1803.
Containing a very extraordinary incident well worthy of the
reader's attention.
One evening in the second week of November, 1803,[33] Grimaldi then
playing at Drury Lane, had been called by the prompter, and was passing
from the green-room to the stage, when a messenger informed him that
two gentlemen were waiting to see him at the stage-door. Afraid of
keeping the stage waiting, he enjoined the messenger to tell the
gentlemen that he was engaged at that moment, but that he would come
down to them directly he left the stage. The play was "A Bold Stroke
for a Wife:" Miss Mellon was Anne; Bannister, Feignwell; Aitkin, Simon
Pure; and Grimaldi, Aminadab.
As soon as he could get away from the stage, he hurried down stairs,
and inquiring who wanted him, was introduced to two strangers, who were
patiently awaiting his arrival. They were young men of gentlemanly
appearance, and upon hearing the words, "Here's Mr. Grimaldi--who wants
him?" one of them turned hastily round, and warmly accosted him.
He looked about his own age, and had evidently been accustomed to a
much warmer climate than that of England. He wore the fashionable
evening-dress of the day--that is to say, a blue body-coat with gilt
buttons, a white waistcoat, and tight pantaloons--and carried in his
hand a small gold-headed cane.
"Joe, my lad!" exclaimed this person, holding out his hand, in some
agitation, "how goes it with you now, old fellow?"
He was not a little surprised at this familiar address from a person
whom he was not conscious of ever having seen in his life, and, after
a moment's pause, replied that he really had not the pleasure of the
stranger's acquaintance.
"Not the pleasure of my acquaintance!" repeated the stranger, with
a loud laugh. "Well, Joe, that seems funny, anyhow!" He appealed to
his companion, who concurred in the opinion, and they both laughed
heartily. This was all very funny to the strangers, but not at all so
to Grimaldi: he had a vague idea that they were rather laughing at than
with him, and as much offended as surprised, was turning away, when the
person who had spoken first said, in rather a tremulous voice,
"Joe, don't you know me now?"
He turned, and gazed at him again. He had opened his shirt, and was
pointing to a scar upon his breast, the sight of which at once assured
him that it was no other than his brother who stood before him,--his
only brother, who had disappeared under the circumstances narrated in
an earlier part of these memoirs.
They were naturally much affected by this meeting, especially the elder
brother, who had been so suddenly summoned into the presence of the
near relative whom long ago he had given up for lost. They embraced
again and again, and gave vent to their feelings in tears.
"Come up stairs," said Grimaldi, as soon as the first surprise was
over; "Mr. Wroughton is there--Mr. Wroughton, who was the means of
your going to sea,--he'll be delighted to see you." The brothers were
hurrying away, when the friend, whose presence they had quite forgotten
in their emotion, said,
"Well, John, then I'll wish you good night!"
"Good night! good night!" said the other, shaking his hand; "I shall
see you in the morning."
"Yes," replied the friend; "at ten, mind!"
"At ten precisely: I shall not forget," answered John.
The friend, to whom he had not introduced his brother in any way,
departed; and they went upon the stage together, where Grimaldi
introduced his brother to Powell, Bannister, Wroughton, and many others
in the green-room, who, attracted by the singularity of his return
under such circumstances, had collected round them.
Having his stage business to attend to, he had very little time for
conversation; but of course he availed himself of every moment that he
could spare off the stage, and in answer to his inquiries, his brother
assured him that his trip had been eminently successful.
"At this moment," he said, slapping his breast-pocket, "I have six
hundred pounds here."
"Why, John," said his brother, "it's very dangerous to carry so much
money about with you!"
"Dangerous!" replied John, smiling; "we sailors know nothing about
danger. But, my lad, even if all this were gone, I should not be
penniless." And he gave a knowing wink, which induced his brother to
believe that he had indeed "made a good trip of it."
At this moment Grimaldi was again called upon the stage; and Mr.
Wroughton, taking that opportunity of talking to his brother, made
many kind inquiries of him relative to his success and the state of
his finances. In reply to these questions he made in effect the same
statements as he had already communicated to Joseph, and exhibited as
evidence of the truth of his declarations a coarse canvas bag, stuffed
full of various coins, which he carefully replaced in his pocket again.
As soon as the comedy was ended, Grimaldi joined him; and Mr.
Wroughton, having congratulated his brother on his return, and the
fortunate issue of his adventures, bade them good night; when Grimaldi
took occasion to ask how long the sailor had been in town.
He replied, two or three hours back; that he had merely tarried to
get some dinner, and had come straight to the theatre. In answer to
inquiries relative to what he intended doing, he said he had not
bestowed a thought upon the matter, and that the only topic which had
occupied his mind was his anxiety to see his mother and brother. A long
and affectionate conversation ensued, in the course of which it was
proposed by Joseph, that as his mother lived with himself and wife,
and they had a larger house than they required, the brother should
join them, and they should all live together. To this the brother most
gladly and joyfully assented, and adding that he must see his mother
that night, or his anxiety would not suffer him to sleep, asked where
she lived.
Grimaldi gave him the address directly; but, as he did not play in
the afterpiece, said, that he had done for the night, and that if he
would wait while he changed his dress, he would go with him. His
brother was, of course, glad to hear there was no necessity for them to
separate, and Grimaldi hurried away to his dressing-room, leaving him
on the stage.
The agitation of his feelings, the suddenness of his brother's return,
the good fortune which had attended him in his absence, the gentility
of his appearance, and his possession of so much money, all together
confused him so, that he could scarcely use his hands. He stood still
every now and then quite lost in wonder, and then suddenly recollecting
that his brother was waiting, looked over the room again and again
for articles of dress that were lying before him. At length, after
having occupied a much longer time than usual in changing his dress,
he was ready, and ran down to the stage. On his way he met Powell, who
heartily congratulated him on the return of his relative, making about
the thirtieth who had been kind enough to do so already. Grimaldi asked
him, more from nervousness than for information, if he had seen him
lately.
"Not a minute ago," was the reply; "he is waiting for you upon the
stage. I wont detain you, for he complains that you have been longer
away now, than you said you would be."
Grimaldi hurried down stairs to the spot where he had left his brother.
He was not there.
"Who are you looking for, Joe?" inquired Bannister, as he saw him
looking eagerly about.
"For my brother," he answered. "I left him here a little while back."
"Well, and I saw and spoke to him not a minute ago," said Bannister.
"When he left me, he went in that direction (pointing towards the
passage that led towards the stage-door). I should think he had left
the theatre."
Grimaldi ran to the stage-door, and asked the porter if his brother had
passed. The man said he had, not a minute back; he could not have got
out of the street by that time.
He ran out at the door, and then up and down the street several times,
but saw nothing of him. Where could he be gone to? Possibly, finding
him longer gone than he had anticipated, he might have stepped out to
call upon one of his old friends close by, whom he had not seen for
so many years, with the intention of returning to the theatre. This
was not unlikely; for in the immediate neighbourhood there lived a Mr.
Bowley, who had been his bosom friend when they were boys. The idea no
sooner struck Grimaldi than he ran to the house and knocked hastily at
the door. The man himself answered the knock, and was evidently greatly
surprised.
"I have indeed seen your brother," he said, in reply to Grimaldi's
question. "Good God! I was never so amazed in all my life."
"Is he here now?" was the anxious inquiry.
"No; but he has not been gone a minute; he cannot have gone many yards."
"Which way?"
"That way, towards Duke-street."
"He must have gone," thought Grimaldi, "to call on Mr. Bailey, our
old landlord." He hurried away to the house in Great Wild-street, and
knocked long and loudly at the door. The people were asleep. He knocked
again and rang violently, being in a state of great excitement; at
length a servant-girl thrust her head out of an upper window, and said,
both sulkily and sleepily,--
"I tell you again, he is not at home."
"What are you talking about? Who is not at home?"
"Why, Mr. Bailey: I told you so before. What do you keep on knocking
for, at this time of night?"
He could not understand a word of all this, but hurriedly told his
name, and requested the girl to come down directly, for he wished to
speak to her. The head was directly withdrawn, the window closed, and
in a minute or two afterwards the girl appeared at the street door.
"I'm sure I beg your pardon, sir," she said, after pouring forth a
volume of apologies. "But there was a gentleman here knocking and
ringing very violently not a minute before you came. I told him Mr.
Bailey was not at home; and when I heard you at the door, I thought it
was him, and that he would not go away."
Grimaldi was breathless with the speed he had made, and trembling with
vague apprehensions of he knew not what. He asked if she had seen the
gentleman's face. The girl, surprised at his emotion, replied that she
had not; she had only answered him from the window, being afraid to
open the door to a stranger so long after dark, when all the family
were out. The only thing she had noticed was that he had got a white
waistcoat on; for she had thought at the time, seeing him dressed, that
perhaps he might have called to take her master to a party.
He must have gone back to the theatre.
He left the surprised girl standing at the door, and ran to Drury
Lane. Here, again, he was disappointed; he had not been seen. He ran
from place to place, and from house to house, wherever he thought it
possible his brother could have called, but nobody had heard of or
seen him. Many of the persons to whom he appealed openly expressed
their doubts to each other of his sanity of mind; which were really
not without a shadow of probability, seeing that he knocked them out
of their beds, and, with every appearance of agitation and wildness,
demanded if they had seen his brother, whom nobody had heard of for
fourteen years, and whom most of them considered dead.
It was so late now, that the theatre was just shutting up; but he ran
back once more, and again inquired if his brother had been there.
Hearing he had not, he concluded that, recollecting the address he
had mentioned, he had gone straight to his mother's home. This seemed
probable; and yet he felt a degree of dismay and alarm which he had
never before experienced, even when there were good grounds for such
feelings.
The more he thought of this, however, the more probable it seemed, and
he blamed himself as he walked quickly homewards for not having thought
of it sooner. He remembered the anxiety his brother had expressed to
see their mother, the plan they had discussed for their all living
together, and the many little schemes of future happiness which they
had talked over in their hurried interview, and in all of which she was
comprised. He reached home, and, composing himself as well as he could,
entered the little room in which they usually supped after the play.
His brother was not there, but his mother was, and, as she looked much
paler than usual, he thought she had seen him.
"Well, mother," he said, "has anything strange occurred here to-night?"
"No; nothing that I have heard of."
"What! no stranger arrived!--no long-lost relative recovered!"
exclaimed Grimaldi, all his former apprehensions returning.
"What do you mean?"
"Mean! Why, that John is come home safe and well, and with money enough
to make all our fortunes."
His mother screamed wildly at this intelligence and fainted; she
recovered after a time, and Grimaldi recounted to her and his wife the
events of the evening, precisely as they are here narrated.
They were greatly amazed at the recital. The mother held that he would
be sure to come before the night was over; that he had probably met
with some of his old friends, and would be there after he had left
them. She insisted that Grimaldi, who was tired, should go to bed,
while she sat up and waited for her son. He did so, and the mother
remained all through the long night anxiously expecting his arrival.
This may appear a long story, but its conclusion invests it with a
degree of interest which warrants the detail. The running away to sea
of a young man, and his return after a lapse of years, is, and ever has
been, no novelty in this island. This is not the burden of the tale. It
possessed an awful interest to those whom it immediately concerned, and
cannot fail to have some for the most indifferent reader.
From that night in November, 1803, to this month of January, 1838, the
missing man was never seen again; nor was any intelligence, or any
clue of the faintest or most remote description, ever obtained by his
friends respecting him.
Next morning, and many mornings afterwards, the mother still anxiously
and hopelessly expected the arrival of her son. Again and again did
she question Grimaldi about him--his appearance, his manner, what he
said, and all the details of his disappearance; again and again was
every minute fact recalled, and every possible conjecture hazarded
relative to his fate. He could scarcely persuade himself but that the
events of the preceding night were a delusion of his brain, until the
inquiries after his brother, which were made by those who had seen him
on the previous night, placed them beyond all doubt. He communicated
to his friends the strange history of the last few hours, with all the
circumstances of his brother's sudden appearance, and of his equally
sudden disappearance. He was advised to wait a little while before
he made the circumstance public, in the hope that he might have been
induced to spend the night with some shipmates, and might speedily
return.
But a week passed away, and then further silence would have been
criminal, and he proceeded to set on foot every inquiry which his own
mind could suggest, or the kindness of his friends prompted them to
advise. A powerful nobleman who at that time used to frequent Drury
Lane Theatre, and who had on, many occasions expressed his favourable
opinion of Grimaldi, interested himself greatly in the matter, and
set on foot a series of inquiries at the Admiralty: every source of
information possessed by that establishment that was deemed at all
likely to throw any light upon the subject was resorted to, but in
vain; the newspapers were searched to ascertain what ships had arrived
in the river or upon the coast that day--whence they came, what crews
they carried, what passengers they had; the police-officers were paid
to search all London through, and endeavour to gain some information,
if it were only of the lost man's death. Everything was tried by the
family, and by many very powerful friends whom the distressing nature
of the inquiry raised up about them, to trace the object of their
regret and labour, but all in vain. The sailor was seen no more.
Various surmises were afloat at the time regarding the real nature
of this mysterious transaction; many of them, of course, were absurd
enough, but the two most probable conjectures appear to have been
hazarded many years afterwards, and when all chance of the man being
alive were apparently at an end,--the one by the noble lord who had
pursued the investigation at the Admiralty, and the other by a shrewd
long-headed police-officer, who had been employed to set various
inquiries on foot in the neighbourhood of the theatre.
The former suggested that a press-gang, to whom the person of the
brother was known, might possibly have pounced upon him in some
by-street, and have carried him off; in which case, as he had
previously assumed a false name, the fact of his friends receiving no
intelligence of him was easily accounted for; while, as nothing could
be more probable than that he was slain in one of the naval engagements
so rife about that time, his never appearing again was easily
explained. This solution of the mystery, however, was by no means
satisfactory to his friends, as it was liable to many very obvious
doubts and objections. Upon the whole, they felt inclined to give far
more credence to the still more tragical, but, it is to be feared,
more probable explanation which the experience of the police-officer
suggested.
This man was of opinion that the unfortunate subject of their doubts
had been lured into some low infamous den, by persons who had either
previously known or suspected that he had a large sum of money in his
possession; that here he was plundered, and afterwards either murdered
in cold blood, or slain in some desperate struggle to recover his
gold. This conjecture was encouraged by but too many corroboratory
circumstances: the sailor was of a temper easily persuaded: he had all
the recklessness and hardihood of a seafaring man, only increased by
the possession of prize-money and the release from hard work: he had
money, and a very large sum of money, about him, the greater part in
specie, and not in notes, or any security which it would be difficult
or dangerous to exchange: all this was known to his brother and to Mr.
Wroughton, both eye-witnesses of the fact.
One other circumstance deserves a word. It was, both at the time and
for a long period afterwards, a source of bitter, although of most
groundless self-reproach to Grimaldi, that he could not sufficiently
recollect the appearance of the man who accompanied his brother to
the stage-door of the theatre, to describe his person. If he could
have been traced out, some intelligence respecting the poor fellow
might perhaps have been discovered; but Grimaldi was so much moved by
the unexpected recognition of his brother, that he scarcely bestowed
a thought or a look upon his companion: nor, after taxing his memory
for many years, could he ever recollect more than that he was dressed
in precisely the same attire as his brother, even down to the white
waistcoat; a circumstance which had not only been noticed by himself,
but was well remembered by the door-keeper, and others who had passed
in and out of the theatre during the time the two young men were
standing in the lobby.
Recollecting the intimate terms upon which the two appeared to be,
and the appointment which was made between them for the following
morning, "at ten precisely," there is little reason to doubt that if
the sailor had disappeared without the knowledge or privity of his
companion, the latter would infallibly have applied to Grimaldi to
know where his brother was. Coupling the fact of his never doing so,
and never being seen or heard of again, with the circumstance of the
lost man never having evinced the least inclination to take him home
with him, to retain him when he was in his brother's company, or even
to introduce him in the slightest manner, (from all of which it would
seem that he was some bad or doubtful character,) the family arrived
at the conclusion,--if it should ever be an unjust one, it will be
forgiven,--that this man was cognizant of, if indeed he was not chiefly
instrumental in bringing about, the untimely fate of the murdered man,
for such they always supposed him. Whether they were right or wrong in
this conclusion will probably ever remain unknown.
[Illustration: George Cruikshank
_A startling effect._]
FOOTNOTES:
[33] Sadler's Wells opened on Easter Monday, April 11th, 1803, under
a change of proprietors. Mr. Hughes retained his fourth; Thomas and
Charles Dibdin had purchased Mr. Siddons' fourth for 1400_l._; Barford
and Yarnold had bought the fourth previously held by Mr. Thos. Arnold,
of the First Fruits Office; Mr. Reeve purchased the eighth, hitherto
the property of Mr. Wroughton; and Mr. Andrews the eighth previously
held by Mr. Coates. The season is memorable for the appearance on that
stage of the celebrated traveller, Signor Giambattista Belzoni, as the
Patagonian Samson, in which character he performed prodigious feats
of strength; one of which was to adjust an iron frame to his body,
weighing 127 lbs., on which he carried eleven persons. On his benefit
night he attempted to carry thirteen, but as that number could not hold
on, it was abandoned. His stature, as registered in the books of the
Alien Office, was six feet six inches.
Poor Tom Ellar, in his Manuscripts, notices--"The first time I met
Signor Belzoni, was at the Royalty Theatre, on Easter Monday, 1808, my
first appearance in London; the theatre closed after the fourth week.
In September of the same year, I again met him at Saunders's booth in
Bartholomew Fair, exhibiting as the French Hercules. In 1809, we were
jointly engaged in the production of pantomime, at the Crow Street
Theatre, Dublin; I as Harlequin, and he as an artist to superintend
the last scene, a sort of Hydraulic Temple, which, owing to what is
very frequently the case, the being over-anxious, failed and nearly
inundated the orchestra. Fiddlers generally follow their leader, and
Tom Cooke was then the man; seeing the water, off he bolted, and they
to a man followed him, leaving me, Columbine, and the other characters,
to finish the scene, in the midst of a splendid shower of fire and
water. Signor Belzoni was a man of gentlemanly but very assuming
manners; yet of great mind." Such was Tom Ellar's opinion of that
memorable man, whose celebrity afterwards as a traveller requires no
record in this place.