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.
On his return to town, of course, he went immediately to Sadler's
Wells; where, however, to his great surprise, he was informed by Mr.
Dibdin that he was not wanted just yet, inasmuch as Bradbury had been
engaged for a fortnight, and had not been there above half the time. He
added, too, that Bradbury had made a great hit, and become very popular.
This intelligence vexed Grimaldi not a little, as he naturally feared
that the sudden popularity of the new favourite might affect that of
the old one; but his annoyance was much increased when he was informed
that the proprietors were anxious that on the night of Bradbury's
benefit, they should both play in the same pantomime. He yielded
his consent with a very ill grace, and with the conviction that it
would end in his entire loss of favour with the audience. When the
proposition was made to Bradbury in his presence, it was easy to see
that he liked it as little as himself; which was natural enough. It was
not for him, however, to oppose the suggestion, as the combination of
strength would very likely draw a great house, and he had only taken
half of it with the proprietors for that night.
It was accordingly arranged that they should appear together on the
following Saturday; Bradbury sustaining the part of the Clown for the
first three scenes in the pantomime, then Grimaldi taking it for the
next three scenes, and Bradbury coming in again to close the piece.
Grimaldi was so much dissatisfied with these arrangements, that, on the
morning of the day fixed, he told his friend Richard Lawrence (now or
lately the Surrey treasurer) that he was certain it was "all up with
him," and that Bradbury had thrown him completely out of favour with
the public.
The result, however, was not what he anticipated. The moment he
appeared, he was received with the most tremendous applause. Animated
by this encouraging reception, he redoubled his exertions, and went
through his three scenes amidst the loudest and most enthusiastic
plaudits. This reception rather vexed and confused the other who had
to follow, and who, striving to outdo his predecessor, made such a
complete failure, that, although it was his own benefit, and he might
reasonably be supposed to have a good many friends in the house, he
was actually hissed, and ran off the stage in great disorder. Grimaldi
finished the pantomime for him, and the brilliant manner in which it
went off sufficiently testified to him that all the fears and doubts
to which he had previously given way were utterly groundless. Indeed,
when the performances were over, Bradbury frankly admitted that he was
the best Clown he had ever seen, and that, if he had been aware of his
abilities, he would not have suffered himself to be put in competition
with him on any account whatever.
This Bradbury was a clever actor in his way, and a very good Clown,
but of so different a character from Grimaldi, that it was hardly fair
to either, to attempt instituting a comparison between them. He was
a tumbling Clown rather than a humorous one, and would perform many
wonderful and dangerous feats. He would jump from the flies--that is,
from the curtains above the stage--down on to the stage itself, and do
many other things equally surprising. To enable himself to go through
these performances without danger, he always occupied a very long time
in dressing for the part, and adjusting no fewer than nine strong pads
about his person, in such a manner as to protect those parts of his
frame which were the most liable to injury;--wearing one on the head,
one round the shoulders, one round the hips, two on the elbows, two
on the knees, and two on the heels of his shoes. Thus armed, he would
proceed to throw and knock himself about in a manner which, to those
unacquainted with his precautions, appeared to indicate an intense
anxiety to meet with some severe, if not fatal accident. Grimaldi, on
the contrary, never wore any padding in his life; nor did he attempt
any of the great exploits which distinguished Bradbury. His Clown was
of a much more composed and subdued temperament, although much more
comical and amusing, as is sufficiently shown by the result of the
comparison between the two which has just been described. Bradbury
was very original withal, and copied no one; for he had struck out a
peculiar line for himself, and never departed from it.
After the night at Sadler's Wells, Grimaldi heard nothing more of
Bradbury for some time; but at length received a note from him,
dated, to his excessive surprise, from a private madhouse at Hoxton,
requesting him to visit him there without delay, as he was exceedingly
anxious to see him. He was much astonished at this request, as little
or no intimacy had previously existed between them, and the place
where the letter was dated was so very unexpected and startling. Not
knowing what to do, he showed the letter to his friend Lawrence, who
recommended him by all means to go, and volunteered to accompany him.
As he gladly availed himself of this offer, they went together to
Hoxton, and inquiring at the appointed place, were introduced to
Bradbury, who was a patient in the asylum, and had submitted to the
customary regulations: all his hair being shaved off, and his person
being kept under strict restraint. Concluding that he had a maniac to
deal with, Grimaldi spoke in a very gentle, quiet manner, which the
patient observing, burst into a roar of laughter.
"My dear fellow," said Bradbury, "don't look and speak to me in that
way!--for though you find me here, treated as a patient, and with my
head shaved, I am no more mad than you are."
Grimaldi rather doubted this assurance, knowing it to be a common one
with insane people, and therefore kept at a respectful distance. He was
not long in discovering, however, that what Bradbury said was perfectly
true. The circumstances which had led to his confinement in the lunatic
asylum were briefly these:
Bradbury was a very dashing person, keeping a tandem, and associating
with many gentlemen and men of title. Upon one occasion, when he had
been playing at Plymouth, a man-of-war was coming round from that
town to Portsmouth, on board of which he had several friends among
the officers, who took him on board with them. It was agreed that
they should sup together at Portsmouth. A splendid meal having been
prepared, they spent the night, or at least the larger portion of it,
in great hilarity. As morning approached, Bradbury rose to retire,
and then, with considerable surprise, discovered that a magnificent
gold snuff-box, with a gold chain attached, which he was accustomed
to wear in his fob, and which he had placed on the table for the use
of his friends, had disappeared. He mentioned the circumstance, and a
strict search was immediately instituted, but with no other effect than
that of proving that the valuable box was gone. When every possible
conjecture had been hazarded, and inquiry made without success, it was
recollected that one of their companions, a young gentleman already
writing "Honourable" before his name, and having a coronet in no very
remote perspective, had retired from the table almost immediately after
supper:--it was suggested that he might have taken it in jest, for the
purpose of alarming its owner.
Bradbury and several others went to this gentleman's room, and
communicated to him the loss, and their doubts respecting him. The
young gentleman positively denied any knowledge of the box, and,
after bitterly reproaching them for their suspicions, abruptly closed
the door in their faces, leaving Bradbury in a state of violent
mortification at his loss.
On the following morning, nothing more having been heard of the missing
property, the gentleman, against whom Bradbury now nourished many
serious misgivings, sent down word to his friends, that he was so much
vexed with them for their conduct of the night before, in supposing it
possible he could have taken anything away even in jest, that he should
not join them at breakfast, but, on the contrary, should immediately
return to town. This message, instead of allaying, as it was doubtless
intended to do, Bradbury's suspicions, caused him to think still worse
of the matter; and upon ascertaining that the young man had actually
taken a place in the next coach which started for London, he lost no
time in obtaining a warrant, by virtue of which he took him prisoner
just as he was stepping into the coach. Upon searching his portmanteau,
the box was found, together with several articles belonging to his
other companions. Bradbury was determined to prosecute, not considering
the young gentleman's nobility any palliation of the theft: he was
instantly taken before a magistrate, and fully committed for trial.
No sooner did this affair become known to the relatives and connexions
of the offender, than, naturally anxious to preserve the good name
of the family, they proceeded to offer large sums to Bradbury if he
would relinquish the prosecution,--all of which proposals he for some
time steadily refused. At length they offered him a handsome annuity,
firmly secured for the whole of his life: he was not proof against this
temptation, and at length signified his readiness to accept the bribe.
The next point to be considered was, how Bradbury could accept the
money without compounding a felony, and increasing the obloquy already
cast upon the thief. He hit upon and carried into execution a most
singular plan:--he caused the report to be circulated that he had
suddenly become insane--committed many extravagant acts--and in a short
time was, apparently against his own will, but in reality by his own
contrivance, deprived of his liberty, and conveyed to the asylum where
Grimaldi visited him. The consequence of this step was, that when the
stealer of the snuff-box was placed upon his trial, no prosecutor
appearing, he was adjudged not guilty, and liberated accordingly.
Intelligence of this was directly sent to Bradbury, who proceeded to
make arrangements for his own release: this was soon effected, and it
was on the eve of the day of his departure that Grimaldi saw him in the
madhouse. His only object in writing, or rather, in causing the letter
to be written, for he could not write a line himself, nor read either,
was, to ask him to play for his ensuing benefit at the Surrey Theatre,
which he readily consented to do; then wishing him a speedy deliverance
from his disagreeable abode, he took his departure.
The next day Bradbury came out of the asylum, telling everybody that
he was perfectly recovered, having got well in as sudden a manner as he
fell ill, and in the following week his benefit took place. Grimaldi
played and sang for him, and took money at the gallery door, to boot.
The house was quite full, and everything went on well until Bradbury
made his appearance, when, impelled by some strange and sudden whim, he
was guilty of a disgusting piece of irreverence and impertinence. The
consequence of this was, that the audience very naturally and properly
took great offence, and upon a repetition of the conduct, literally
hooted him from the stage.
This was the ruin of Bradbury as a pantomimist. He did not appear
again in London for many years, and, although he played occasionally
in the country theatres, never afterwards regained his former rank
and celebrity in the profession. As far as pecuniary matters were
concerned, it did not matter much to him, the annuity affording him a
handsome independence; but whether he afterwards sold it and dissipated
the money, or whether the annuity itself was discontinued in the course
of years, this at least is certain, that when he died, which he did in
London, in 1828, he was in very indifferent circumstances, if not in
actual want.
In October, Covent Garden commenced the new campaign, and brought
forward "Mother Goose," which ran, with the same degree of success as
before, until nearly Christmas, and was played altogether twenty-nine
times.
On the 15th of this month, a most frightful accident occurred at
Sadler's Wells. The pantomime was played first that night, which,
joined to his having nothing to do at Covent Garden, enabled Grimaldi
to go home early to bed. At midnight he was awakened by a great noise
in the street, and loud and repeated knocks at the door of his house:
at first he concluded it might be some idle party amusing themselves by
knocking and running away; an intellectual amusement not at that time
exclusively confined to a few gentlemen of high degree; but finding
that it was repeated, and that the noise without increased, he hastily
slipped on a morning-gown and trowsers, and hurried to the street-door.
The people who were clamouring outside, were for the most part friends,
who exclaimed, when he appeared, that they had merely come to assure
themselves of his personal safety, and were rejoiced to find that he
had escaped. He now learned, for the first time, that some vagabonds
in the pit of the theatre had raised a cry of "Fire!" during the
performance of the last piece, "The Ocean Fiend," and that the audience
had risen simultaneously to make their escape: that a violent rush
towards the doors had ensued, and that in the confusion and fright a
most fearful loss of life had taken place. He waited to hear no more,
but instantly ran off to the theatre.
On arriving there, he found the crowd of people collected around it
so dense, as to render approach by the usual path impossible. Filled
with anxiety, and determined to ascertain the real state of the case,
he ran round to the opposite bank of the New River, plunged in, swam
across, and finding the parlour window open, and a light at the other
end of the room, threw up the sash and jumped in _à la Harlequin_. What
was his horror, on looking round, to discover that there lay stretched
in the apartment no fewer than nine dead bodies! yes! there lay the
remains of nine human beings, lifeless, and scarcely yet cold, whom
a few hours back he had been himself exciting to shouts of laughter.
Paralysed by the sad sight, he stood awhile without the power of
motion; then, hurrying to the door, hastily sought to rid himself of
the dreadful scene. It was locked without, and he vainly strove to
open it, so knocked violently for assistance. At first the family of
Mr. Hughes were greatly terrified at hearing these sounds issuing from
a room tenanted, as they imagined, only by the dead; but at length
recognising the voice, they unlocked the door, and he gladly emerged
from the apartment.
It was not known until next day how many lives were lost; but when the
actual loss of life could be ascertained, it appeared that twenty-three
people, male and female, were killed, not to mention many dangerous and
severe accidents. This melancholy catastrophe was mainly attributable
to the imprudence of those persons who reached the theatre doors first,
and who, upon finding that nothing really was the matter, sought to
return to their places. The meeting of the two crowds in the passages,
caused a complete stoppage; and this leading the people inside to
believe that all egress was blocked up, impelled them to make violent
efforts to escape, for the most part fatal to the unfortunate persons
who tried them. Several people flung themselves from the gallery into
the pit, others rushed hopelessly into the densest part of the crowd
and were suffocated, others were trodden under foot, and hence the
melancholy result.
This accident happening on the last night but four of the season,
it was deemed prudent not to re-open the house that year.[43] Such
performers as were entitled to benefits, and had not yet taken them,
took them at the Circus; and thus terminated the season of 1807, the
most melancholy termination of a season which Sadler's Wells Theatre
had ever known.
On the 26th of December, was produced "Harlequin in his Element; or,
Fire, Water, Earth, and Air," in which Bologna and Grimaldi were the
harlequin and clown. It was highly successful, and in Grimaldi's
opinion deservedly so, for he always considered it one of the best
pantomimes in which he ever played. During this season, he also
performed in an unsuccessful melodrama, entitled "Bonifacio and
Bridgetino,"[44] and also Baptiste, in "Raymond and Agnes," which latter
piece went off very well, and was repeated several times.
At this time he had a cottage at Finchley,[45] to which place he used
to drive down in his gig after the performances. If there were no
rehearsal, he remained there until the following afternoon; if there
were, he returned to town immediately after breakfast. His principal
reason for taking the house originally, was that his young son, of whom
he was extremely fond, might have the benefit of country air: but both
he and his wife became so much attached to it, that when his original
term expired he renewed the lease, and retained it altogether for
several years.
He met with numerous little adventures during these night-drives after
the theatre: sometimes he fell asleep as soon as he had turned out of
town, and only awoke when he arrived at his own gate. One night he was
so fatigued with his performance that he still continued to sleep,
when the horse, a very steady one, who could always find his way home
without assistance, had stopped at the gate. The best of it was, that
upon this particular night, the man-servant, who always sat up for him,
had fallen asleep too; so there sat he slumbering on one side of the
fence, while on the other side, not six feet off, sat his master in
the gig, fast asleep too; and so they both remained, until the violent
snorting of the horse, which probably thought it high time to turn in
for the night, awoke the man, who roused the master, and speedily set
all to rights. But as one circumstance which occurred to him during
these night journeys will be narrated at greater length in another part
of the volume, we will leave the subject for the present.
He very grievously offended Mr. Fawcett, in March, 1808, from a very
slight cause, and without the remotest intention of doing so. Fawcett
called one afternoon at his cottage at Finchley, on his road to town
from his own house at Totteridge, which was only two miles distant from
Grimaldi's, and asked Grimaldi to play for his benefit, then close at
hand: this he most willingly promised to do.
"Ah," said Fawcett, "but understand I don't want you to play clown or
anything of that sort: I want you to do Brocket in the 'Son-in-Law.'"
Grimaldi demurred a little to this proposition, considering that as he
had made a great hit in one branch of his profession, he could not do
better than retain his standing in it, without attempting some new line
in which, by failure, he might injure his reputation. Not wishing to
disoblige Mr. Fawcett if he could possibly help it, he replied that he
must decline giving an answer at that moment, but that in the course of
a day or two he would write. Having consulted his friends in the mean
time, and being strongly advised by them not to appear in the character
Mr. Fawcett had mentioned, he wrote, declining in respectful terms to
do so, and stating the grounds of his objection. Odd as it may appear,
the little circumstance angered him much: he never afterwards behaved
towards him with any cordiality, and for the three years immediately
following, never so much as spoke to or noticed him whenever they
chanced to meet.
On the 14th, he received permission from Mr. Kemble to play for his
sister-in-law's benefit at the Birmingham theatre, which was then under
the management of Mr. Macready, the father of the great tragedian.
Immediately upon his arrival, Grimaldi repaired to his hotel, and was
welcomed by Mr. Macready with much cordiality and politeness, proposing
that he should remain in Birmingham two, or, if possible, three nights
after the benefit at which he was announced to perform, and offering
terms of the most liberal description. Anticipating a proposal of
this nature, Grimaldi had, before he left town inquired what the
performances were likely to be at Covent Garden for some days to come.
Finding that if the existing arrangements were adhered to, he could not
be wanted for at least a week, he had resolved to accept any good offer
that might be made to him at Birmingham, and therefore closed with Mr.
Macready, without hesitation. After breakfast they walked together to
the theatre to rehearse; and here Grimaldi discovered a great lack
of those adjuncts of stage effect technically known as "properties:"
there were no tricks, nor indeed was there anything requisite for
pantomimic business. After vainly endeavouring to devise some means by
which the requisite articles could be dispensed with, he mentioned his
embarrassment to the manager.
"What! properties?" exclaimed that gentleman: "wonderful! you London
stars require a hundred things, where we country people are content
with one: however, whatever you want you shall have.--Here, Will, go
down to the market and buy a small pig, a goose, and two ducks. Mr.
Grimaldi wants some properties, and must have them."
The man grinned, took the money, and went away. After some reflection
Grimaldi decided in his own mind that the manager's directions had been
couched in some peculiar phrases common to the theatre, and at once
went about arranging six pantomime scenes, with which the evening's
entertainments were to conclude. While he was thus engaged, a violent
uproar and loud shouts of laughter hailed the return of the messenger,
who, having fulfilled his commission to the very letter, presented him
with a small pig, a goose, and two ducks, all alive, and furthermore,
with Mr. Macready's compliments, and he deeply regretted to say that
those were all the properties in the house.
He accepted them with many thanks, and arranged a little business
accordingly. He caused the old man in the pantomime and his daughter
to enter, immediately after the rising of the curtain, as though they
had just come back from market, while he himself, as clown and their
servant, followed, carrying their purchases. He dressed himself in
an old livery coat with immense pockets, and a huge cocked hat; both
were, of course, over his clown's costume. At his back, he carried a
basket laden with carrots and turnips; stuffed a duck into each pocket,
leaving their heads hanging out; carried the pig under one arm, and the
goose under the other. Thus fitted and attired, he presented himself
to the audience, and was received with roars of laughter. His songs
were all encored--"Tippitywitchet" three times, and the hit was most
decided. The house was full to the ceiling, and it was equally full on
the following night, when he played Scaramouch; the third night was
as good as any of the preceding; and the fourth, which terminated his
engagement, was as successful as the rest. Just as he was going on the
stage on this last evening, and had even taken up his "properties"
for that purpose, a note was put into his hands, which was dated
that morning, and had just arrived from London, whence it had been
despatched with all possible speed. He opened it hastily, and read, in
the hand of an intimate friend,
"Dear Joe,--They have announced you to play to-morrow night
at Covent Garden; and as they know you have not returned from
Birmingham, I fear it is done to injure you. Lose not a moment,
but start immediately on the receipt of this."
He instantly ran to Mr. Macready, and showing him the letter, told him,
that, although he was very sorry to disappoint his Birmingham friends,
he could not stop to play.
"Not stop to play!" echoed the manager: "why, my good fellow, they
will pull the house down. You must stop to play, and post up to London
afterwards. I'll take care that a chaise and four are waiting for you
at the stage-door, and that everything shall be ready for you to start,
the moment you have finished your business."
He played with the same success to a brilliant house, received 294_l._
from the manager as his remuneration for three nights, threw himself
into the chaise, and at twelve o'clock, within a few minutes after he
had quitted the stage, was on his road to London.
The weather was tempestuous, the roads in a most desperate condition,
and, to make matters worse, he treated the postboys so liberally in the
hope of accelerating their speed, that they became so drunk as to be
scarcely able to sit their horses. After various escapes and perils,
they discovered, at the end of an unusually long stage, that they had
come fourteen miles out of the road, "all in consequence," as one of
the boys said, with many hiccups, and much drunken gravity, "all in
consequence of only taking one wrong turn."
The result of this combination of mischances was, that he did not reach
Salt Hill until seven o'clock on the following evening; having been
nineteen hours on the road. Here he jumped into another chaise which
fortunately stood ready at the door, and hurried up to London, without
venturing to stay for any refreshment whatever. He drove straight to
the theatre, where he found his friend awaiting his arrival with great
trepidation. Hearing that the overture to the piece in which he was to
perform was then playing, he gave his friend the 294_l._ to take care
of, ran to his dressing-room, dressed for his part, which Farley had
already made preparations for performing himself, and went on the stage
the moment he got his cue, much to the astonishment of his friends,
and greatly to the surprise of some individuals connected with the
management of the theatre, who had anticipated a very different result
from his visit to Birmingham.
FOOTNOTES:
[43] The house closed, but re-opened for two nights on Monday, November
2, and Tuesday, November 3. The whole proceeds were given to the
relations of the deceased, and to the maimed sufferers on that luckless
night, the 15th of the preceding month. The entire company engaged
in the theatre tendered their services gratuitously: the two nights'
representations produced 290_l._ 7_s._, which was beneficially and
impartially distributed by the proprietors, a proceeding which elicited
the following declaration:--
"We, the magistrates, who have acted on this occasion, feel it
incumbent upon us to express to the public our approbation of
the conduct of the proprietors of Sadler's Wells, who used, as
it appears, every possible exertion at the time, and have shown
every attention to alleviate, as much as was in their power, the
distress occasioned by so melancholy an event; and at the same
time we feel a pleasure in bearing our testimonies to the grateful
deportment of those who have experienced the attention, the
humanity, and the liberal relief which has been afforded them.
"A. CUMMING.
W. WIX.
RICHARD LENDON.
"SADLER'S WELLS, _Nov. 27, 1807_."
[44] Bologna, jun. and Grimaldi were the two heroes in this piece,
produced for the first time at Covent Garden Theatre, on Thursday,
March 31, 1808.
[45] On the edge of the common, between the seventh and eighth mile
stone, on the left-hand side of the road from town.