, called 'The Woodcutter; or, the
Lucky Mischance,' characters by Mr. Dupuis, then principal dancer at
the Wells, Mr. Meunier, Mr. Grimaldi, Mrs. Sutton, Signor Placido, and
the Little Devil, being their first Pantomimical performance in this
kingdom." This was the only appearance of Signor Grimaldi at the Wells
in 1782; for which, possibly, he was paid by Placido.
Young Joe's introduction to Sadler's Wells, in 1781, as also the
benefit here noticed, in 1782, were kindnesses probably rendered to
Grimaldi by Tom King, during the last two years of his management.
Reynolds, the dramatist, was wont to relate a droll story of the
Signor, which may not improperly be told here. "Walking one day in
Pall Mall with Tom King, we met the celebrated clown, Grimaldi, father
of Joe Grimaldi, approaching us with a face of the most ludicrous
astonishment and delight, when he exclaimed: 'Oh, vatt a clevare
fellow dat Sheridan is!--shall I tell you?--oui--yes; I vill, bien
donc. I could no nevare see him at de theatre, so je vais chez lui,
to his house in Hertford-street, muffled in de great coat, and I say,
'Domestique!--you hear?' 'Yes, Sare.' 'Vell, den, tell your master, dat
Mistare--you know, de Mayor of Stafford be below.' Domestique fly; and
on de instant I vas shown into de drawing-room. In von more minuet,
Sheridan leave his dinner party, enter de room hastily--stop suddenly,
and say, 'How dare you, Grim, play me such a trick?' Then putting
himself into von grand passion, he go on: 'Go, Sare!--get out of my
house!' 'Begar,' say I, placing my back against de door, 'not till you
pay me my forty pounds;' and then I point to de pen, ink, and paper, on
von small tables in de corner, and say, 'Dere, write me de check, and
de Mayor shall go vitement--entendez-vous? If not, morbleu! I shall--'
"'Oh!' interrupted dis clevare man, 'if I must, Grim, I must,' and as
if he vare très-pressé--vary hurry, he write de draft, and pushing
it into my hand, he squeeze it, and I do push it into my pocket. Eh
bien!--vell, den, I do make haste to de banquier, and giving it to de
clerks, I say, vitement, 'four tens, if you please, Sare. 'Four tens!'
he say, with much surprise; 'de draft be only for four pounds!' O, vat
a clevare fellow dat Sheridan is! Vell, den, I say, 'If you please,
Sare, donnez-moi donc, dose four pounds.' And den he say, 'Call again
to-morrow.' Next day, I meet de manager in de street, and I say,
'Mistare Sheridan! have you forget?' and den he laugh, and say, 'Vy,
Grim, I recollected afterwards--I left out de 0!' O, vat a clevare
fellow dat Sheridan is!'"
Again meeting Grimaldi, some months afterwards, Reynolds asked him,
whether the manager had found means to pay him the amount of his
dishonoured cheque. He replied in the affirmative; but with a look and
tone of voice so altered, it seemed as if the successful adroitness of
Sheridan's ruse contre ruse, had afforded him more enjoyment, and given
him a higher opinion of the manager as "a clevare fellow," than the
mere passing business affair of paying him his demand.
[7] Paulo Redigé, "Le Petit Diable," made his first appearance at
Sadler's Wells with Placide, the "French Voltigeur," under the
Italianised name of Signor Placido, on Easter Monday, 1781, on the
same night with young Joe. La Belle Espagnole, whom Angelo describes
as "a very beautiful woman," made her first appearance at the same
theatre, on April 1, 1785; having, as the bills expressed it, "been
celebrated at Paris all the winter, for her very elegant and wonderful
performances." She soon after became the wife of the "Little Devil."
Paulo, the late clown, was their son, and might be almost said to have
been born within the walls of that theatre. The manager's attentions
to this beautiful Spaniard were the cause of much jealousy to Mrs.
Wroughton, and some ludicrous stories are still afloat.
[8] The pantomime of "Harlequin Junior; or, the Magic Cestus," was
performed for the first time, on Wednesday, January 7, 1784, not
Christmas, 1782; and was highly successful, from the excellence of the
characters, the beautiful scenery, and the new deceptions--Grimaldi,
as Clown, obtruding into a hot-house, became suddenly transformed into
a fine large water-melon; in another scene, changed into a goose, his
affected airs in displaying his tail in the peacock style, set the
house in roars of laughter. The change of the Bank of Paris into an
air-balloon, was a trick that obtained a full plaudit. So great, in
fact, was the attraction, it was not only frequently performed during
the remainder of the season, 1783-4, but also in that of 1784-5, being
revived on September 28, 1784, and repeated in lieu of a new pantomime,
on December 27, in that year, and it ran its full complement of
representations as a new piece.
[9] We do not find that at Easter, 1784, any piece was withdrawn in
which a monkey was likely to be introduced. The Sieur Scaglioni's troop
of Dancing Dogs, and their sagacious manoeuvres, made up speedily
for the losses of the previous season. The pantomime was entitled
"The Enchanted Wood; or, Harlequin's Vagaries;" a dance called the
"Fricassee;" and the whole concluded with the "Death and Revival of
Harlequin," which "ran" the whole of the season.
[10] A pantomimical olio, entitled "The Caldron," in which Grimaldi
played Clown, was produced at Drury-lane, September 27, 1785, performed
a few nights, and withdrawn. The pantomime of "Hurly Burly; or, the
Fairy of the Wells," was produced for the first time, on December 26,
in that year, and not at Christmas, 1783. Grimaldi played "Clodpate,"
the Clown, in this piece: it was very successful.
[11] A similar scene has been frequently represented on the stage. It
is probable that the father derived the notion from some play in which
he had acted, or which he had seen performed.
CHAPTER II.
1788 to 1794.
The Father's real Death--His Will, and failure of the
Executor--Generous conduct of Grimaldi's Schoolmaster, and of
Mr. Wroughton, the Comedian--Kindness of Sheridan--Grimaldi's
industry and amusements--Fly catching--Expedition in search of
the "Dartford Blues"--Mrs. Jordan--Adventure on Clapham Common:
the piece of Tin--His first love and its consequences.
It has been stated in several publications that Grimaldi's father
died in 1787. It would appear from several passages in the memoranda
dictated by his son, that he expired on the 14th of March, 1788, of
dropsy, in the seventy-eighth year[12] of his age, and that he was
interred in the burial-ground attached to Exmouth-street Chapel; a spot
of ground in which, if it bore any resemblance at that time to its
present condition, he could have had very little room to walk about
and meditate when alive. He left a will, by which he directed all his
effects and jewels to be sold by public auction, and the proceeds to be
added to his funded property, which exceeded 15,000_l._; the whole of
the gross amount, he directed should be divided equally between the two
brothers as they respectively attained their majority. Mr. King,[13] to
whom allusion has already been made, was appointed co-executor with
a Mr. Joseph Hopwood, a lace manufacturer in Long-acre, at that time
supposed to possess not only an excellent business, but independent
property to a considerable amount besides. Shortly after they entered
upon their office, in consequence of Mr. King declining to act, the
whole of the estate fell to the management of Mr. Hopwood, who,
employing the whole of the brothers' capital in his trade, became a
bankrupt within a year, fled from England, and was never heard of
afterwards. By this unfortunate and unforeseen event, the brothers lost
the whole of their fortune, and were thrown upon their own resources
and exertions for the means of subsistence.
It is very creditable to all parties, and while it speaks highly for
the kind feeling of the friends of the widow, and her two sons, bears
high testimony to their conduct and behaviour, that no sooner was the
failure of the executor known than offers of assistance were heaped
upon them from all quarters. Mr. Ford, the Putney schoolmaster, offered
at once to receive Joseph into his school and to adopt him as his
own son; this offer being declined by his mother, Mr. Sheridan, who
was then proprietor of Drury Lane Theatre, raised the boy's salary,
unasked, to one pound per week, and permitted his mother, who was and
had been from her infancy a dancer at that establishment, to accept a
similar engagement at Sadler's Wells, which was, in fact, equivalent to
a double salary, both theatres being open together for a considerable
period of the year.
At Sadler's Wells, where Joseph appeared as usual in 1788,[14] shortly
after his father's death, they were not so liberal, nor was the aspect
of things so pleasing, his salary of fifteen shillings a-week being
very unceremoniously cut down to three, and his mother being politely
informed, upon her remonstrating, that if the alteration did not suit
her, he was at perfect liberty to transfer his valuable services to any
other house. Small as the pittance was, they could not afford to refuse
it; and at that salary he remained at Sadler's Wells for three years,
occasionally superintending the property-room, sometimes assisting in
the carpenter's, and sometimes in the painter's, and, in fact, lending
a hand wherever it was most needed.
When the defalcation of the executor took place, the family were
compelled to give up their comfortable establishment, and to seek for
lodgings of an inferior description. His mother knowing a Mr. and Mrs.
Bailey, who then resided in Great Wild-street, and who let lodgings,
applied to them, and there they lived, in three rooms on the first
floor, for several years. The brother could not be prevailed upon to
accept any regular engagement, for he thought and dreamt of nothing
but going to sea, and evinced the utmost detestation of the stage.
Sometimes, when boys were wanted in the play at Drury Lane, he was
sent for, and attended, for which he received a shilling per night;
but so great was his unwillingness and evident dissatisfaction on
such occasions, that Mr. Wroughton, the comedian, who, by purchasing
the property of Mr. King, became about this period[15] proprietor of
Sadler's Wells, stepped forward in the boy's behalf, and obtained for
him a situation on board an East-Indiaman, which then lay in the river,
and was about to sail almost immediately.
John was delighted when the prospect of realizing his ardent wishes
opened upon him so suddenly; but his raptures were diminished by the
discovery that an outfit was indispensable, and that it would cost
upwards of fifty pounds: a sum which, it is scarcely necessary to say,
his friends, in their reduced position, could not command. But the same
kind-hearted gentleman removed this obstacle, and with a generosity
and readiness which enhanced the value of the gift an hundredfold,
advanced, without security or obligation, the whole sum required,
merely saying, "Mind, John, when you come to be a captain you must pay
it me back again."
There is no difficulty in providing the necessaries for a voyage
to any part of the world when you have provided the first and most
important--money. In two days, John took his leave of his mother and
brother, and with his outfit, or kit, was safely deposited on board the
vessel in which a berth had been procured for him; but the boy, who was
of a rash, hasty, and inconsiderate temper, finding, on going on board,
that a delay of ten days would take place before the ship sailed, and
that a king's ship, which lay near her, was just then preparing to drop
down to Gravesend with the tide, actually swam from his own ship to
the other, entered himself as a seaman or cabin-boy on board the latter
in some feigned name,--what it was his friends never heard,--and so
sailed immediately, leaving every article of his outfit, down to the
commonest necessary of wearing apparel, on board the East-Indiaman,
on the books of which he had been entered through the kindness of Mr.
Wroughton. He disappeared in 1789, and he was not heard of, or from, or
seen, for fourteen years afterwards.
At this period of his life, Joseph was far from idle; he had to walk
from Drury Lane to Sadler's Wells every morning to attend rehearsals,
which then began at ten o'clock; to be back at Drury Lane to dinner
by two, or go without it; to be back again at Sadler's Wells in the
evening, in time for the commencement of the performances at six
o'clock; to go through uninterrupted labour from that time until eleven
o'clock, or later; and then to walk home again, repeatedly after having
changed his dress twenty times in the course of the night.
Occasionally, when the performances at Sadler's Wells were prolonged so
that the curtain fell very nearly at the same time as the concluding
piece at Drury Lane began, he was so pressed for time as to be
compelled to dart out of the former theatre at his utmost speed, and
never to stop until he reached his dressing-room at the latter. That he
could use his legs to pretty good advantage at this period of his life,
two anecdotes will sufficiently show.
On one occasion, when by unforeseen circumstances he was detained at
Sadler's Wells beyond the usual time, he and Mr. Fairbrother (the
father of the well-known theatrical printer), who, like himself, was
engaged at both theatres, and had agreed to accompany him that evening,
started hand-in-hand from Sadler's Wells theatre, and ran to the
stage-door of Drury Lane in eight minutes by the stop watches which
they carried. Grimaldi adds, that this was considered a great feat at
the time; and we should think it was.
Another night, during the time when the Drury Lane company were playing
at the Italian Opera-house in the Haymarket, in consequence of the old
theatre being pulled down and a new one built, Mr. Fairbrother and
himself, again put to their utmost speed by lack of time, ran from
Sadler's Wells to the Opera-house in fourteen minutes, meeting with no
other interruption by the way than one which occurred at the corner
of Lincoln's Inn Fields, where they unfortunately ran against and
overturned an infirm old lady, without having time enough to pick her
up again. After Grimaldi's business at the Opera-house was over, (he
had merely to walk in the procession in Cymon,) he ran back alone to
Sadler's Wells in thirteen minutes, and arrived just in time to dress
for Clown in the concluding pantomime.
For some years his life went on quietly enough, possessing very little
of anecdote or interest beyond his steady and certain rise in his
profession and in the estimation of the public, which, although very
important to him from the money he afterwards gained by it, and to the
public from the amusement which his peculiar excellence yielded them
for so many years, offers no material for our present purpose. This
gradual progress in the good opinion of the town exercised a material
influence on his receipts; for, in 1794, his salary at Drury Lane
was trebled, while his salary at Sadler's Wells had risen from three
shillings per week to four pounds. He lodged in Great Wild-street with
his mother all this time: their landlord had died, and the widow's
daughter, from accompanying Mrs. Grimaldi[16] to Sadler's Wells theatre,
had formed an acquaintance with, and married Mr. Robert Fairbrother, of
that establishment, and Drury Lane, upon which Mrs. Bailey, the widow,
took Mr. Fairbrother into partnership as a furrier, in which pursuit,
by industry and perseverance, he became eminently successful.
This circumstance would be scarcely worth mentioning, but that it shows
the industry and perseverance of Grimaldi, and the ease with which, by
the exercise of those qualities, a very young person may overcome all
the disadvantages and temptations incidental to the most precarious
walk of a precarious pursuit, and become a useful and respectable
member of society. He earned many a guinea from Mr. Fairbrother by
working at his trade, and availing himself of his instruction in his
leisure hours; and when he could do nothing in that way, he would go to
Newton-street, and assist his uncle and cousin, the carcase butchers,
for nothing; such was his unconquerable antipathy to being idle. He
does not inform us, whether it required a practical knowledge of
trade, to display that skill and address with which, in his subsequent
prosperity, he would diminish the joints of his customers as a baker,
or increase the weight of their meat as a butcher, but we hope, for the
credit of trade, that his morals in this respect were wholly imaginary.
These were his moments of occupation, but he contrived to find moments
of amusement besides, which were devoted to the breeding of pigeons,
and collecting of insects, which latter amusement he pursued with such
success, as to form a cabinet containing no fewer than 4000 specimens
of flies, "collected," he says, "at the expense of a great deal of
time, a great deal of money, and a great deal of vast and actual
labour,"--for all of which, no doubt, the entomologist will deem him
sufficiently rewarded. He appears in old age to have entertained a
peculiar relish for the recollection of these pursuits, and calls to
mind a part of Surrey where there was a very famous fly, and a part
of Kent where there was another famous fly; one of these was called
the Camberwell Beauty (which he adds was very ugly), and another, the
Dartford Blue, by which Dartford Blue he seems to have set great store;
and which were pursued and caught in the manner following, in June,
1794, when they regularly make their first appearance for the season.
Being engaged nightly at Sadler's Wells, he was obliged to wait
till he had finished his business upon the stage: then he returned
home, had supper, and shortly after midnight started off to walk to
Dartford, fifteen miles from town. Here he arrived about five o'clock
in the morning, and calling upon a friend of the name of Brooks, who
lived in the neighbourhood, and who was already stirring, he rested,
breakfasted, and sallied forth into the fields. His search was not very
profitable, however, for after some hours he only succeeded in bagging,
or bottling, one "Dartford Blue," with which he returned to his friend
perfectly satisfied. At one o'clock he bade his friend good by, walked
back to town, reached London by five, washed, took tea, and hurried to
Sadler's Wells. No time was to be lost--the fact of the appearance of
the "Dartford Blues" having been thoroughly established--in securing
more specimens; so on the same night, directly the pantomime was over,
and supper over, too, off he walked down to Dartford again, found the
friend up again, took a hasty breakfast again, and resumed his search
again. Meeting with better sport, and capturing no fewer than four
dozen Dartford Blues, he hurried back to the friend's; set them--an
important process, which consists in placing the insects in the
position in which their natural beauty can be best displayed--started
off with the Dartford Blues in his pocket for London once more, reached
home by four o'clock in the afternoon, washed, and took a hasty meal,
and then went to the theatre for the evening's performance.
As not half the necessary number of Blues had been taken, he had
decided upon another visit to Dartford that same night, and was
consequently much pleased to find that, from some unforeseen
circumstance, the pantomime was to be played first. By this means he
was enabled to leave London at nine o'clock, to reach Dartford at one,
to find a bed and supper ready, to meet a kind reception from his
friend, and finally to turn into bed, a little tired with the two days'
exertions. The next day was Sunday, so that he could indulge himself
without being obliged to return to town, and in the morning he caught
more flies than he wanted; so the rest of the day was devoted to quiet
sociality. He went to bed at ten o'clock, rose early next morning,
walked comfortably to town, and at noon was perfect in his part, at the
rehearsal on the stage at Drury Lane theatre.
It is probable that by such means as these, united to temperance and
sobriety, Grimaldi acquired many important bodily requisites for the
perfection which he afterwards attained. But his love of entomology,
or exercise, was not the only inducement in the case of the Dartford
Blues; he had, he says, another strong motive, and this was, the having
promised a little collection of insects to "one of the most charming
women of her age,"--the lamented Mrs. Jordan, at that time a member of
the Drury Lane company.
Upon one occasion he had held under his arm, during a morning
rehearsal, a box containing some specimens of flies: Mrs. Jordan was
much interested to know what could possibly be in the box that Grimaldi
carried about with him with so much care, and would not lose sight
of for an instant, and in reply to her inquiry whether it contained
anything pretty, he replied by exhibiting the flies.
He does not say whether these particular flies, which Mrs. Jordan
admired, were Dartford Blues, or not; but he gives us to understand,
that his skill in preserving and arranging insects was really very
great; that all this trouble and fatigue were undertaken in a spirit
of respectful gallantry to the most winning person of her time; and
that, having requested permission previously, he presented two frames
of insects to Mrs. Jordan, on the first day of the new season, and
immediately after she had finished the rehearsal of Rosalind in "As you
like it;" that Mrs. Jordan was delighted, that he was at least equally
so, that she took the frames away in her carriage, and warmed his heart
by telling him that his Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence considered
the flies equal, if not superior, to any of the kind he had ever seen.
His only other companion in these trips, besides his Dartford friend,
was Robert Gomery, or "friend Bob," as he was called by his intimates,
at that time an actor at Sadler's Wells,[17] and for many years
afterwards a public favourite at the various minor theatres of the
metropolis; who is now, or was lately, enjoying a handsome independence
at Bath. With this friend he had a little adventure, which it was his
habit to relate with great glee.
One day, he had been fly-hunting with his friend, from early morning
until night, thinking of nothing but flies, until at length their
thoughts naturally turning to something more substantial, they halted
for refreshment.
"Bob," said Grimaldi, "I am very hungry."
"So am I," said Bob.
"There is a public-house," said Grimaldi.
"It is _just_ the very thing," observed the other.
It was a very neat public-house, and would have answered the purpose
admirably, but Grimaldi having no money, and very much doubting whether
his friend had either, did not respond to the sentiment quite so
cordially as he might have done.
"We had better go in," said the friend; "it is getting late--_you_
pay."
"No, no! you."
"I would in a minute," said his friend, "but I have not got any money."
Grimaldi thrust his hand into his right pocket with one of his queerest
faces, then into his left, then into his coat pockets, then into his
waistcoat, and finally took off his hat and looked into that; but there
was no money anywhere.
They still walked on towards the public-house, meditating with rueful
countenances, when Grimaldi spying something lying at the foot of a
tree, picked it up, and suddenly exclaimed, with a variety of winks and
nods, "Here's a sixpence."
The hungry friend's eyes brightened, but they quickly resumed their
gloomy expression as he rejoined, "It's a piece of tin!"
Grimaldi winked again, rubbed the sixpence or the piece of tin very
hard, and declared, putting it between his teeth by way of test, that
it was as good a sixpence as he would wish to see.
"I don't think it," said the friend, shaking his head.
"I'll tell you what," said Grimaldi, "we'll go to the public-house, and
ask the landlord whether it's a good one, or not. They always know."
To this the friend assented, and they hurried on, disputing all the way
whether it was really a sixpence, or not; a discovery which could not
be made at that time, when the currency was defaced and worn nearly
plain, with the ease with which it could be made at present.
The publican, a fat, jolly fellow, was standing at his door, talking to
a friend, and the house looked so uncommonly comfortable, that Gomery
whispered as they approached, that perhaps it might be best to have
some bread and cheese first, and ask about the sixpence afterwards.
Grimaldi nodded his entire assent, and they went in and ordered some
bread and cheese, and beer. Having taken the edge off their hunger,
they tossed up a farthing which Grimaldi happened to find in the corner
of some theretofore undiscovered pocket, to determine who should
present the "sixpence." The chance falling on himself, he walked up to
the bar, and with a very lofty air, and laying the questionable metal
down with a dignity quite his own, requested the landlord to take the
bill out of that.
"Just right, sir," said the landlord, looking at the strange face that
his customer assumed, and not at the sixpence.
"It's right, sir, is it?" asked Grimaldi, sternly.
"Quite," answered the landlord; "thank ye, gentlemen." And with this he
slipped the--whatever it was--into his pocket.
Gomery looked at Grimaldi, and Grimaldi, with a look and air which
baffle all description, walked out of the house, followed by his
friend.
"I never knew anything so lucky," he said, as they walked home to
supper--"it was quite a Providence--that sixpence."
"A piece of tin, you mean," said Gomery.
Which of the two it was, is uncertain, but Grimaldi often patronised
the same house afterwards, and as he never heard anything more about
the matter, he felt quite convinced that it was a real good sixpence.
In the early part of the year 1794, they quitted their lodgings in
Great Wild-street, and took a six-roomed house, in Penton-place,
Pentonville, with a garden attached; a part of this they let off to a
Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, who then belonged to Sadler's Wells; and in this
manner they lived for three years, during the whole of which period
his salaries steadily rose in amount, and he began to consider himself
quite independent.
At Easter,[18] Sadler's Wells opened as usual, and making a great hit
in a new part, his fame rapidly increased. At this time he found a new
acquaintance, which exercised a material influence upon his comfort and
happiness for many years. The intimacy commenced thus:--
When there was a rehearsal at Sadler's Wells, his mother, who was
engaged there as well as himself, was in the habit of remaining at the
theatre all day, taking her meals in her dressing-room, and occupying
herself with needlework. This she had done to avoid the long walk
in the middle of the day from Sadler's Wells to Great Wild-street,
and back again almost directly. It became a habit; and when they had
removed to Penton-place, and consequently were so much nearer the
theatre that it was no longer necessary, it still continued. Mr.
Hughes, who had now become principal proprietor of the theatre, and
who lived in the house attached to it, had several children, the
eldest of whom was Miss Maria Hughes, a young lady of considerable
accomplishments, who had always been much attached to Grimaldi's
mother, and who embraced every opportunity of being in her society.
Knowing the hours at which she was in the dressing-room during the day,
Miss Hughes was in the habit of taking her work, and sitting with her
from three or four o'clock until six, when the other female performers
beginning to arrive, she retired. Grimaldi was generally at the theatre
between four and five, always taking tea with his mother at the
last-named hour, and sitting with her until the arrival of the ladies
broke up the little party. In this way an intimacy arose between Miss
Hughes and himself, which ultimately ripened into feelings of a warmer
nature.
The day after he made his great hit in the new piece, he went as
usual to tea in the dressing-room, where Mrs. Lewis, their lodger,
who was the wardrobe-keeper of the theatre, happening to be present,
overwhelmed him with compliments on his great success. Miss Hughes was
there too, but she said nothing for a long time, and Grimaldi, who
would rather have heard her speak for a minute than Mrs. Lewis for an
hour, listened as patiently as he could to the encomiums which the good
woman lavished upon him. At length she stopped, as the best talkers
must now and then, to take breath, and then Miss Hughes, looking up,
said, with some hesitation, that she thought Mr. Grimaldi had played
the part uncommonly well; so well that she was certain there was no one
who could have done it at all like him.
Now, before he went into the room, he had turned the matter over in his
mind, and had come to the conclusion that if Miss Hughes praised his
acting he would reply by some neatly turned compliment to her, which
might afford some hint of the state of his feelings; and with this view
he had considered of a good many very smart ones, but somehow or other,
the young lady no sooner opened her lips in speech, than Grimaldi
opened his in admiration, and out flew all the compliments in empty
breath, without producing the slightest sound. He turned very red,
looked very funny, and felt very foolish. At length he made an awkward
bow, and turned to leave the room.
It was six o'clock, and the lady performers just then came in. As
he was always somewhat of a favourite among them, a few of the more
volatile and giddy--for there are a few such, in almost all companies,
theatrical or otherwise,--began first to praise his acting, and then to
rally him upon another subject.
"Now Joe has become such a favourite," said one, "he ought to look out
for a sweetheart."
Here Joe just glanced at Miss Hughes, and turned a deeper red than ever.
"Certainly he ought," said another. "Will any of us do Joe?"
Upon this Joe exhibited fresh symptoms of being uncomfortable, which
were hailed by a general burst of laughter.
"I'll tell you what, ladies," said Mrs. Lewis, "if I'm not greatly
mistaken, Joe has got a sweetheart already."
Another lady said, that to her certain knowledge he had two, and
another that he had three, and so on: he standing among them the whole
time, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, vexed to death to think that
Miss Hughes should hear these libels, and frightened out of his wits
lest she should be disposed to believe them.
At length he made his escape, and being induced, by the conversation
which had just passed, to ponder upon the matter, he was soon led
to the conclusion that the fair daughter of Mr. Hughes had made an
impression on his heart, and that, unless he could marry her, he
would marry nobody, and must be for ever miserable, with other like
deductions which young men are in the habit of making from similar
premises. The discovery was not unattended by many misgivings. The
great difference of station, then existing between them, appeared
to interpose an almost insurmountable obstacle in the way of their
marriage; and, further, he had no reason to suppose that the young
lady entertained for him any other sentiments than those with which
she might be naturally disposed to regard the son of a friend whom she
had known so long. These considerations rendered him as unhappy as the
most passionate lover could desire to be--he ate little, drank little,
slept less, lost his spirits; and, in short, exhibited a great variety
of symptoms sufficiently dangerous in any case, but particularly so in
one, where the patient had mainly to depend upon the preservation of
his powers of fun and comicality for a distant chance of the fulfilment
of his hopes.
FOOTNOTES:
[12] The newspapers, in March, 1788, noticed the death, on the 14th
of that month, of "Mr. Joseph Grimaldi, many years Ballet-Master at
Drury Lane Theatre, aged 72." Decastro, who notwithstanding his love of
gossip, and occasionally, by a too frequent repetition, perverting the
vein of his story, was no mean authority as regarded the old players,
most of whom are now--
Down among the dead men!
He used to assert that old Grimaldi died in Lambeth, at his apartments,
up a court within a door or two of the Pheasant public-house in
Stangate-street. Reference to the burial-register of St. Mary's,
Lambeth, elicited nothing as to his interment there; but on searching
the register belonging to Northampton Chapel, in Exmouth-street, we
found it there recorded "March 23, 1788, Mr. Joseph Grimaldi, from
Lambeth, aged 75." It will be observed, there is a difference of three
years in the age, as stated in the daily papers of the time, and in the
register of his burial. No stone, or other memorial, marks the spot
where his ashes lie.
The court in which Grimaldi died, in poverty, not wealth, was, till the
last destruction of Astley's Amphitheatre, under the tenancy of Ducrow,
called Theatre-court, or place; but the fire consumed the greater part,
and its site is now occupied by that portion of Batty's Amphitheatre
which is in the Palace New-road.
[13] The original Editor has been misinformed. We are sorry to have
to record that Signor Grimaldi had nothing to bequeath to any one; he
made no will; and a search at the Prerogative Office, Doctor's Commons,
for the two years following his death, is evidence of this, no probate
having issued thence.
[14] The season of 1788, at Sadler's Wells, was one of no common
interest. On Whitsun Monday, May 12, in a musical piece, entitled
"Saint Monday; or, a Cure for a Scold," Mr. Braham, then Master
Abrahams, made his first appearance. He is named in the bills of August
18, but appears soon after to have left Sadler's Wells, and on the 30th
of the same month had a benefit at the Royalty Theatre, Well-street,
near Goodman's-fields, as "Master Braham," when the celebrated tenor
singer, Leoni, his master, announced that as the last time of his
performing on the stage. Miss Shields, who appeared at Sadler's
Wells in the same piece on Whitsun Monday, became towards the end of
May, Mrs. Leffler. Two Frenchmen, named Duranie and Bois-Maison, as
pantomimists, eclipsed all their predecessors on that stage. Boyce, a
distinguished engraver, was the Harlequin, and by those who remember
him, he is eulogised as the most finished actor of the motley hero,
either in his own day, or since. On the benefit night of Joseph Dortor,
Clown to the rope, and Richer, the rope dancer, Miss Richer made her
first appearance on two slack wires, passing through a hoop, with a
pyramid of glasses on her head; and Master Richer performed on the
tight rope, with a skipping rope. Joseph Dortor, among other almost
incredible feats, drank a glass of wine backwards from the stage-floor,
beating a drum at the same time. Lawrence, the father of Joe's friend,
Richard Lawrence, threw a summerset over twelve men's heads, and Paul
Redigé, "The Little Devil," on October 1, threw a summerset over two
men on horseback, the riders having each a lighted candle on his head.
Dubois, as Clown to the Pantomime, had no superior in his time; and
the troop of Voltigeurs were pre-eminent for their agility, skill, and
daring.
[15] Further inquiries enable us to prove that King transferred his
right in Sadler's Wells to Messrs. Wroughton and Serjeant, at the close
of the year 1788.
[16] Mrs. Brooker.
[17] "Friend Bob" was not employed at Sadler's Wells till three years
later than 1794, when he personated, on May 29, 1797, one of the Spahis
in Tom Dibdin's "Sadak and Kalasrade."
[18] On Easter Monday, 1796, Sadler's Wells opened with Tom Dibdin's
Serio-Comic Entertainment called "The Talisman of Orosmanes; or,
Harlequin made Happy." Grimaldi enacted the part of the Hag Morad; the
principal characters in the action being King, Dibdin, the author, his
second season; Dubois, Master Grimaldi, as he was then designated in
the bills, and Mrs. Wybrow. Having in such company made a hit in this
part, his fame rapidly increased; and in the new harlequinade burletta,
entitled "Venus's Girdle; or, the World Bewitched," produced on the
1st of August in that year, Master Grimaldi played the part of the Old
Woman; his mother, Mrs. Brooker, Lady Simpleton. These entertainments
ran through the whole season.
It may not be out of place to notice that Philip Astley this year
announced as attractions at his Amphitheatre of Arts, Westminster
Bridge, "The most splendid Variety of Novel Amusements ever produced,
and which have been composed and arranged by the following celebrated
persons,--viz.
"Mons. Mercerot, principal Pastoral Dancer, Ballet Master, and
Pantomime Composer.
"Mons. Laurent, Performer of Action, Pierrot, and Pantomime Composer.
"Mr. West, Ballet Master, principal Buffo Dancer, Clown, and Pantomime
Composer.
"Mr. Lascelles Williamson, Ballet Master, principal Comic Dancer,
Harlequin, and Pantomime Composer. The above are the only Pupils of the
late celebrated Signor Grimaldi.
The bills added, "Messrs. Astleys most respectfully beg leave to
remark, that there never was at any Public Place of Entertainment so
many Ballet Masters, Pantomime Composers, &c., engaged at one and the
same time, possessing abilities equal to the above performers; their
exertions joined to those of Messrs. Astleys, must enable them to give
a greater variety than any other Public Place of Summer Amusement."
Williamson was not only the pupil of Signor Grimaldi, but was also his
son-in-law, having married Joe's sister, who was announced with him in
the Sadler's Wells bills in 1781, as Miss Grimaldi; she was engaged
with her husband as Mrs. Williamson at Astley's, and appears among
the Wizards and Witches, in the Dramatis Personæ of the Grand Comic
Pantomime, called "The Magician of the Rocks; or, Harlequin in London,"
produced there on Whitsun Monday. "Clown, Mr. West, after the manner of
his old Master, Grimaldi."
CHAPTER III.
1794 to 1797.
Grimaldi falls in love--His success--He meets with an accident,
which brings the Reader acquainted with that invaluable
specific, "Grimaldi's Embrocation"--He rises gradually in his
Profession--The Pentonville Gang of Burglars.
It is scarcely to be supposed that such a sudden and complete change in
the merry genius of the theatre could escape the observation of those
around him, far less of his mother, who, as he had been her constant
and affectionate companion, observed him with anxious solicitude.
Various hints and soundings, and indirect inquiries, were the
consequence, but they were far from eliciting the truth; he was ill,
fatigued by constant exertion in difficult parts, and that was all that
his friends could gather from him.
There was another circumstance which puzzled the lady mother more than
all. This was, that he never visited the dressing-room, whither he had
been accustomed regularly to resort; and that he either took tea before
he went to the theatre, or not at all. The truth was, that he was quite
unable to endure the facetiousness of the ladies in the presence of
Miss Hughes; the more so, because he fancied that his annoyance seemed
to afford that young lady considerable amusement; and rather than find
this the case, he determined to relinquish the pleasure of her society.
So matters stood for some weeks, when one night, having occasion during
the performances to repair to the wardrobe for some articles of dress,
he hastily entered, and instead of discovering his old friend, Mrs.
Lewis, found himself confronted and alone with Mr. Hughes's daughter.
In these cases, if the lady exhibit emotion, the gentleman gains
courage; but Miss Hughes exhibited no emotion, merely saying,
"Why, Joe, I have not seen you for a fortnight; where _have_ you been
hiding! How is it that I never see you at tea now?"
The tone of kindness in which this was said, somewhat re-assured the
lover, so he made an effort to speak, and got as far as, "I'm not
well."
"Not well!" said the young lady. And she said it so kindly that all
poor Joe's emotion returned; and being really ill and weak, and very
sensitive withal, he made an effort or two to look cheerful, and burst
into tears.
The young lady looked at him for a moment or two quite surprised, and
then said, in a tone of earnest commiseration, "I see that you are not
well, and that you are very much changed: what is the matter with you?
Pray tell me."
At this inquiry, the young man, who seems to have inherited all the
sensitiveness of his father's character without its worst points, threw
himself into a chair, and cried like a child, vainly endeavouring to
stammer out a few words, which were wholly unintelligible. Miss Hughes
gently endeavoured to soothe him, and at that moment, Mrs. Lewis,
suddenly entering the room, surprised them in this very sentimental
situation; upon which Grimaldi, thinking he must have made himself very
ridiculous, jumped up and ran away.
Mrs. Lewis being older in years, and in such matters too, than either
Miss Hughes or her devoted admirer, kept her own counsel, thought over
what she had seen, and discreetly presented herself before Grimaldi
next day, when, after a sleepless night, he was sauntering moodily
about the garden, aggravating all the doubts, and diminishing all the
hopes that involved themselves with the object nearest his heart.
"Dear me, Joe!" exclaimed the old lady, "how wretched you do look! Why,
what is the matter?"
He tried an excuse or two, but reposing great trust in the sagacity and
sincerity of his questioner, and sadly wanting a confidante, he first
solemnly bound her to secrecy, and then told his tale. Mrs. Lewis at
once took upon herself the office of a go-between; undertook to sound
Miss Hughes without delay; and counselled Grimaldi to prepare a letter
containing a full statement of his feelings, which, if the conversation
between herself and Miss Hughes on that very evening were propitious,
should be delivered on the following.
Accordingly, he devoted all his leisure time that day to the
composition of various epistles, and the spoiling of many sheets of
paper, with the view to setting down his feelings in the very best and
appropriate terms he could possibly employ. One complete letter was
finished at last, although even that was not half powerful enough; and
going to the theatre, and carefully avoiding the old dressing-room, he
went through his part with greater _éclat_ than before. Having hastily
changed his dress, he hurried to Mrs. Lewis's room, where that good
lady at once detailed all the circumstances that had occurred since the
morning, which she thought conclusive, but which the lover feared were
not.
It seems that Mrs. Lewis had embraced the first opportunity of being
left alone with Miss Hughes to return to the old subject of Joe's
looking very ill; to which Miss Hughes replied, that he certainly did,
and said it, too, according to the matured opinion of Mrs. Lewis, as if
she had been longing to introduce the subject without exactly knowing
how.
"What can be the matter with him?" said Miss Hughes.
"I have found it out, Miss," said Mrs. Lewis; "Joe is in love."
"In love!" said Miss Hughes.
"Over head and ears," replied Mrs. Lewis; "I never saw any poor dear
young man in such a state."
"Who is the lady?" asked Miss Hughes, inspecting some object that lay
near her with every appearance of unconcern.
"That's a secret," said Mrs. Lewis; "I know her name; she does not
know he is in love with her yet; but I am going to give her a letter
to-morrow night, telling her all about it."
"I should like to know her name," said Miss Hughes.
"Why," returned Mrs. Lewis, "you see I promised Joe not to tell; but as
you are so very anxious to know, I can let you into the secret without
breaking my word: you shall see the direction of the letter."
Miss Hughes was quite delighted with the idea, and left the room, after
making an appointment for the ensuing evening for that purpose.
Such was Mrs. Lewis's tale in brief; after hearing which, Grimaldi,
who, not being so well acquainted with the subject, was not so
sanguine, went home to bed, but not to sleep: his thoughts wavering
between his friend's communication, and the love-letter, of which he
could not help thinking that he could still polish up a sentence or two
with considerable advantage.
The next morning was one of great agitation, and when Mrs. Lewis posted
off to the theatre with the important epistle in her pocket, the lover
fell into such a tremor of anxiety and suspense, that he was quite
unconscious how the day passed: he could stay away from the theatre no
longer than five o'clock, at which time he hurried down to ascertain
the fate of his letter.
"I have not been able to give it yet," said Mrs. Lewis, softly, "but do
you just go to the dressing-room; she is there:--only look at her, and
guess whether she cares for you or not."
He went, and saw Miss Hughes looking very pale, with traces of tears
on her face. Six o'clock soon came, and the young lady, hurrying to
the room of the confidante, eagerly inquired whether she had got Joe's
letter.
"I have," said Mrs. Lewis, looking very sly.
"Oh! pray let me see it," said Miss Hughes: "I am so anxious to know
who the lady is, and so desirous that Joe should be happy."
"Why, upon my word," said Mrs. Lewis, "I think I should be doing wrong
if I showed it to you, unless Joe said I might."
"Wrong!" echoed the young lady; "oh! if you only knew how much I have
suffered since last night!" Here she paused for some moments, and
added, with some violence of tone and manner, that if that suspense
lasted much longer, she should go mad.
"Hey-day! Miss Maria," exclaimed Mrs. Lewis,--"mad! Why, surely you
cannot have been so imprudent as to have formed an attachment to Joe
yourself? But you shall see the letter, as you wish it; there is only
one thing you must promise, and that is, to plead Joe's cause with the
lady herself."
Miss Hughes hesitated, faltered, and at length said, she would try.
At this point of the discourse, Mrs. Lewis produced the laboured
composition, and placed it in her hand.
Miss Hughes raised the letter, glanced at the direction, saw her own
name written as plainly as the nervous fingers of its agitated writer
would permit, let it fall to the ground, and sunk into the arms of Mrs.
Lewis.
While this scene was acting in a private room, Grimaldi was acting
upon the public stage; and conscious that his hopes depended upon his
exertions, he did not suffer his anxieties, great as they were, to
interfere with his performance. Towards the conclusion of the first
piece he heard somebody enter Mr. Hughes's box--and there sat the
object of all his anxiety.
"She has got the letter," thought the trembling actor; "she must have
decided by this time."
He would have given all he possessed to have known what had
passed,--when the business of the stage calling him to the front,
exactly facing the box in which she sat, their eyes met, and she nodded
and smiled. This was not the first time that Miss Hughes had nodded and
smiled to Joseph Grimaldi, but it threw him into a state of confusion
and agitation which at once deprived him of all consciousness of what
he was about. He never heard that he did not finish the scene in which
he was engaged at the moment, and he always supposed, in consequence,
that he did so: but how, or in what manner, he never could imagine, not
having the slightest recollection of anything that passed.
It is singular enough that throughout the whole of Grimaldi's
existence, which was a chequered one enough, even at those years when
other children are kept in the cradle or the nursery, there always
seemed some odd connexion between his good and bad fortune; no great
pleasure appeared to come to him unaccompanied by some accident or
mischance: he mentions the fact more than once, and lays great stress
upon it.
On this very night, a heavy platform, on which ten men were standing,
broke down, and fell upon him as he stood underneath; a severe
contusion of the shoulder was the consequence, and he was carried
home immediately. Remedies were applied without loss of time, but he
suffered intense pain all night; it gradually abated towards morning,
in consequence of the inestimable virtues of a certain embrocation,
which he always kept ready in case of such accidents, and which was
prepared from a recipe left him by his father, which, having performed
a great many cures, he afterwards gave to one Mr. Chamberlaine,
a surgeon of Clerkenwell, who christened it, in acknowledgment,
"Grimaldi's Embrocation," and used it in his general practice some
years with perfect success. Before he was carried from the theatre,
however, he had had the presence of mind to beg Mrs. Lewis to be called
to him, and to request her to communicate the nature of the accident to
Miss Hughes (who had quitted the box before it occurred) as cautiously
as she could. This, Mrs. Lewis, who appears to have been admirably
qualified for the task in which she was engaged, and to possess quite a
diplomatic relish for negotiation, undertook and performed.
There is no need to lengthen this part of his history, which, however
interesting, and most honourably so, to the old man himself, who in
the last days of his life looked back with undiminished interest and
affection to the early time when he first became acquainted with the
excellence of a lady, to whom he was tenderly attached, and whose
affection he never forgot or trifled with, would possess but few
attractions for the general reader. The main result is quickly told:
he was lying on a sofa next day, with his arm in a sling, when Miss
Hughes visited him, and did not affect to disguise her solicitude for
his recovery; and, in short, by returning his affection, made him the
happiest man, or rather boy (for he was not yet quite sixteen), in the
world.
There was only one thing that damped his joy, and this was, Miss
Hughes's firm and steadfast refusal to continue any correspondence or
communication with him unknown to her parents. Nor is it unnatural
that this announcement should have occasioned him some uneasiness,
when their relative situations in life are taken into consideration;
Mr. Hughes being a man of considerable property, and Grimaldi entirely
dependent on his own exertions for support.
He made use of every persuasion in his power to induce the young
lady to alter her determination; he failed to effect anything beyond
the compromise, that for the present she would only mention their
attachment to her mother, upon whose kindness and secrecy she was
certain she could rely. This was done, and Mrs. Hughes, finding
that her daughter's happiness depended on her decision, offered no
opposition, merely remarking that their extreme youth forbade all idea
of marriage at that time. Three years elapsed before Mr. Hughes was
made acquainted with the secret.
After this, his time passed away happily enough; he saw Miss Hughes
every evening in his mother's presence, and every Sunday she spent
with them. All this time his reputation was rapidly increasing; almost
every new part he played rendered him a greater favourite than before,
and altogether his lot in life was a cheerful and contented one.
At this period, the only inhabitants of the house in Penton-place were
Grimaldi and his mother, and Mrs. Lewis, of whom honourable mention has
been so often made in the present chapter, together with her husband;
there was no servant in the house; a girl that had lived with them some
time having gone into the country to see her friends, and no other
having been engaged in her absence.
One night in the middle of August, a "night rehearsal" was called at
Sadler's Wells. For the information of those who are unacquainted with
theatrical matters, it may be well to state that a "night rehearsal"
takes place after the other performances of the evening are over, and
the public have left the house. Being an inconvenient and fatiguing
ceremony, it is never resorted to, but when some very heavy piece (that
is, one on a very extensive scale) is to be produced on a short notice.
In this instance a new piece was to be played on the following Monday,
of which the performers knew very little, and there being no time to
lose, a "night rehearsal" was called, the natural consequence of which
would be the detention of the company at the theatre until four o'clock
in the morning at least. Mr. Lewis, having notice of the rehearsal in
common with the other performers, locked up their dwelling-house, being
the last person who left it; brought the street-door key with him, and
handed it over to Mr. Grimaldi.
But after the performances were over, which was shortly after eleven
o'clock, when the curtain was raised, and the performers, assembling
on the stage, prepared to commence the rehearsal, the stage-manager
addressed the company in the following unexpected and very agreeable
terms:--
"Ladies and Gentlemen, as the new drama will not be produced, as
was originally intended, on Monday next, but is deferred until that
night week, we shall not be compelled to trouble you with a rehearsal
to-night."
This notification occasioned a very quick dispersion of the performers,
who, very unexpectedly released from an onerous attendance, hurried
home. Grimaldi, having something to do at the theatre which would
occupy him about ten minutes, sent his mother and his friend Mrs.
Lewis forward to prepare supper, and followed them shortly afterwards,
accompanied by Mr. Lewis and two other performers attached to the
theatre.
When the females reached home they found to their great surprise that
the garden gate was open.
"Dear me!" said Mrs. Grimaldi,[19] "how careless this is of Mr. Lewis!"
It was, undoubtedly; for at that time a most notorious gang of thieves
infested that suburb of London;--it was a suburb then. Several of the
boldest had been hung, and others transported, but these punishments
had no effect upon their more lucky companions, who committed their
depredations with, if possible, increased hardihood and daring.
They were not a little surprised, after crossing the garden, to find
that not only was the garden-gate open, but that the street-door was
unlocked; and pushing it gently open, they observed the reflection of a
light at the end of the passage, upon which of course they both cried
"Thieves!" and screamed for help. A man who was employed at Sadler's
Wells happened to be passing at the time, and tendered his assistance.
"Do you wait here with Mrs. Lewis a minute," said Grimaldi's mother,
"and I will go into the house; don't mind me unless you hear me scream;
then come to my assistance." So saying, she courageously entered the
passage, descended the stairs, entered the kitchen, hastily struck a
light, and on lighting a candle and looking round, discovered that the
place had been plundered of almost everything it contained.
She was running up stairs to communicate their loss, when Grimaldi
and his friends arrived. Hearing what had occurred, they entered the
house in a body, and proceeded to search it, narrowly, thinking it
probable that some of the thieves, surprised upon the premises, might
be still lurking there. In they rushed, the party augmented by the
arrival of two watchmen,--chosen, as the majority of that fine body
of men invariably were, with a specific view to their old age and
infirmities,--and began their inspection: the women screaming and
crying, and the men all shouting together.
The house was in a state of great disorder and confusion, but no
thieves were to be seen; the cupboards were forced, the drawers had
been broken open, and every article they contained had been removed,
with the solitary exception of a small net shawl, which had been worked
by Miss Hughes, and given by her to her chosen mother-in-law.
Leaving the others to search the house, and the females to bewail their
loss, which was really a very severe one, Grimaldi beckoned a Mr. King,
one of the persons who had accompanied him home from the theatre, and
suggested in a whisper that they should search the garden together.
King readily complied, and he having armed himself with a heavy stick,
and Grimaldi with an old broadsword which he had hastily snatched
from its peg on the first alarm, they crept cautiously into the back
garden, which was separated from those of the houses on either side by
a wall from three to four feet high, and from a very extensive piece of
pasture-land beyond it at the bottom, by another wall two or three feet
higher.
It was a dark night, and they groped about the garden for some time,
but found nobody. Grimaldi sprang upon the higher wall, and looking
over the lower one, descried a man in the act of jumping from the wall
of the next garden. Upon seeing another figure the robber paused, and
taking it for that of his comrade in the darkness of the night, cried
softly, "Hush! hush! is that you?"
"Yes!" replied Grimaldi, getting as near him as he could. Seeing that
the man, recognising the voice as a strange one, was about to jump
down, he dealt him a heavy blow with the broadsword. He yelled out
loudly, and stopping for an instant, as if in extreme pain, dropped to
the ground, limped off a few paces, and was lost in the darkness.
Grimaldi shouted to his friend to follow him through the back gate,
but seeing, from his station on the wall, that he and the thief took
directly opposite courses, he leapt into the field, and set off at full
speed. He was stopped in the very outset of his career, by tumbling
over a cow, which was lying on the ground, in which involuntary
pantomimic feat he would most probably have cut his own head off with
the weapon he carried, if his theatrical practice as a fencer had not
taught him to carry edge tools with caution.
The companion having taken a little run by himself, soon returned out
of breath, to say he had seen nobody, and they re-entered the house,
where by the light of the candle it was seen that the sword was covered
with blood.
The constable of the night had arrived by this time; and a couple of
watchmen bearing large lanterns, to show the thieves they were coming,
issued forth into the field, in hopes of taking the offenders alive
or dead--they would have preferred the latter;--and of recovering any
of the stolen property that might be scattered about. The direction
which the wounded man had taken having been pointed out, they began to
explore, by very slow degrees.
Bustling about, striving to raise the spirits of the party, and
beginning to stow away in their proper places such articles as the
thieves had condescended to leave, one of the first things Grimaldi
chanced to light upon was Miss Hughes's shawl.
"Maria's gift, at all events," he said, taking it up and giving it a
slight wave in his hand; when out fell a lozenge-box upon the floor,
much more heavily than a lozenge-box with any ordinary lozenges inside
would do.
Upon this the mother clapped her hands, and set up a louder scream than
she had given vent to when she found the house robbed.
"My money! my money!" she screamed.
"It can't be helped, my dear madam," said everybody; "think of poor
Mrs. Lewis; she is quite as badly off."
"Oh, I don't mean that," was the reply. "Oh! thank Heaven, they didn't
find my money." So with many half-frantic exclamations, she picked up
the lozenge-box, and there, sure enough, were thirty-seven guineas, (it
was completely full,) which had lain securely concealed beneath the
shawl!
They sat down to supper; but although Mrs. Grimaldi[20] now cheered up
wonderfully, and quite rallied her friend upon her low spirits, poor
Mrs. Lewis, who had found no lozenge-box, was quite unable to overcome
her loss. Supper over, and some hot potations, which the fright had
rendered absolutely necessary, despatched, the friends departed,
and the usual inmates of the house were left alone to make such
preparations for passing the night as they deemed fitting.
They were ludicrous enough: upon comparing notes, it was found that
nobody could sleep alone, upon which they came to the conclusion,
that they had better all sleep in the same room. For this purpose, a
mattress was dragged into the front parlour, upon which the two females
bestowed themselves without undressing; Lewis sat in an easy chair; and
Grimaldi, having loaded two pistols, wiped the sanguinary stains from
the broadsword, and laid it by his side, drew another easy-chair near
the door, and there mounted guard.
All had been quiet for some time, and they were falling asleep, when
they were startled by a long loud knocking at the back-door, which led
into the garden. They all started up and gazed upon each other, with
looks of considerable dismay. The females would have screamed, only
they were too frightened; and the men would have laughed it off, but
they were quite unable from the same cause to muster the faintest smile.
Grimaldi was the first to recover the sudden shock, which the supposed
return of the robbers had communicated to the party, and turning to
Lewis, said, with one of his oddest looks,
"You had better go to the back-door, old boy, and see who it is."
Mr. Lewis did not appear quite satisfied upon the point. He reflected
for a short time, and looking with a very blank face at his wife, said
he was much obliged to Mr. Grimaldi, but he would rather not.
In this dilemma, it was arranged that Lewis should wait in the passage,
and that Grimaldi should creep softly up stairs, and reconnoitre the
enemy from the window above--a plan which Lewis thought much more
feasible, and which was at once put in execution.
While these deliberations were going forward, the knocking had
continued without cessation, and it now began to assume a subdued and
confidential tone, which, instead of subduing their alarm, rather
tended to increase it. Armed with the two pistols and the broadsword,
and looking much more like Robinson Crusoe than either the "Shipwrecked
Mariner," or the "Little Clown," Grimaldi thrust his head out of
the window, and hailed the people below, in a voice which, between
agitation and a desire to communicate to the neighbours the full
benefit of the discussion, was something akin to that in which his
well-known cry of "Here we are!" afterwards acquired so much popularity.
It was between two and three o'clock in the morning,--the day was
breaking, and the light increasing fast. He could descry two men at the
door heavily laden with something, but with what he could not discern.
All he could see was, that it was not fire-arms, and that was a comfort.
"Hollo! hollo!" he shouted out of the window, displaying the brace of
pistols and the broadsword to the best advantage; "what's the matter
there?" Here he coughed very fiercely, and again demanded what was the
matter.
"Why, sir," replied one of the men, looking up, and holding on his hat
as he did so, "we thought we should never wake ye."
"And what did you want to wake me for?" was the natural inquiry.
"Why, the property!" replied both the men at the same time.
"The what?" inquired the master of the house, taking in the broadsword,
and putting the pistols on the window-sill.
"The property!" replied the two men, pettishly. "Here we have been
a-looking over the field all this time, and have found the property."
No further conversation was necessary. The door was opened, and the
watchmen entered bearing two large sacks, which they had stumbled on
in the field, and the females, falling on their knees before them,
began dragging forth their contents in an agony of impatience. After
a lengthened examination, it was found that the sacks contained every
article that had been taken away; that not one, however trifling, was
missing; and that they had come into possession, besides, of a complete
and extensive assortment of house-breaking tools, including centre-bit,
picklock, keys, screws, dark lanterns, a file, and a crow-bar. The
watchmen were dismissed with ten shillings, and as many thousand
thanks, and the party breakfasted in a much more comfortable manner
than that in which they had supped on the previous night.
The conversation naturally turned upon the robbery, and various
conjectures and surmises were hazarded relative to the persons by whom
it had been committed. It appeared perfectly evident that the thieves,
whoever they were, must have obtained information of the expected
night rehearsal at Sadler's Wells; it was equally clear that if the
rehearsal had not been most fortunately postponed, they would not only
have lost everything they possessed, but the thieves would have got
clear off with the booty into the bargain. It was worthy of remark,
that the house had never been attempted when the servant girl was at
home, and the females were half inclined to attach suspicion to her;
but on reflection it seemed unlikely that she was implicated in the
transaction, for she was the daughter of very respectable parents, not
to mention her uncle having held the situation of master-tailor to the
theatre for forty years, and her aunt having served the family in the
same capacity as the girl herself. In addition to these considerations,
she had been well brought up, had always appeared strictly honest,
and had already lived in the house for nearly four years. Upon these
grounds it was resolved that the girl could not be a party to the
attempt.
But whoever committed the burglary, it was necessary that the house
should be well secured, with which view a carpenter was sent for, and
a great supply of extra bolts and bars were placed upon the different
doors. Notwithstanding these precautions, however, and the additional
security which they necessarily afforded, the females were very nervous
for a long time, and the falling of a plate, or slamming of a door, or
a loud ringing at the bell, or above all, the twopenny postman after
dark, was sufficient to throw them into the extremity of terror. Being
determined not to leave the house, in future, without somebody to take
care of it while the family were at the theatre, they resolved, after
many _pros_ and _cons_, to engage for the purpose, a very trustworthy
man, who was employed as a watchman to the theatre, but was not
required to attend until eleven o'clock at night, by which time, at all
events, some of the family would be able to reach home. The man was
hired, and commenced his watch, on the night after the robbery; and
there he continued to remain, every evening, until the return of the
servant girl from the country released him from further attendance.
The agitation and surprise of this girl were very great, when she
was informed of what had occurred, but they did not appear to be the
emotions of a guilty person. All agreed that there was no good ground
of suspicion against her. She was asked if she would be afraid to be
left alone in the house after what had taken place, when she declared
that she was not afraid of any thieves, and that she would willingly
sit up alone, as she had been accustomed to do; merely stipulating that
she should be allowed to light a fire in Lewis's sitting room, for the
purpose of inducing robbers to suppose that the family were at home,
and that she should be provided with a large rattle, with which to
alarm the neighbours at any appearance of danger. Both requests were
complied with; and as an additional precaution, the street watchman,
whose box was within a few yards of the door, was fee'd to be on the
alert, to keep a sharp eye upon the house, and to attend to any summons
from within, whenever it might be made.
The thieves, whoever they were, were very wanton fellows, and added
outrage to plunder, for with the most heartless cruelty, and an absence
of all taste for scientific pursuits, which would stigmatise them at
once as occupying a very low grade in their profession, had broken open
a closet in Grimaldi's room, containing his chosen cabinet of insects,
including Dartford Blues, which, either because it was not portable, or
because they thought it of no value, attaching no importance to flies,
they most recklessly and barbarously destroyed. With the exception of
one small box, they utterly annihilated the whole collection, including
even his models, drawings, and colours: it would have taken years to
replace them, if the collector had been most indefatigable; and it
would have cost at least 200_l._ to have replaced them by purchase.
This unforeseen calamity put a total stop to the fly-catching, so
collecting together his nets, and cases, and the only box which was not
destroyed, he gave them all away next day to an acquaintance who had
a taste for such things, and never more employed himself in a similar
manner.
After the lapse of a short time, the arrangements and precautions
infused renewed confidence into the inmates of the house, and they
began to feel more secure than they had yet done since the robbery; a
fortnight had now passed over, and they strengthened themselves with
the reflection, that the thieves having met with so disagreeable a
reception, one of them at least having been severely wounded, were very
unlikely to renew the attempt.
But well founded as these conjectures might seem, they reckoned without
their host, for on the third night, after the girl's return, they made
a fresh attack, for which we will reserve a fresh chapter.
FOOTNOTES:
[19] Mrs. Brooker.
[20] Mrs. Brooker.
CHAPTER IV.
1797 to 1798.
The thieves make a second attempt; alarmed by their perseverance,
Grimaldi repairs to Hatton Garden--Interview with Mr. Trott;
ingenious device of that gentleman and its result on the third
visit of the Burglars--Comparative attractions of Pantomime
and Spectacle--Trip to Gravesend and Chatham--Disagreeable
recognition of a good-humoured friend, and an agreeable mode of
journeying recommended to all Travellers.
On the third night,--the previous two having passed in perfect quiet
and security,--the servant girl was at work in the kitchen, when she
fancied she heard a sound as if some person were attempting to force
open the garden-door. She thought it merely the effect of fancy at
first, but the noise continuing, she went softly up stairs into the
passage, and on looking towards the door, saw that the latch was moved
up and down several times by a hand outside, while some person pushed
violently against the door itself.
The poor girl being very much frightened, her first impulse was
to scream violently; but so far were her cries from deterring the
persons outside from persisting in their attempt, that they only
seemed to press it with redoubled vigour. Indeed, so violent were
their exertions, as if irritated by the noise the girl made, that
the door was very nearly forced from its position, in which state it
was discovered on a subsequent inspection. If it had not been proof
against the attacks of the thieves, the girl would assuredly have been
murdered. Recovering her presence of mind, however, on finding that
they could not force an entrance, she ran to the street-door, flung it
open, and had immediate recourse to the rattle, which she wielded with
such hearty good will, that the watchman and half the neighbourhood
were quickly on the spot. Immediate search was made for the robbers
in the rear of the house, but they had thought it prudent to escape
quietly.
Upon the return of the family, all their old apprehensions were
revived, and their former fears were increased tenfold by the bold and
daring nature of this second attempt. Watch was kept all night, the
watchers starting at the slightest sound; rest was out of the question,
and nothing but dismay and confusion prevailed.
The next morning it was resolved that the house should be fortified
with additional strength, and that when these precautions had been
taken, Grimaldi should repair to the police-office of the district,
state his case to the sitting magistrate, and claim the assistance of
the constituted authorities.
Having had bars of iron, and plates of iron, and patent locks, and
a variety of ingenious defences affixed to the interior of the
garden-door, which, when fastened with all these appurtenances,
appeared nearly impregnable, Grimaldi accordingly walked down to Hatton
Garden, with the view of backing the locks and bolts with the aid of
the executive.
There was at that time a very shrewd, knowing officer attached to
that establishment, whose name was Trott. This Trott was occasionally
employed to assist the regular constables at the theatre, when they
expected a great house; and Grimaldi no sooner stepped into the
passage, than walking up to him, Trott accosted him with:--
"How do, master?"
"How do _you_ do?"
"Pretty well, thankee, master; I was just going to call up at your
place."
"Ah!" said the other, "you have heard of it, then?"
"Yes, I have heard of it," said Mr. Trott, with a grin, "and heard a
great deal more about it than you know on, master."
"You don't surely mean to say that you have apprehended the burglars?"
"No, no, I don't mean that; I wish I did: they have been one too many
for me as yet. Why, when they first started in business there worn't
fewer than twenty men in that gang. Sixteen or seventeen on 'em have
been hung or transported, and the rest is them that has been at your
house. They have got a hiding-place somewhere in Pentonville. I'll
tell you what, master," said Trott, taking the other by the button,
and speaking in a hoarse whisper, "they are the worst of the lot; up
to everything they are; and take my word for it, Mr. Grimaldi, they'll
stick at nothing."
Grimaldi looked anything but pleased at this intelligence, and Trott
observing his disturbed countenance, added,--
"Don't you be alarmed, master; what they want is, their revenge for
their former disappointment. That's what it is," said Trott, nodding
his head sagaciously.
"It appears very extraordinary," said Grimaldi. "This is a very
distressing situation to be placed in."
"Why, so it is," said the officer, after a little consideration;--"so
it is, when you consider that they never talk without doing. But don't
be afraid, Mr. Grimaldi."
"Oh no, I'm not," replied the other; adding, in as cool a manner as he
could assume, "they came again last night."
"I know that," said the officer. "I'll let you into another secret,
master. They are coming again to-night."
"Again to-night!" exclaimed Grimaldi.
"As sure as fate," replied the officer, nodding to a friend who was
passing down the street on the other side of the way,--"and if your
establishment an't large enough, and powerful enough to resist 'em--"
"Large and powerful enough!" exclaimed the other,--"why there are only
three women and one other male person besides myself in the house."
"Ah!" said Mr. Trott, "that isn't near enough."
"Enough! no!" rejoined Grimaldi; "and it would kill my mother."
"I dare say it would," acquiesced the officer; "my mother was killed in
a similar manner."
This, like the rest of the officer's discourse, was far from
consolatory, and Grimaldi looked anxiously in his face for something
like a ray of hope.
Mr. Trott meditated for some short time, and then, looking up with his
head on one side, said, "I think I see a way now, master."
"What is it? What do you propose? I'm agreeable to anything," said
Grimaldi, in a most accommodating manner.
"Never mind that," said the officer. "You put yourself into my hands,
and I'll be the saving of your property, and the taking of them."
Grimaldi burst into many expressions of admiration and gratitude, and
put his hand into Mr. Trott's hands, as an earnest of his readiness to
deposit himself there.
"Only rid us," said Grimaldi, "of these dreadful visitors, who really
keep us in a state of perpetual misery, and anything you think proper
to accept shall be cheerfully paid you."
The officer replied, with many moral observations on the duties of
police-officers, their incorruptible honesty, their zeal, and rigid
discharge of the functions reposed in them. If Mr. Grimaldi would do
his duty to his country, and prosecute them to conviction, that was all
he required.
To this, Grimaldi, not having any precise idea of the expense of a
prosecution, readily assented, and the officer declared he should be
sufficiently repaid by the pleasing consciousness of having done his
duty. He did not consider it necessary to add, that a reward had been
offered for the apprehension of the same offenders, payable on their
conviction.
They walked back to the house together, and the officer having
inspected it with the practised eye of an experienced person, declared
himself thoroughly satisfied, and stated that if his injunctions were
strictly attended to, he had no doubt his final operations would be
completely successful.
"It will be necessary," said Trott, speaking with great pomp and
grandeur, as the inmates assembled round him to hear his oration,--"it
will be necessary to take every portable article out of the back
kitchen, the parlour, and the bedroom, and to give me up the entire
possession of this house for one night; at least until such time as I
shall have laid my hand upon these here gentlemen."
It is needless to say that this proposition was agreed to, and that
the females at once went about clearing the rooms as the officer had
directed. At five o'clock in the afternoon he returned, and the keys
of the house were delivered up to him. These arrangements having been
made, the family departed to the theatre as usual, leaving Mr. Trott
alone in the house; for the servant girl had been sent away to a
neighbour's by his desire, whether from any feeling of delicacy on the
part of Mr. Trott, (who was a married man,) or from any apprehension
that she might impede his operations, we are not informed.
The officer remained alone in the house, taking care not to go near any
of the windows until it was dark, when two of his colleagues, coming
by appointment to the garden-door, were stealthily admitted into the
house. Having carefully scrutinised the whole place, they disposed
themselves in the following order. One man locked and bolted in the
front kitchen, another locked and bolted himself in the sitting-room
above stairs, and Mr. Trott, the presiding genius, in the front-parlour
towards the street; the last-named gentleman having, before he retired
into ambuscade, bolted and barred the back-door, and only locked the
front one.
Here they remained for some time, solitary enough, no doubt, for there
was not a light in the house, and each man being fastened in a room
by himself was as much alone as if there had been no one else in the
place. The time seemed unusually long; they listened intently, and were
occasionally deceived for an instant by some noise in the street, but
it soon subsided again, and all was silent as before.
At length, some time after night-fall, a low knock came to the
street-door. No attention being paid to it, the knock was repeated, and
this time it was rather louder. It echoed through the house, but no
one stirred. After a short interval, as if the person outside had been
listening and had satisfied himself, a slight rattling was heard at
the keyhole, and, the lock being picked, the footsteps of two men were
heard in the passage.
They quietly bolted the door after them, and pulling from beneath their
coats a couple of dark lanterns, walked softly up stairs. Finding the
door of the front-room locked, they came down again, and tried the
front-parlour, which was also locked, whereat, Mr. Trott, who was
listening with his ear close to the handle, laughed immoderately, but
without noise.
Unsuccessful in these two attempts, they went down stairs, and with
some surprise found one of the kitchens locked, and the other open.
Only stopping just to peep into the open one, they once more ascended
to the passage.
"Well," said one of the men, as he came up the kitchen stairs, "we have
got it all to ourselves to-night, anyway, so we had better not lose any
time. Hollo!"--
"What's the matter?" said the other, looking back.
"Look here!" rejoined his comrade, pointing to the garden-door,
with the bolts, and iron plates, and patent locks,--"here's
protection--here's security for a friend. These have been put on since
we were here afore; we might have tried to get in for everlasting."
"We had better stick it open," said the other man, "and then if there's
any game in front, we can get off as we did t'other night."
"Easily said. How do you do it?" said the first speaker, "it will take
no end of time, and make no end of noise, to undo all these things. We
had better look sharp. There's no rehearsal to-night, remember."
At this, they both laughed, and determining to take the front-parlour
first, picked the lock without more ado. This done, they pushed against
the door to open it, but were unable to do so by reason of the bolts
inside, which Mr. Trott had taken good care to thrust into the staples
as far as they would possibly go.
"This is a rum game!" said one of the fellows, giving the door a kick,
"it wont open!"
"Never mind, let it be," said the other man; "there's a spring or
something. The back kitchen's open; we had better begin there; we
know there's some property here, because we took it away before. Show
yourself smart, and bring the bag."
As the speaker stooped to trim his lantern, the other man joined him,
and said, with an oath and a chuckle--
"Shouldn't you like to know who it was as struck you with the sword,
Tom?"
"I wish I did," growled the other; "I'd put a knife in him before many
days was over. Come on."
They went down stairs, and Trott, softly gliding from his hiding-place,
double-locked the street-door, and put the key in his pocket. He then
stationed himself at the top of the kitchen stairs, where he listened
with great glee to the exclamations of surprise and astonishment which
escaped the robbers, as they opened drawer after drawer, and found them
all empty.
"Everything taken away!"--said one of the men: "what the devil does
this mean?"
The officer, by way of reply, fired a pistol charged only with blank
powder, down the stairs, and retreated expeditiously to his parlour.
This being the signal, the sound was instantly followed by the noise
of the other two officers unlocking and unbolting the doors of their
hiding-places. The thieves, scrambling up stairs, rushed quickly to the
street-door, but, in consequence of its being locked, they were unable
to escape; were easily made prisoners, handcuffed, and borne away in
triumph.
The affair was all over, and the house restored to order, when the
family came home. The officer who had been despatched to bring the
servant home, and left behind to bear her company in case any of the
companions of the thieves should pay the house a visit, took his
departure as soon as they appeared, bearing with him a large sack left
behind by the robbers, which contained as extensive an assortment of
the implements of their trade, as had been so fortunately captured on
their first appearance.
Grimaldi appeared at Hatton Garden the next morning, and was introduced
to the prisoners for the first time. His testimony having been taken,
and the evidence of Mr. Trott and his men received, by which the
identity of the criminals was clearly proved, they were fully committed
for trial, and Grimaldi was bound over to prosecute. They were tried at
the ensuing Sessions; the jury at once found them guilty, and they were
transported for life.
This anecdote, which is narrated in every particular precisely as
the circumstances occurred, affords a striking and curious picture
of the state of society in and about London, in this respect, at the
very close of the last century. The bold and daring highwaymen who
took the air at Hounslow, Bagshot, Finchley, and a hundred other
places of quite fashionable resort, had ceased to canter their
blood-horses over heath and road in search of plunder, but there still
existed in the capital and its environs, common and poorer gangs
of thieves, whose depredations were conducted with a daring, and
disregard of consequences, which to the citizens of this age is wholly
extraordinary. One attempt at robbery similar to that which has just
been described, committed now-a-days in such a spot, would fill the
public papers for a month; but three such attempts on the same house,
and by the same men, would set all London, and all the country for
thirty miles round to boot, in a ferment of wonder and indignation.
It was proved, on the examination of these men at the police-office,
that they were the only remaining members of a band of thieves
called the "Pentonville Robbers," and the prosecutor and his family
congratulated themselves not a little upon the fact, inasmuch as it
relieved them from the apprehension that there were any more of their
companions left behind who might feel disposed to revenge their fate.
This was Grimaldi's first visit to a police-office. His next appearance
on the same scene was under very different circumstances. But of this
anon.
The fears of the family had been so thoroughly roused, and their
dreams were haunted by such constant visions of the Pentonville
Robbers, that the house grew irksome and distressing, especially to
the females. Moreover, Grimaldi now began to think it high time that
his marriage should take place; and, as now that he had gained the
mother's approval, he did not so entirely despair of succeeding with
the father, he resolved to take a larger house, and to furnish and fit
it up handsomely, on a scale proportionate to his increased means. He
naturally trusted that Mr. Hughes would be more disposed to entrust
his daughter's happiness to his charge when he found that her suitor
was enabled to provide her with a comfortable, if not an elegant home,
and to support her in a sphere of life not very distantly removed from
that in which her father's fortunes and possessions entitled her to be
placed.
Accordingly, he gave notice to the landlord of the ill-fated house
in Penton-place, that he should quit it in the following March;
and accompanied by Miss Hughes, to whom, as he very properly says,
"_of course_" he referred everything, they wandered about the whole
neighbourhood in search of some house that would be more suitable to
them. Penton-street was the St. James's of Pentonville, the Regent's
Park of the City-road, in those days; and here he was fortunate enough
to secure the house No. 37, which was forthwith furnished and fitted
up, agreeably to the taste and direction of Miss Hughes herself.
He had plenty of time to devote to the contemplation of his expected
happiness, and the complete preparation of his new residence, for
Sadler's Wells Theatre was then closed,--the season terminating at that
time at the end of October,--and as he was never wanted at Drury Lane
until Christmas, and not much then, unless they produced a pantomime,
his theatrical avocations were not of a very heavy or burdensome
description.
This year, too, the proprietors of Drury Lane, in pursuance of a
custom to which they had adhered for some years, produced an expensive
pageant instead of a pantomime; an alteration, in Grimaldi's opinion,
very little for the better, if not positively for the worse. It having
been the established custom for many years to produce a pantomime at
Christmas, the public naturally looked for it; and although such pieces
as "Blue Beard," "Feudal Times," "Lodoiska," and others of the same
class, undoubtedly drew money to the house, still it is questionable
whether they were so profitable to the treasury as the pantomimes at
Covent Garden. If we may judge from the result, they certainly were
not, for after several years' trial, during the whole of which time
pantomimes were annually produced at Covent Garden, the Christmas
pantomime was again brought forward at Drury Lane, to the exclusion of
spectacle.
He played in all these pieces, "Blue Beard," and so forth; yet his
parts being of a trifling description, occupied no time in the getting
up, and as he infinitely preferred the company of Miss Hughes to that
of a theatrical audience, he was well pleased. By the end of February,
the whitewashers, carpenters, upholsterers, even the painters, had left
the Penton-street mansion, and there being no pantomime, it seemed a
very eligible period for being married at once.
Grimaldi told Miss Hughes that he thought so: Miss Hughes replied that
he had only to gain her father's consent in the first instance, and
then the day should be fixed without more ado.
This was precisely what the lover was most anxious to avoid, for two
reasons: firstly, because it involved the very probable postponement
of his happiness; and secondly, because the obtaining this consent was
an awkward process. At last he recollected that in consequence of Mr.
Hughes being out of town, it was quite impossible to ask him.
"Very good," said Miss Hughes; "everything happens for the best. I am
sure you would never venture to speak to him on the subject, so you had
far better write. He will not keep you long in suspense, I know, for he
is quite certain to answer your letter by return of post."
Mr. Hughes was then at Exeter; and as it certainly did appear to his
destined son-in-law a much better course to write than to speak, even
if he had been in London, he sat down without delay, and, after various
trials, produced such a letter as he thought would be most likely
to find its way to the father's heart. Miss Hughes approving of the
contents, it was re-read, copied, punctuated, folded, and posted.
Next day the lady was obliged to leave town, to spend a short time with
some friends at Gravesend; and the lover, very much to his annoyance
and regret, was fain to stay behind, and console himself as he best
could, in his mistress's absence, and the absence of a reply from
her father, to which he naturally looked forward with considerable
impatience and anxiety.
Five days passed away, and still no letter came; and poor Grimaldi,
being left to his own fears and apprehensions, was reduced to the most
desperate and dismal forebodings. Having no employment at the theatre,
and nothing to do but to think of his mistress and his letter, he was
almost beside himself with anxiety and suspense. It was with no small
pleasure, then, that he received a note from Miss Hughes, entreating
him to take a trip down to Gravesend in one of the sailing-boats on the
following Sunday, as he could return by the same conveyance on the same
night. Of course he was not slow to avail himself of the invitation;
so he took shipping at the Tower on the morning of the day appointed,
and reached the place of his destination in pretty good time. The only
water communication was by sailing-boats; and as at that time people
were not independent of wind and tide, and everything but steam, the
passengers were quite satisfied to get down when they did.
He found Miss Hughes waiting for him at the landing-place, and getting
into a "tide" coach, they proceeded to Chatham, Miss Hughes informing
him that she had made a confidant of her brother, who was stationed
there, and that they purposed spending the day together.
"And now, Joe," said Miss Hughes, when he had expressed the pleasure
which this arrangement afforded him, "tell me everything that has
happened. What does my father say?"
"My dear," replied Grimaldi, "he says nothing at all; he has not
answered my letter."
"Not answered your letter!" said the lady: "his punctuality is
proverbial."
"So I have always heard," replied Grimaldi: "but so it is; I have not
heard a syllable."
"Then you must write again, Joe," said Miss Hughes, "immediately,
without the least delay. Let me see,--you cannot very well write
to-day, but to-morrow you must not fail: I cannot account for his
silence."
"Nor I," said Grimaldi.
"Unless, indeed," said Miss Hughes, "some extraordinary business has
driven your letter from his memory."
As people always endeavour to believe what they hope, they were not
long in determining that it must be so. Dismissing the subject from
their minds, they spent the day happily, in company with young Mr.
Hughes, and returning to Gravesend in the evening by another tide
coach, Grimaldi was on board the sailing-boat shortly before eleven
o'clock; it being arranged that Miss Hughes was to follow on the next
Saturday.
In the cabin of the boat he found Mr. De Cleve,[21] at that time
treasurer of Sadler's Wells. There are jealousies in theatres, as there
are in courts, ball-rooms, and boarding-schools; and this Mr. De Cleve
was jealous of Grimaldi--not because he stood in his way, for he had
no touch of comedy in his composition, but because he had eclipsed,
and indeed altogether outshone, one Mr. Hartland, "a very clever and
worthy man," says Grimaldi, who was at that time also engaged as a
pantomimic and melodramatic actor at Sadler's Wells. Mr. De Cleve,
thinking for his friends as well as himself, hated Grimaldi most
cordially, and the meeting was consequently by no means an agreeable
one to him; for if he had chanced to set eyes upon Miss Hughes, great
mischief-making and turmoil would be the inevitable consequence.
"In the name of wonder, Grimaldi," said this agreeable character, "what
are you doing here?"
"Going back to London," replied Grimaldi, "as I suppose most of us are."
"That is not what I meant," said De Cleve: "what I meant was, to ask
you what business might have taken you to Gravesend?"
"Oh! no business at all," replied the other; "directly I landed, I went
off by the tide-coach to Chatham."
"Indeed!" said the other.
"Yes," said Grimaldi.
The treasurer looked rather puzzled at this, sufficiently showing by
his manner that he had been hunting about Gravesend all day in search
of the young man. He remained silent a short time, and then said, "I
only asked because I thought you might have had a dinner engagement at
Gravesend, perhaps,--with a young lady, even. Who knows?"
This little sarcasm on the part of the worthy treasurer convinced
Grimaldi, that having somewhere picked up the information that Miss
Hughes was at Gravesend, and having heard afterwards from Mrs. Lewis,
or somebody at the theatre, that Grimaldi was going to the same place,
he had followed him thither with the amiable intention of playing
the spy, and watching his proceedings. If he had observed the young
people together, his mischievous intentions would have been completely
successful; but the tide-coach had balked him, and Mr. De Cleve's
good-natured arrangements were futile.
Grimaldi laughed in his sleeve as the real state of the case presented
itself to his mind; and feeling well pleased that he had not seen them
together, in the absence of any reply from Mr. De Cleve, he ascended to
the deck, and left the treasurer to his meditations.
Upon the deck, on a green bench with a back to it, and arms besides,
there sat a neighbour, and a neighbour's wife, and the neighbour's
wife's sister, and a very pretty girl, who was the neighbour's wife's
sister's friend. There was just room for one more on the bench, and
they insisted upon Mr. Grimaldi occupying the vacant seat, which he
readily did, for they were remaining on deck to avoid the closeness of
the cabin, and he preferred the cold air of the night to the cold heart
of Mr. De Cleve.
So down he sat next to the pretty friend; and the pretty friend
being wrapped in a very large seaman's coat, it was suggested by the
neighbour, who was a wag in his way, that she ought to lend a bit of it
to Mr. Grimaldi, who looked very cold. After a great deal of blushing
and giggling, the young lady put her left arm through the left arm of
the coat, and Grimaldi put his right arm through the right arm of the
coat, to the great admiration of the whole party, and after the manner
in which they show the giants' coats at the fairs. They sat in this way
during the whole voyage, and Grimaldi always declared that it was a
very comfortable way of travelling, as no doubt it is.
"Laugh away!" he said, as the party gave vent to their delight in
bursts of merriment. "If we had only something here to warm us
internally as well as the great-coat does externally, we would laugh
all night."
"What should you recommend for that purpose?" asked the neighbour.
"Brandy," said the friend.
"Then," rejoined the neighbour, "if you were a harlequin, instead of
a clown, you could not have conjured it up quicker." And with these
words, the neighbour, who was a plump, red-faced, merry fellow, held
up with both hands a large heavy stone bottle, with an inverted
drinking-horn resting on the bung; and having laughed very much at his
own forethought, he set the stone bottle down, and sat himself on the
top of it.
It was the only thing wanting to complete the mirth of the party, and
very merry they were. It was a fine moonlight night, cold, but healthy
and fresh, and it passed pleasantly and quickly away. The day had
broken before they reached Billingsgate-stairs; the stone-bottle was
empty, the neighbour asleep, Grimaldi and the young lady buttoned up in
the great-coat, and the wife and daughter very jocose and good-humoured.
Here they parted: the neighbour's family went home in a hackney-coach,
and Grimaldi, bidding them good-bye, walked away to Gracechurch-street,
not forgetting to thank the young lady for her humanity and compassion.
He had occasion to call at a coach-office in Gracechurch-street;
but finding that it was not yet open (for it was very early), and
not feeling at all fatigued by his journey, he determined to walk
about the city for a couple of hours or so, and then to return to
the coach-office. By so doing, he would pass away the time till the
office opened, gain an opportunity of looking about him in that part
of London, to which he was quite a stranger, and avoid disturbing the
family at home until a more seasonable hour. So he made up his mind to
walk the two hours away, and turned back for that purpose.
FOOTNOTES:
[21] Vincent de Cleve, facetiously nick-named among his associates,
"Polly de Cleve," not from any effeminacy of character or manner, or
his almost intolerable abuse of the King's English by the constant
utterance of the most flagrant cockneyisms, but for his Marplot
qualities, which ever prompted him to pry into everybody's business,
and create by his interference the most vexatious mischief. He was
an odd fish. Talent he had; he was no contemptible composer and
musician, and in his office, as treasurer to the Wells for many
years, strictly honest. Between Sadler's Wells and the Angel was
an old building, immediately opposite Lady Owen's Almshouses, now
also demolished, called Goose Farm; it belonged to Mr. Laycock, the
cow-keeper of Islington; but had ceased to be a farm-house; and was
divided into tenements; the first and second floors were each divided
into two suites of apartments. On the first floor in that next the
Wells, resided John Cawse, the artist, whose daughters subsequently
distinguished themselves as vocalists of no common power, and made
their _début_ in 1820 at Sadler's Wells, where the late Mrs. Cawse was
also an actress.
The suite next the Angel was occupied by the mother and sister of
Charles and Thomas Dibdin; during the management of the Wells by the
former, the sister, a short squab figure, generally the last among the
figurantes, came on among villagers and mobs; but under other lessees
was not employed, and died in Clerkenwell Poor-House. De Cleve occupied
the rooms on the second floor above the Dibdins; but all have ceased to
exist; and Joe, to use a common expression, outlived his enemy. A grave
stone, laid flat, in the churchyard of St. Mary's, Lambeth, marks the
spot where lie buried, Mrs. Frances De Cleve, who died in her thirtieth
year, May 3, 1795; and her husband, the busy meddler, Vincent de Cleve,
who died July 30, 1827, aged 67.
CHAPTER V.
1798.
An extraordinary circumstance concerning himself, with another
extraordinary circumstance concerning his grandfather--Specimen
of a laconic epistle, and an account of two interviews with
Mr. Hughes, in the latter of which a benevolent gentleman
is duly rewarded for his trouble--Preparations for his
marriage--Fatiguing effects of his exertions at the Theatre.
It was now broad day. The sun had risen, and was shedding a fine
mild light over the quiet street. The crowd so soon to be let loose
upon them was not yet stirring, and the only people visible were the
passengers who had landed from the boats, or who had just entered
London by other early conveyances. Although he had lived in London
all his life, he knew far less about it than many country people who
have visited it once or twice; and so unacquainted was he with the
particular quarter of the city in which he found himself, that he had
never even seen the Tower of London. He walked down to look at that;
and then he stared at the buildings round about, and the churches, and
a thousand objects which no one but a loiterer ever bestows a glance
upon; and so was walking on pleasantly enough, when all at once he
struck his foot against something which was lying on the pavement.
Looking down to see what it was, he perceived, to his great surprise,
a richly-ornamented net purse, of a very large size, filled with gold
coin.
He was perfectly paralyzed by the sight. He looked at it again and
again without daring to touch it. Then, by a sudden impulse, he glanced
cautiously round, and seeing that he was wholly unobserved, and that
there was not a solitary being within sight, he picked up the purse and
thrust it into his pocket.
As he stooped for this purpose, he observed, lying on the ground on
very nearly the same spot, a small bundle of papers tied round with
a piece of string. He picked them up too, mechanically. What was his
astonishment, on examining this last discovery more narrowly, to find
that the bundle was composed exclusively of bank-notes!
There was still nobody to be seen: there were no passers-by, no sound
of footsteps in the adjacent streets. He lingered about the spot for
more than an hour, eagerly scrutinizing the faces of the people, who
now began passing to and fro, with looks which themselves almost seemed
to inquire whether they had lost anything. No! there was no inquiry,
no searching; no person ran distractedly past him, or groped among the
mud by the pavement's side. It was evidently of no use waiting there;
and, quite tired of doing so, he turned and walked slowly back to the
coach-office in Gracechurch-street. He met or overtook no person on the
road who appeared to have lost anything, far less the immense sum of
money (for such it appeared to him) that he had found.
All this time, and for hours afterwards, he was in a state of turmoil
and agitation almost inconceivable. He felt as if he had committed some
dreadful theft, and feared discovery, and the shameful punishment which
must follow it. His legs trembled beneath him so that he could scarcely
walk, his heart beat violently, and the perspiration started on his
face.
The more he reflected upon the precise nature of his situation, the
more distressed and apprehensive he became. Suppose the money were
to be found upon him by the loser, who would believe him, when he
declared that he picked it up in the street? Would it not appear much
more probable that he had stolen it? and if such a charge were brought
against him, by what evidence could he rebut it? As these thoughts, and
twenty such, passed through his mind, he was more than once tempted
to draw the money from his pocket, fling it on the pavement, and take
to his heels; which he was only restrained from doing by reflecting,
that if he were observed and questioned, his answers might at once lead
him to be accused of a charge of robbery, in which case he would be as
badly off as if he were in the grasp of the real loser. It would appear
at first sight a very lucky thing to find such a purse; but Grimaldi
thought himself far from fortunate as these torturing thoughts filled
his mind.
When he got to Gracechurch-street, he found the coach-office still
closely shut, and turning towards home through Coleman-street and
Finsbury-square, he passed into the City-road, which then, with the
exception of a few houses in the immediate neighbourhood of the Angel
at Islington, was entirely lined on both sides with the grounds of
market-gardeners. This was a favourable place to count the treasure;
so, sitting down upon a bank in a retired spot, just where the Eagle
Tavern now stands, he examined his prize. The gold in the purse was
all in guineas. The whole contents of the bundle were in bank-notes,
varying in their amounts from five to fifty pounds each. And this was
all there was; no memorandum, no card, no scrap of paper, no document
of any kind whatever, afforded the slightest clue to the name or
residence of the owner. Besides the money, there was nothing but the
piece of string which kept the notes together, and the handsome silk
net purse before mentioned, which held the gold.
He could not count the money then, for his fingers trembled so that
he could scarcely separate the notes, and he was so confused and
bewildered that he could not reckon the gold. He counted it shortly
after he reached home, though, and found that there were 380 guineas,
and 200_l._ in notes, making in the whole the sum of 599_l._
He reached home between seven and eight o'clock, where, going instantly
to bed, he remained sound asleep for several hours. There was no news
respecting the money, which he longed to appropriate to his own use; so
he put it carefully by, determining of course to abstain rigidly from
doing so, and to use all possible means to discover the owner.
He did not forget the advice of Miss Hughes in the hurry and excitement
consequent upon his morning's adventure, but wrote another epistle to
the father, recapitulating the substance of a former letter, and begged
to be favoured with a reply.
Having despatched this to the post-office, he devoted the remainder of
the day to a serious consideration of the line of action it would be
most proper to adopt with regard to the five-hundred and ninety-nine
pounds so suddenly acquired. Eventually, he resolved to consult an old
and esteemed friend of his father's, upon whose judgment he knew he
might depend, and whose best advice he felt satisfied he could command.
This determination he carried into execution that same evening; and
after a long conversation with the gentleman in question, during which
he met all the young man's natural and probably apparent inclination
to apply the money to his own occasions and views with arguments and
remarks which were wholly unanswerable, he submitted to be guided by
him, and acted accordingly.
For a whole week the two friends carefully examined every paper
which was published in London, if not in the hope, at least in the
expectation, of seeing the loss advertised; but, strange as it may
seem, nothing of the kind appeared. At the end of the period named,
an advertisement, of which the following is a copy, (their joint
production,) appeared in the daily papers:--
"Found by a gentleman in the streets of London, some money, which will
be restored to the owner upon his giving a satisfactory account of the
manner of its loss, its amount, the numbers of the notes, &c. &c."
To this was appended a full and particular address: but,
notwithstanding all these precautions, notwithstanding the publicity
that was given to the advertisement, and notwithstanding that the
announcement was frequently repeated,--from that hour to the very last
moment of his life, Grimaldi never heard one word or syllable regarding
the treasure he had so singularly acquired; nor was he ever troubled
with any one application relative to the notice.
A somewhat similar circumstance occurred to his maternal
grandfather.[22] He was in the habit of attending Leadenhall Market
early every Thursday morning, and as he frequently made large
purchases, his purse was generally well lined. Upon one occasion, he
took with him nearly four hundred pounds, principally in gold and
silver, which formed a tolerably large bagful, the weight of which
rather impeded his progress. When he arrived near the Royal Exchange,
he found that his shoe had become unbuckled, and taking from his pocket
the bag, which would otherwise have prevented his stooping, (for he
was a corpulent man), he placed it upon a neighbouring post, and then
proceeded to adjust his buckle. This done, he went quietly on to
market, thinking nothing of the purse or its contents until some time
afterwards, when, having to pay for a heavy purchase, he missed it, and
after some consideration recollected the place where he had left it.
He hurried to the spot. Although more than three quarters of an hour
had elapsed since he had left it in the prominent situation already
described, there it remained safe and untouched on the top of the post
in the open street!
Four anxious days (he had both money and a wife at stake) passed
heavily away, but on the fifth, Saturday--a reply arrived from Mr.
Hughes, which being probably one of the shortest epistles ever received
through the hands of the general postman, is subjoined verbatim.
"Dear Joe,--
"Expect to see me in a few days.
"Yours truly,
"R. HUGHES."
If there was nothing decidedly favourable to be drawn from this
brief _morçeau_, there was at least nothing very appalling to his
hopes: it was evident that Mr. Hughes was not greatly offended at his
presumption, and probable that he might be eventually induced to give
his consent to Grimaldi's marriage with his daughter. This conclusion,
to which he speedily came, tended greatly to elevate his spirits; nor
did they meet with any check from the sudden appearance of Miss Hughes
from Gravesend.
The meeting was a joyful one on both sides. As soon as their mutual
greetings were over, he showed her her father's letter, of which she
appeared to take but little notice.
"Why, Maria!" he exclaimed, with some surprise, "you scarcely look upon
this letter, and seem to care little or nothing about it!"
"To tell you the truth, Joe," answered Miss Hughes, smiling, "my father
has already arrived in town: I found him at home when I got there two
or three hours back, and he desired me to tell you that he wishes to
see you on Monday morning, if you will call at the theatre."
Upon hearing this, all the old nervous symptoms returned, and he felt
as though he were about to receive a final death-blow to his hopes.
"You may venture to take courage, I think," said Miss Hughes; "I have
very little fear or doubt upon the subject."
Her admirer had a good deal of both; but he was somewhat re-assured by
the young lady's manner, and her conviction that her father, who had
always treated her most kindly and indulgently, would not desert her
then. Comforted by discussing the probabilities of success, and all
the happiness that was to follow it, they spent the remainder of the
day happily enough, and looked forward as calmly as they could to the
Monday which was to decide their fate.
The following day--Sunday--was rather a wearisome one, being occupied
with speculations as to what the morrow would bring forth. However,
long as it seemed, the night arrived at last; and though that was long
too, Monday morning succeeded it as usual.
Concealing his inward agitation as best he might, he walked to the
theatre, and there in the treasury found Mr. Hughes. He was received
very kindly, but, after some trivial conversation, was much astonished
by Mr. Hughes saying, "So you are going to leave Sadler's Wells,
and all your old friends, merely because you can get a trifle more
elsewhere,--eh, Joe?"
He was so amazed at this, he could scarcely speak, but quickly
recovering, said, "I can assure you, sir, that no such idea ever
entered my head;--in fact, even if I wished such a thing, which, Heaven
knows, is furthest from my thoughts! I could not do so, being under
articles to you."
"You forget," replied Mr. Hughes, somewhat sternly, "your articles have
expired here."
And so they had, and so he had forgotten, and so he was constrained to
confess.
"It is rather odd," continued Mr. Hughes, "that so important a
circumstance should have escaped your memory: but tell me, do you know
Mr. Cross?"
Mr. Cross was manager of the Circus, now the Surrey Theatre, and had
repeatedly made Grimaldi offers to leave Sadler's Wells, and join
his company. He had done so, indeed, only a few days prior to this
conversation, offering to allow him to name his own terms. But these
and other similar invitations he had firmly declined, being unwilling
for many reasons to leave the theatre to which he had been accustomed
all his life.
From this observation of Mr. Hughes, and the manner in which it was
made, it was obvious to him that some one had endeavoured to injure him
in that gentleman's opinion; and fortunately chancing to have in his
pocket-book the letters he had received from Mr. Cross, and copies of
his own replies, he lost no time in clearing himself of the charge.
"My dear sir," he said, "I do not know Mr. Cross personally, but
very well as a correspondent, inasmuch as he has repeatedly written,
offering engagements to me, all of which I have declined;" and he
placed the papers before him.
The perusal of these letters seemed to satisfy Mr. Hughes, who returned
them, and said smilingly, "Well then, we'll talk about a fresh
engagement here, as you prefer old quarters. Let me see: your salary is
now four pounds per week:--well, I will engage you for three seasons,
and the terms shall be these: for the first season, six pounds per
week; for the second, seven; and for the third, eight. Will that do?"
He readily agreed to a proposition which, handsome in itself, greatly
exceeded anything he had anticipated. As Mr. Hughes seemed anxious to
have the affair settled, and Grimaldi was perfectly content that it
should be, two witnesses were sent for, and the articles were drawn up,
and signed upon the spot.
Then again they were left alone, and after a few moments more of
desultory conversation, Mr. Hughes rose, saying, "I shall see you,
I suppose, in the evening, as I am going to Drury Lane to see Blue
Beard." He advanced towards the door as he spoke, and then suddenly
turning round, added, "Have you anything else to say to me?"
Now was the time, or never. Screwing his courage to the sticking-place,
Grimaldi proceeded to place before Mr. Hughes his hopes and prospects,
strongly urging that his own happiness and that of his daughter
depended upon his consent being given to their marriage.
Mr. Hughes had thought over the subject well, and displayed by no means
that displeasure which the young man's anxious fears had prophesied;
he urged the youth of both parties as an argument against acceding to
their wishes, but finally gave his consent, and by so doing transported
the lover with joy.
Mr. Hughes advanced to the door of the room, and throwing it open, as
he went out, said to his daughter, who chanced to be sitting in the
next room, "Maria, Joe is here: you had better come and welcome him."
Miss Hughes came like a dutiful daughter, and _did_ welcome her
faithful admirer, as he well deserved for his true-hearted and constant
affection. In the happiness of the moment, the fact that the door of
the room was standing wide open quite escaped the notice of both, who
never once recollected the possibility of any third person being an
unseen witness to the interview.
This was a red-letter day in Grimaldi's calendar; he had nothing to
do in the evening at Drury Lane until the last scene but one of Blue
Beard, so went shopping with his future wife, buying divers articles of
plate, and such other small wares as young housekeepers require.
On hurrying to the theatre at night, he found Mr. Hughes anxiously
regarding the machinery of the last scene in Blue Beard, which he was
about getting up at the Exeter Theatre.
"This machinery is very intricate, Joe," said the father-in-law upon
seeing him.
"You are right, sir," replied Joe; "and, what is more, it works very
badly."
"So I should expect," was the reply; "and as I am afraid we shall not
manage this very well in the country, I wish I could improve it."
Among the numerous modes of employing any spare time to which Grimaldi
resorted for the improvement of a vacant hour, the invention of model
transformations and pantomime tricks held a foremost place at that
time, and did, though in a limited degree, to the close of his life.
At the time of his death he had many excellent models of this
description, besides several which he sold to Mr. Bunn so recently
as a few months prior to December, 1836, all of which were used in
the pantomime of "Harlequin and Gammer Gurton," produced at Drury
Lane on the 26th of that month. He rarely allowed any machinery which
came under his notice, especially if a little peculiar, to pass
without modelling it upon a small scale. He had a complete model of
the skeleton "business" in Blue Beard; and not merely that, but an
improvement of his own besides, by which the intricate nature of the
change might be avoided, and many useless flaps dispensed with.
Nervously anxious to elevate himself as much as possible in the opinion
of Mr. Hughes at this particular juncture, he eagerly explained to him
the nature of his alterations, as far as the models were concerned, and
plainly perceived he was agreeably surprised at the communication. He
begged his acceptance of models, both of the original mechanism, and of
his own improved version of it; and Mr. Hughes, in reply, invited him
to breakfast on the following morning, and requested him to bring both
models with him. This he failed not to do. It happened that a rather
ludicrous scene awaited him.
He had one or two enemies connected at that time with Sadler's Wells,
who allowed their professional envy to impel them to divers acts of
small malignity. One of these persons, having been told of his saluting
Miss Hughes, by a servant girl with whom he chanced to be acquainted,
and who had witnessed the action, sought and obtained an interview that
evening with the father upon his return from Drury Lane, and stated the
circumstance to him, enlarging and embellishing the details with divers
comments upon the ingratitude of Grimaldi in seducing the affections of
a young lady so much above him, and making various wise and touching
reflections most in vogue on such occasions.
Mr. Hughes heard all this with a calmness which first of all astonished
the speaker, but which he eventually attributed to concentrated rage.
After he had finished his speech, the former quietly said, "Will you
favour me by coming here at nine o'clock to-morrow morning, sir?"
"Most certainly," was the reply.
"Allow me, however, at once," continued Mr. Hughes, "to express my
thanks for your kindness in informing me of that which so nearly
concerns my domestic happiness. Will you take a glass of madeira?"
"I thank you, sir," answered the other.
The wine was brought and drunk, and the friend departed, congratulating
himself, as he walked away, upon having "settled Joe's business;" which
indeed he had, but not after the fashion he expected or intended.
As to Grimaldi, he was up with the lark, arranging the machinery
and making it look and work to the best advantage; in which having
succeeded to his heart's content, he put the models he had promised
Mr. Hughes into his pocket, and walked down to his house to breakfast,
agreeably to the arrangement of the night before.
Upon his arrival, he was told that breakfast was not quite ready, and
likewise that Mr. Hughes wished to see him immediately in the treasury,
where he was then awaiting his arrival. There was something in the
manner of the servant-girl (the same, by-the-by, who had told of the
kissing), as she said this, which induced him involuntarily to fear
some ill, and, without knowing exactly why, he began to apprehend those
thousand and one impossible, or at least improbable, evils, the dread
of which torments the man nervously afraid of losing some treasure upon
the possession of which his happiness depends.
"Is Mr. Hughes alone?" he asked.
"No, sir," answered the girl: "there is a gentleman with him;"--and
then she mentioned a name which increased his apprehensions. However,
plucking up all his courage, he advanced to the appointed chamber, and
in two minutes found himself in the presence of Mr. Hughes and his
accuser.
The former received him coldly; the latter turned away when he saw him
without vouchsafing a word.
"Come in, sir," said Mr. Hughes, "and close the door after you." He
did as he was told; never, either before or afterwards, feeling so
strangely like a criminal.
"Mr. Grimaldi," continued Mr. Hughes, with a mingled formality and
solemnity which appalled him, "I have something very important to
communicate to you--in fact, I have had a charge preferred against you
of a most serious description, sir."
"Indeed, sir!"
"Yes, indeed, sir!" said the enemy, with a look very like one of
triumph.
"It is true," replied Mr. Hughes, "and I fear you will not be able to
clear yourself from it: however, in justice to you, the charge shall
be fully stated in your own presence. Repeat, sir, if you please," he
continued, addressing the accuser, "what you told me last night."
And repeat it he did, in a speech, replete with malignity, and not
destitute of oratorical merit: in which he dwelt upon the serpent-like
duplicity with which young Grimaldi had stolen into the bosom of a
happy and hospitable family for the purpose of robbing a father and
mother of their beloved daughter, and dragging down from her own
respectable sphere a young and inexperienced girl, to visit her with
all the sorrows consequent upon limited means, and the needy home of a
struggling actor.
It was with inexpressible astonishment that he heard all this; but
still greater was his astonishment at witnessing the demeanour of
Mr. Hughes, who heard this lengthened oration with a settled frown
of attention, as though what he heard alike excited his profound
consideration and anger; occasionally, too, vouchsafing an encouraging
nod to the speaker, which was anything but encouraging to the other
party.
"You are quite right," said Mr. Hughes, at length; on hearing which,
Grimaldi felt quite wrong. "You are _quite_ right nothing can justify
such actions, except one thing, and that is--"
"Mr. Hughes," interrupted the _friend_, "I know your kind heart
well,--so well, that I can perceive your charitable feelings are even
now striving to discover some excuse or palliation for this offence;
but permit me, as a disinterested observer, to tell you that nothing
can justify a man in winning the affections of a young girl infinitely
above him, and, at the same time, the daughter of one to whom he is so
greatly indebted."
"Will you listen to me for half a minute?" inquired Mr. Hughes, in a
peculiarly calm tone.
"Certainly, sir," answered the other.
"Well, then, I was going to observe, at the moment when you somewhat
rudely interrupted me, that I quite agreed with you, and that nothing
can justify a man in acting in the manner you have described, unless,
indeed, he has obtained the sanction of the young lady's parents; in
which case, he is, of course, at liberty to win her affections as soon
as he likes, and she likes to let him."
"Assuredly, sir," responded the other; "but in the present instance--"
"But in the present instance," interrupted Mr. Hughes, "that happens
to be the case. My daughter Maria has my full permission to marry Mr.
Grimaldi; and I have no doubt she will avail herself of that permission
in the course of a very few weeks."
The accuser was dumb-foundered, and Grimaldi was delighted--now, for
the first time perceiving that Mr. Hughes had been amusing himself at
the expense of the mischief-maker.
"Nevertheless," said Mr. Hughes, turning to his accepted son-in-law
with a grave face, but through all the gravity of which he could
perceive a struggling smile,--"Nevertheless, you acted very wrong,
Mr. Grimaldi, in kissing my daughter so publicly; and I beg that
whenever, for the future, you and she deem it essential to indulge in
such amusements, it may be done in private. This is rendered necessary
by the laws which at present govern society, and I am certain will be
far more consonant to the feelings and delicacy of the young lady in
question."
With these words Mr. Hughes made a low bow to the officious and
disinterested individual who had made the speech, and, opening the
door, called to the servants "to show the gentleman out." Then
turning to Grimaldi, he took him by the arm, and walked towards the
breakfast-room, declaring that the meal had been waiting half an hour
or more, that the coffee would be cold, and Maria quite tired of
waiting for him.
From this moment the course of true love ran smooth for once: and
Mr. Hughes, in all his subsequent behaviour to Grimaldi sufficiently
evinced his high sense of the innate worth of a young man, who, under
very adverse circumstances and with many temptations to contend
against, had behaved with so much honesty and candour.
On the Saturday after this pleasant termination of a scene which
threatened to be attended with very different results, the house in
Penton-street was taken possession of, and next Easter Sunday the young
couple were asked in church for the first time. Sadler's Wells opened
as usual on Easter Monday,[23] and Grimaldi appeared in a new part, a
more prominent one than he had yet had, and one which increased his
reputation considerably.
At this time, in consequence of his great exertions in this character,
after four or five months of comparative rest, he began to feel some of
those wastings of strength and prostrations of energy, to which this
class of performers are more peculiarly exposed, and which leave them,
if they attain old age, as they left Grimaldi himself, in a state of
great bodily infirmity and suffering. He was cheered throughout the
play; but the applause of the audience only spirited him to increased
exertions, and at the close of the performances he was so exhausted and
worn out that he could scarcely stand. It was with great difficulty
that he reached his home, although the distance was so very slight; and
immediately on doing so, he was obliged to be put to bed.
He was wont in after-life frequently to remark, that if at one period
of his career his gains were great, his labours were at least equally
so, and deserved the return. He spoke from sad experience of their
effects at that time, and he spoke the truth. It must be a very high
salary, indeed, that could ever repay a man--and especially a feeling,
sensitive man, as Grimaldi really was--for premature old age and early
decay.
He awoke at eleven o'clock next day invigorated and refreshed;--this
long rest was an extraordinary indulgence for him to take, for it was
his constant habit to be up and dressed by seven o'clock or earlier,
either attending to his pigeons, practising the violin, occupying
himself in constructing such little models as have been before
mentioned, or employing himself in some way. Idleness wearied him more
than labour; he never could understand the gratification which many
people seem to derive from having nothing to do.
It is customary on the morning after a new piece to "call" it upon the
stage with a view of condensing it where it will admit of condensation,
and making such improvements as the experience of one night may have
suggested. All the performers engaged in the piece of course attend
these "calls," as any alterations will necessarily affect the dialogue
of their parts, or some portions of the stage business connected with
them.
Being one of the principal actors in the new drama, it was
indispensably necessary that he should attend, and accordingly, much
mortified at finding it so late, he dressed with all possible despatch,
and set forth towards the theatre.
FOOTNOTES:
[22] The slaughterman and carcase-butcher of Bloomsbury, and
Newton-street, Holborn.
[23] Sadler's Wells, on Easter Monday, April 9, 1798, opened with
a Prelude, entitled, "Easter Monday; or, a Peep at the Wells." The
prolocutory characters by Dubois and Mrs. Davis: in the concluding
scene were introduced the whole Company, and a Ballet Divertissement;
the dances by the Misses Bruguiers, their first appearances, and by Mr.
King, who, it will be remembered, in the recital of the alarm created
by the Pentonville robbers, is said, "while armed with a heavy stick,
to have crept cautiously into the back garden, groped about, and soon
returned out of breath." The amusements of the evening concluded with
an entirely new harlequinade, called "The Monster of the Cave; or,
Harlequin and the Fay." Principal characters by Mr. King, Mr. Grimaldi,
Mr. Davis, and Mr. Dubois, Miss Bruguier, and Mrs. Roffey. Joe for the
first time, on the bill of the day, has the honourable distinction of
Mr. prefixed to his name; hitherto it was "Master Grimaldi." On Monday,
July 30, was produced a new Grand Comic Spectacle and Harlequinade,
called "Blue Beard, Black Beard, Red Beard, and Grey Beard;" in which
the motley hero of Pantomime, it was announced, would respectfully
endeavour to keep up the spirit of the old English adage,
"'Tis merry in Hall, when Beards wag all,"
in the novel character of Harlequin Dutch Skipper. Harlequin Skipper,
Mr. King; Plutus, Blue Beard, Mr. Barnett; Mars, Black Beard, Mr.
Davis; Saturn, Grey Beard, Mr. Grimaldi; Mynheer Red Beard, Mr. Gomery;
Dutch Clown, Mr. Dubois; and Columbine, Miss Bruguier. The Pantomime
was highly attractive, and exhibited, amongst other excellent scenes,
one in moving perspective, showing the effect of a balloon descending
among the clouds.
CHAPTER VI.
1798.
Tribulations connected with "Old Lucas," the constable, with an
account of the subsequent proceedings before Mr. Blamire, the
magistrate, at Hatton Garden, and the mysterious appearance
of a silver staff--A guinea wager with a jocose friend on the
Dartford-road--The Prince of Wales, Sheridan, and the Crockery
Girl.
At this time all the ground upon which Claremont, Myddleton, Lloyd,
and Wilmington Squares have since been built, together with the
numberless streets which diverge from them in all directions, was then
pasture-land or garden-ground, bearing the name of Sadler's Wells
Fields. Across these fields it was of course necessary that Grimaldi
should pass and repass in going to and returning from the theatre.
Upon this particular morning, a mob, consisting of at least a thousand
persons, were actively engaged here in hunting an over-driven ox,--a
diversion then in very high repute among the lower orders of the
metropolis, but which is now, happily for the lives and limbs of the
more peaceable part of the community, falling into desuetude: there not
being quite so many open spaces or waste grounds to chase oxen in, as
there used to be a quarter of a century ago. The mob was a very dense
one, comprised of the worst characters; and perceiving that it would
be a task of some difficulty to clear a passage through it, he paused
for a minute or two, deliberating whether he had not better turn back
at once and take the longer but less obstructed route by the Angel at
Islington, when a young gentleman whom he had never seen before, after
eyeing him with some curiosity, walked up and said--
"Is not your name Grimaldi, sir?"
"Yes, sir, it is," replied the other. "Pray, may I inquire why you ask
the question?"
"Because," answered the stranger, pointing to a man who stood among
a little group of people hard by,--"because I just now heard that
gentleman mention it to a companion."
The person whom the young man pointed out was a very well known
character about Clerkenwell and its vicinity, being an object of
detestation with the whole of the neighbourhood. This man was
Lucas,--"Old Lucas" was his familiar appellation,--and he filled the
imposing office of parish constable. Parish constables are seldom very
popular in their own districts, but Old Lucas was more unpopular than
any man of the same class; and if the stories which are current of
him be correct, with very good reason, unless the man was dreadfully
belied. In short, he was a desperate villain. It was very generally
understood of him, that where no real accusation existed against a man,
his course of proceeding was to invent a false one, and to bolster
it up with the most unblushing perjury, and an ingenious system of
false evidence, which he had never any difficulty in obtaining, for
the purpose of pocketing certain small sums which, under the title of
"expenses," were paid upon the conviction of the culprit.
Being well acquainted with this man's reputation, Grimaldi was much
astonished, and not at all pleasantly so, by the information he
had just received; and he inquired with considerable anxiety and
a
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