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.
The three gentlemen who were mentioned in conjunction with Miss
Kelly, in the course of the last chapter, exerted themselves with so
much energy, that Grimaldi's benefit far exceeded his most sanguine
expectations. In addition to the most effective company of the theatre,
were secured the services of Miss Kelly, and Madam Fearon;[90] Miss
Fanny Ayton, Miss Love,[91] Mathews, Keeley, and Bartley, besides an
immense number of pantomime performers, who crowded to offer their
aid, and among whom were--Barnes, Southby, Ridgway and his two sons,
and young Grimaldi. Mr. James Wallack arranged everything, and exerted
himself as much as he could have done if the night had been his own.
The announced bill ran thus:--
Mr. GRIMALDI'S FAREWELL BENEFIT.
_On Friday, June 27th, 1828_,
will be performed,
J O N A T H A N I N E N G L A N D;
after which
A M U S I C A L M E L A N G E.
To be succeeded by
T H E A D O P T E D C H I L D,
and concluded with
H A R L E Q U I N H O A X,
In which Mr. Grimaldi will act clown in one scene, sing a song, and
speak his
FAREWELL ADDRESS.
[Illustration: George Cruikshank
_The last Song._]
It was greatly in favour of the benefit, that Covent Garden had closed
the night before; the pit and galleries were completely filled in less
than half an hour after opening the doors, the boxes were very good
from the first, and at half-price were as crowded as the other parts
of the house. In the last piece Grimaldi acted one scene, but being
wholly unable to stand, went through it seated upon a chair. Even in
this distressing condition he retained enough of his old humour to
succeed in calling down repeated shouts of merriment and laughter.
The song, too, in theatrical language, "went" as well as ever; and at
length, when the pantomime approached its termination, he made his
appearance before the audience in his private dress, amidst thunders
of applause. As soon as silence could be obtained, and he could muster
up sufficient courage to speak, he advanced to the foot-lights, and
delivered, as well as his emotions would permit, the following Farewell
Address.--
"Ladies and Gentlemen:--In putting off the clown's garment, allow
me to drop also the clown's taciturnity, and address you in a
few parting sentences. I entered early on this course of life,
and leave it prematurely. Eight-and-forty years only have passed
over my head--but I am going as fast down the hill of life as
that older Joe--John Anderson. Like vaulting ambition, I have
overleaped myself, and pay the penalty in an advanced old age.
If I have now any aptitude for tumbling, it is through bodily
infirmity, for I am worse on my feet than I used to be on my head.
It is four years since I jumped my last jump--filched my last
oyster--boiled my last sausage--and set in for retirement. Not
quite so well provided for, I must acknowledge, as in the days of
my clownship, for then, I dare say, some of you remember, I used
to have a fowl in one pocket and sauce for it in the other.
"To-night has seen me assume the motley for a short time--it
clung to my skin as I took it off, and the old cap and bells rang
mournfully as I quitted them for ever.
"With the same respectful feelings as ever do I find myself in
your presence--in the presence of my last audience--this kindly
assemblage so happily contradicting the adage that a favourite has
no friends. For the benevolence that brought you hither--accept,
ladies and gentlemen, my warmest and most grateful thanks, and
believe, that of one and all, Joseph Grimaldi takes a double
leave, with a farewell on his lips, and a tear in his eyes.
"Farewell! That you and yours may ever enjoy that greatest earthly
good--health, is the sincere wish of your faithful and obliged
servant. God bless you all!"
It was with no trifling difficulty that Grimaldi reached the conclusion
of this little speech, although the audience cheered loudly, and gave
him every possible expression of encouragement and sympathy. When
he had finished, he still stood in the same place, bewildered and
motionless, his feelings being so greatly excited, that the little
power illness had left wholly deserted him. In this condition he
stood for a minute or two, when Mr. Harley, who was at the side scene,
commiserating his emotion, kindly advanced and led him off the stage,
assisted by his son. As a token of his respect and gratitude, Grimaldi
took off a new wig which he wore on the occasion, and presented it
to Mr. Harley, together with the original address, which he held in
his hand. Our friend has them both, carefully preserved in a small
museum of wigs, autographs, portraits, and other memorials of the most
distinguished men in every branch of the profession, of which for
upwards of twenty-eight years he has been deservedly one of the most
popular members.
Having been led into a private room, and strengthened with a couple of
glasses of Madeira, Grimaldi had to sustain another, and a scarcely
less severe trial, in receiving the farewells and good wishes of his
old associates. The street was thronged with people, who were waiting
to see him come out, and as he entered the coach, which stood at the
stage door, gave him three hearty cheers, amid which he drove off.
But all was not over yet, for hundreds followed the vehicle until it
reached his house, and upon getting out he was again hailed with a
similar overwhelming shout of approbation and regard; nor could the
crowd be prevailed upon to disperse until he had appeared on the top of
the steps, and made his farewell bow.
Grimaldi was too exhausted and nervous, after the trying scenes through
which he had just passed, to make any calculation that night of what
the benefit had produced; but the next day, being somewhat recovered,
he entered into the matter, and found the result to be as follows:--The
house cost him 210_l._, the printing 70_l._ more, making the expenses
280_l._ The money taken at the doors amounted to rather more than
400_l._, besides which he sold 150_l._ worth of tickets, making a total
of 550_l._ Deducting the expenses, the clear profits of the benefit
amounted to 270_l._
There was another source of great profit, which must not be forgotten,
namely, the number of anonymous communications Grimaldi received,
enclosing sums of money, and wishing him a happy retirement. He
received six letters, each containing 20_l._, eleven containing
10_l._, and sixteen containing 5_l._ each. Thus, the amount forwarded
by unknown hands was no less than 310_l._, which, added to the amount
of profits just mentioned, makes the gross sum realized by this last
benefit 580_l._, besides the 315_l._ which he had cleared at Sadler's
Wells.
The highest tribute that can be paid to those who in secret forwarded
their munificent donations, or to those who rendered him their valuable
professional assistance, or to that large number who came forward
to cheer the last public moments of a man who had so often, and so
successfully, beguiled their leisure hours, is, that they smoothed
the hard bed of premature and crippled old age, and rendered the slow
decline of a life, scarcely in years past its prime, peaceful and
contented. This benefit closed his theatrical existence, and filled
his heart with deep and lasting emotions of gratitude.
Only one more circumstance connected with Grimaldi's theatrical
existence remains to be told, and to that one we most anxiously and
emphatically invite the attention of all who admire the drama--and what
man of thought or feeling does not?--of all those who devote themselves
to the cause of real charity--and of all those who now, reaping large
gains from the exercise of a glittering and dazzling profession, forget
that youth and strength will not last for ever, and that the more
intoxicating their triumphs now, the more probable is the advent of a
time of adversity and decay.
Counting over his gains, and dwelling upon his helpless state, Grimaldi
was not long in finding that even now, whenever his little salary
at Sadler's Wells should cease, he would not have adequate means of
support. There was only one source to which he could apply for relief,
and to that source he at once turned.
It is well known to all our readers, that two charitable societies
exist in London, called the Drury Lane and Covent Garden Theatrical
Funds. They are distinct bodies, but were established with the same
great and benevolent object. Every actor who, throughout his engagement
at either of the large theatres, contributes a certain portion of his
earnings to one of these funds, is entitled, if he should ever be
reduced to the necessity of seeking it, to an annuity in proportion to
the time for which he has contributed. To one of these most excellent
institutions,--the Drury Lane Theatrical Fund,--Grimaldi had belonged
for more than thirty years, promoting its interests not merely by his
subscription, but by every means in his power. Feeling that in his hour
of need and distress he had some claim upon its funds, he addressed
the secretary, and stated the situation to which he was reduced. Early
on the following morning he was visited by the gentleman to whom he
had applied, who informed him that he was awarded a pension of 100_l._
a-year for the remainder of his life, and that he was deputed to
pay him immediately the amount of one quarter in advance. His fears
vanished at once, and he felt that want at all events could never be
his portion.[92]
It can be observed at no better place than this, that all applications
for relief from these funds are known only to the respective
committees, and that the names of all annuitants are kept strictly
secret during their lives; that the distribution of their property
is confided to gentlemen accustomed to act with the utmost delicacy
and discrimination, and that some of the greatest ornaments of the
English stage have been relieved in their old age, when their powers of
amusing and delighting were gone,--not as poor pensioners, or objects
of compassion, but as persons who, not forgetting their poor brethren
in their affluence, were not themselves forgotten, when unexpected
misfortune or sickness fell upon them.
The unfortunate young man to whom allusion has been frequently made in
the course of the last few pages, was, as may easily be imagined, one
of the chief sources of Grimaldi's care and trouble in his latter days.
After remaining in his house for two months in a state of madness,
he grew better, left one night to attend Sadler's Wells, where he
was engaged, and was seen no more until the middle of the following
year, when he again presented himself in a state of insanity, and was
conveyed to his own lodgings and carefully attended. The next year he
was dismissed from Sadler's Wells on account of his dissolute conduct;
engaged at Drury Lane with a salary of eight pounds per week, most
favourably received, and discharged at the end of the first season for
his profligacy and drunkenness.
After this, he obtained an engagement for a month at the Pavilion in
Whitechapel Road, but left that theatre also in disgrace, and fell into
the lowest state of wretchedness and poverty. His dress had fallen to
rags, his feet were thrust into two worn-out slippers, his face was
pale with disease, and squalid with dirt and want, and he was steeped
in degradation. The man who might have earned with ease, with comfort,
and respectability, from six to seven hundred pounds a year, and have
raised himself to far greater gains by common providence and care, was
reduced to such a dreadful state of destitution and filth, that even
his own parents could scarcely recognise him.
He was again received, and again found a home with his sick father. At
Christmas, 1829, he obtained a situation at the Coburg, through the
kindness of Davidge, and there he remained until Easter, 1830, when
he took the benefit of the Insolvent Debtors' Act, to relieve himself
from the creditors who were hunting him down. His support in prison and
contingent expenses, amounting to forty pounds, were all paid by his
father.
He next accepted an engagement at Edinburgh, which turned out a
failure; and another at Manchester, at Christmas, 1830, by which he
gained a few pounds. He then returned to the Coburg, where he might
have almost permanently remained, but for his own misconduct, which
once again cast him on the world.
In the following autumn, the son again presented himself at his
father's door, reduced to a state of beggary and want not to be
described. His mother, who had suffered greatly from his misdeeds,
outrageous conduct, and gross and violent abuse, besought his father
not to receive him, or aid him again, remembering how much he had
already wasted the small remnant of his means only to minister to his
extravagance and folly. But he could not witness his helpless and
miserable state without compassion, and he was once more forgiven, once
more became an inmate of the house, and remained there in a state of
utter dependence.
In 1832, Sadler's Wells was let out for one season to Mrs. Fitzwilliam
and Mr. W. H. Williams. They retained Grimaldi for some little
time, but finding that he must be dismissed very shortly, he made
preparations for meeting the consequent reduction of his income, by
giving up the house in which he had lived for several years, and taking
a cottage at Woolwich,[93] whither he had an additional inducement to
retire, in the hope that change of air might prove beneficial to his
wife, who had already been ill for some time.
They repaired to their new house in the latter end of September, and
in the beginning of November the son received a letter from a brother
actor, entreating him to perform for a benefit, at Sadler's Wells. His
reception was so cordial and his acting so good, that on the very same
evening, notwithstanding all that had previously passed, he was offered
an engagement for the ensuing Christmas at the Coburg, and the next
day, on his return to Woolwich, he communicated the intelligence. The
following day was his birth-day--he completed his thirtieth year that
morning--and before it had passed over, the then lessee of the Queen's
Theatre waited upon him, and offered him an engagement for a short time
at a weekly salary of 4_l._ He agreed to take it, and arranged to begin
on the following Monday, November 25, in a part called Black Cæsar.
It was sorely against his father's will that he went to fulfil this
engagement, for his health had been waning for some time, and he was
fearful that he might relapse into his old habits. However, he was
determined to go, and borrowing some money of his father, as was his
usual wont, he left Woolwich on the Sunday morning.
On the Wednesday, Grimaldi had occasion to go to town, and eagerly
embraced it as an opportunity for seeing his son, to whom, despite all
the anxiety and losses he had caused him, he was still most tenderly
attached. He wrote to him, naming the friend's house at which he would
be found, and the young man came. He looked in excellent health--was
in high spirits, and boasted of his success in terms which from all
accounts, it appeared, were justified by its extent. Shortly after
dinner he left, observing, that as he had to appear in the first scene
of the first piece, he had no time to lose. His father never saw him
more.
Grimaldi returned to Woolwich next day, and anxiously hoped on Sunday
to see the misguided man to dinner, agreeably to a promise he had made.
The day passed away, but he did not come; a few more days elapsed,
and then he received an intimation from a stranger that his son was
ill. He immediately wrote to a friend, (Mr. Glendinning the printer,)
requesting him to ascertain the nature of his indisposition, which he
feared was only the effect of some new intemperance, and if it should
appear necessary, to procure him medical assistance. For two days he
heard nothing; but this did not alarm him, for he entertained no doubt
that his son's illness would disappear when the fumes of the liquor he
had drunk had evaporated.
On the 11th of December, a friend came to his house as he was sitting
by his wife's bed, to which she was confined by illness, and when, with
much difficulty, he had descended to the parlour, told him with great
care and delicacy that his son was dead.
In one instant every feeling of decrepitude or bodily weakness left
him; his limbs recovered their original vigour; all his lassitude and
debility vanished; a difficulty of breathing, under which he had long
laboured, disappeared, and starting from his seat, he rushed to his
wife's chamber, tearing, without the least difficulty, up a flight
of stairs, which, a quarter of an hour before, it had taken him ten
minutes to climb. He hurried to her bed-side, told her that her son was
dead, heard her first passionate exclamation of grief, and falling into
a chair, was once again an enfeebled and crippled old man.
The remains of the young man were interred, a few days afterwards, in
the burial-ground of Whitfield's Tabernacle, in Tottenham-court-road;
but some circumstances, apparently of a suspicious nature, being
afterwards rumoured about, and it being whispered that marks of blows
had been seen upon his head by those who laid him out, an inquest was
holden upon the young man's body. Grimaldi states that the body was
exhumed: from some passages in the newspapers of the day, it would
appear that an informal inquest was held, and that the body was not
disinterred. Be this as it may, it was proved before the coroner that
his death had arisen from the natural consequences of a mis-spent life;
that his body was covered with a fearful inflammation, and that he had
died in a state of wild and furious madness, rising from his bed and
dressing himself in stage costume to act snatches of the parts to which
he had been most accustomed, and requiring to be held down to die, by
strong manual force. This closing scene of his life took place at a
public house in Pitt-street, Tottenham-court-road, and here the dismal
tragedy ended.
It was long before Grimaldi in any degree recovered this great shock;
his wife never did. She lingered on in a state of great suffering for
two years afterwards, until death happily relieved her.
He was now left alone in the world; he had always been a domesticated
man, delighting in nothing more than in the society of his relations
and friends; and the condition of solitary desolation in which he was
now left, nearly drove him into a state of melancholy madness. His
crippled limbs and broken bodily health rendered it necessary to his
existence that he should have an attentive nurse, and occasionally at
least cheerful society; finding his situation wholly insupportable,
he resolved to return to town, and wrote to a friend,[94] whose wife
was his only remaining relative, to procure a small house for
him in his own neighbourhood, where he too had lived so long and
happily. A neat little dwelling, next door to this friend's house, in
Southampton-street, Pentonville, being at that time to let, was taken
and furnished for him, and thither he removed without more delay.
Many of his old friends came from time to time to cheer him with a
few minutes' conversation, and he experienced the warmest and kindest
treatment from his neighbours, and from Mr. Richard Hughes, who bore in
mind his promise to his dying sister, to the last moment of Grimaldi's
life.
He concludes his Memoirs by taking a more cheerful view of his
condition than could well have been expected of a man suffering so
much, and ends in these words:--
"My histrionic acquaintance frequently favour me with their company,
when we together review past scenes, and contrast them with those of
the present time. My esteemed friend, Alfred Bunn, has been with me
this very day, and I expect to see my amiable patroness, if she will
permit me to call her so, Miss Kelly, to-morrow.
"In my solitary hours--and in spite of all the kindness of my friends I
have many of them--my thoughts often dwell upon the past: and there is
one circumstance which always affords me unmitigated satisfaction; it
is simply that I cannot recollect one single instance in which I have
intentionally wronged man, woman, or child, and this gives me great
satisfaction and comfort.
"This is the 18th of December, 1836. I was born on the 18th of
December, 1779, and consequently have completed my 57th year.
"Life is a game we are bound to play--
The wise enjoy it, fools grow sick of it;
Losers, we find, have the stakes to pay,
That winners may laugh, for that's the trick of it.
"J. GRIMALDI."
FOOTNOTES:
[90] Mrs. Glossop.
[91] Since, Mrs. Granby Calcraft.
[92] Mr. Harley, as master of the Drury Lane Fund, at the Annual Dinner
of that glorious charity, in the June following Grimaldi's death, thus
alluded to the assistance which the benevolence of their patrons had
conferred on the distinguished mime:--"Yet shall delicacy suffer no
violence in adducing one example, for death has hushed his cock-crowing
cachination and uproarious merriment. The mortal Jupiter of practical
joke--the Michael Angelo of buffoonery, who, if he was _Grim-all-day_,
was sure to make _you_ chuckle at night, he was rendered happy by your
bounty. Yes, sirs, this star of eccentric brilliancy in the laughing
hemisphere of fun and drollery--this comical reminiscence of 'Me and my
Neddy,' 'Mother Goose,' 'Hot Cockles,' and 'Tippitywitchet,' would have
set in sorrow but for this institution. You raised his drooping spirit,
borne down by domestic calamity; you sustained his sinking frame,
prostrated by premature decrepitude; and sheltered him in honourable
retirement! Away then with the gloom of fanaticism and the cant of
hypocrisy, obscuring the bright face of wit and genius! This is true
philanthropy, that buries not its gold in ostentatious charity, but
builds its hospital in the human heart."
[93] Grimaldi's residence, while manager of the Wells, was at No. 8,
Exmouth-street, Spa-fields;--in a letter, dated April 23, 1829, Joe
writes--"I have moved to No. 23, Garnault-place, Spa-fields, about two
hundred yards from where I did live." This residence he relinquished
at Michaelmas, 1832, and took a small house, No. 6, Prospect-row,
Woolwich. After the death of his wife, several letters are addressed
from 31, George-street, Woolwich; one is emphatically dated "Wednesday,
June 3rd, 1835: Poor Mary's Birth-day." Joe says--"The repairs of my
new house are now complete, and I shall very soon be able to quit where
I am; next door but one to Arthur's is my future residence." It was
his last: the house he referred to was No. 33, Southampton-street,
Pentonville.
[94] Mr. Arthur, then residing at 35, Southampton-street, but since
dead: his widow and family have left the neighbourhood. Mrs. Arthur was
not "Grimaldi's only remaining relation;" she was originally a servant
to Mr. Hughes, Joe's brother-in-law. Grimaldi's house was No. 33 in
the same street, not "next door," and his solicitude to reach town,
and occupy this house, his last home, is the subject of a long letter,
now among many of Joe's autographs, in the possession of a gentleman
resident in Highbury Park, Islington.
Early in the biography of Grimaldi, it will be remembered, mention
is made of a sister, and in fact she is noticed as having made her
_début_ with him at Sadler's Wells, in 1781. This sister, according
to Decastro, was named Mary, and married Signor Grimaldi's pupil,
Lascelles Williamson; but of late years had been altogether lost sight
of. Joe remembered her not in the disposal of his effects in his will;
but soon after his death--and the circumstance became known through
the newspapers--Joe's executor received a letter, in the name of Jane
Taylor, which stated that she was in extreme poverty; that she was
Joe's sister, and mournfully asked if he had borne her in mind, and had
bequeathed her any assistance. The executor replied, that she had not
been mentioned by Grimaldi in any way; and the recipients of what he
possessed had been named by himself.
No further application followed; and probably she sleeps too with her
kindred clay.
CONCLUDING CHAPTER.
Grimaldi died on the 31st of May, 1837, having survived the completion
of the last chapter of his biography just five months, during which
his health had considerably improved, although his bodily energies and
physical powers had remained in the same state of hopeless prostration.
Having gradually recovered the effects of the severe mental shocks
which had crowded upon him in his decline, he had regained his habitual
serenity and cheerfulness, and appeared likely to live, and even to
enjoy life--incompatible with all enjoyment as his condition would
seem to have been--for many years. He had no other wish than to be
happy in the society of his old friends; and uttered no other complaint
than that, in their absence, he sometimes found his solitude heavy and
irksome. He looked forward to the publication of his manuscript with an
anxiety which it is impossible to describe, and imagined that the day
on which he exhibited it in a complete form to his friends, would be
the proudest of his life.
He was destined never to experience this harmless gratification; the
sudden dissolution which deprived him of it, mercifully released him
from all the pains and sufferings which could not fail to have been,
sooner or later, the attendants upon that state of death in life to
which he had been untimely reduced.
It had been Grimaldi's habit for some time previous to his death, to
spend a portion of each evening at a tavern hard by, where the society
of a few respectable persons, resident in the neighbourhood, in some
measure compensated him for the many long hours he spent by his lonely
fireside. Utterly bereft of the use of his limbs, he used to be carried
backwards and forwards (he had only a few doors to go) on the shoulders
of a man.
On the night of his death,[95] he was carried home in the usual manner,
and cheerfully bidding his companion good night, observed that he
should be ready for him on the morrow at the customary time. He had not
long been in bed, when his housekeeper fancying she heard a noise in
his room, hurried down, but all was quiet: she went in again later in
the night, and found him dead. The body was cold, for he had been dead
some hours.
A coroner's inquest was held on the following day. The testimony of the
medical gentlemen who had been promptly called in, fully established
the fact that his death had arisen from causes purely natural; and the
jury at once returned a verdict that he had died by the visitation of
God.
He was buried on the ensuing Monday, June the 6th, in the
burying-ground of St. James's Chapel, on Pentonville Hill. In the next
grave lie the bones of his friend, Mr. Charles Dibdin,--so frequently
mentioned in these volumes; the author of many of the pieces in which
he shone in his best days, and of many of the songs with which he was
wont to set his audience in a roar.[96]
Any attempted summary of Grimaldi's peculiarities in this place would
be an impertinence. There are many who remember him, and they need not
be told how rich his humour was: to those who do not recollect him in
his great days, it would be impossible to convey any adequate idea of
his extraordinary performances. There are no standards to compare him
with, or models to judge him by; all his excellences were his own,
and there are none resembling them among the pantomime actors of the
present day.
This is not said with any view of depreciating the abilities of the
many clever actors we have in this peculiar department. Among a variety
of others, Smith and Payne of Covent Garden, (not of Lombard-street),
and Wieland, of Drury Lane, may be mentioned as possessing grotesque
humour of no ordinary kind; while for mere feats of tumbling dexterity,
Brown, King, and Gibson of the Adelphi, perhaps stand unrivalled. It is
no disparagement to all or any of these actors of pantomime, to say,
that the genuine droll, the grimacing, filching, irresistible clown
left the stage with Grimaldi, and though often heard of, has never
since been seen.[97]
In private, Grimaldi was a general favourite, not only among his
equals, but with his superiors and inferiors. That he was a man of
the kindest heart, and the most child-like simplicity, nobody who has
read the foregoing pages can for a moment doubt. He was innocent of
all caution in worldly matters, and has been known, on the seller's
warranty,[98] to give forty guineas for a gold watch, which, as it
subsequently turned out, would have been dear at ten. Among many acts
of private goodness may be mentioned--although he shrunk from the
slightest allusion to the story--his release of a brother actor from
Lancaster jail, under circumstances which showed a pure benevolence of
heart, and delicacy of feeling, that would have done honour to a prince.
With far more temptations to indulge in the pleasures of the table than
most men encounter, Grimaldi was through life remarkably temperate,
never having been seen, indeed, in a state of intoxication. But he was
a great eater, as most pantomime actors are, who enjoy good health, and
abstain from dram-drinking; and it was supposed, at the time of his
decease, that an attack of indigestion consequent upon too hearty a
supper at too late an hour materially hastened, if it did not actually
occasion, his death.
Many readers will ridicule the idea of a clown being a man of great
feeling and sensibility: Grimaldi was so, notwithstanding, and suffered
most severely from the afflictions which befel him. The loss of his
wife, to whom he had been long and devotedly attached, preyed upon his
mind to a greater or less extent for many years. The reckless career
and dreadful death of his only son bowed him down with grief. The
young man's notorious conduct had embittered the best portion of his
existence: and his sudden death, when a better course seemed opening
before him, had well-nigh terminated his unhappy father's days.
But although, in the weakened state in which he then was, the sad event
preying alike upon his mind and body, changed Grimaldi's appearance in
a few weeks to that of a shrunken, imbecile old man; and although, when
he had in some measure recovered from this heavy blow, he had to mourn
the loss of his wife, with whom he had lived happily for more than
thirty years, he survived the trials to which he had been exposed, and
lived to recover his cheerfulness and peace.
Deprived of all power of motion; doomed to bear, at a time of life
when he might reasonably have looked forward to many years of activity
and exertion, the worst bodily evils of the most helpless old age;
condemned to drag out the remainder of his days in a solitary chamber,
when all those who make up the sum of home were cold in death,
his existence would seem to have been a weary one indeed; but he
was patient and resigned under all these trials, and in time grew
contented, and even happy.
This strong endurance of griefs so keen, and reverses so poignant may
perhaps teach more strongly than a hundred homilies, that there are
no afflictions which time will not soften and fortitude overcome.
Let those who smile at the deduction of so trite a moral from the
biography of a clown, reflect, that the fewer the resources of a man's
own mind, the greater his merit in rising superior to misfortune. Let
them remember too, that in this case the light and life of a brilliant
theatre were exchanged in an instant for the gloom and sadness of a
dull sick-room.
THE END.
FOOTNOTES:
[95] Grimaldi for some months previous to his death frequented
the coffee-room of the "Marquis of Cornwallis" Tavern in
Southampton-street, Pentonville. Mr. George Cook, the proprietor,
considering his infirmity, or loss of the use of his lower extremities,
used to fetch him on his back, and take him home in the same manner.
On the Wednesday evening, May 31st, he was brought to the coffee-room
by Mr. Cook, and seemed quite exhilarated; his conversation and humour
smacking of the vivacity of former years; and his anecdotes of the
olden times and past events contributed a fund of amusement to those
enjoying the conviviality of the night. Joe's customary beverage was
a little Scotch ale, or a small quantity of gin and water, during the
evening. On the inquest, Joe's housekeeper, Susannah Hill, stated that
on Wednesday evening he complained to her of a tightness of the chest,
and his appetite seemed not so good as usual. About half-past ten, she
went to the Marquis of Cornwallis, to apprise her master that it was
time to return home; and assisted him on to Mr. Cook's back. Joe, as
usual, quite sober, reached home about a quarter before eleven; and on
parting said to Mr. Cook, "God bless you, my boy, I shall be ready for
you to-morrow night!" His housekeeper assisted Grimaldi to his bedroom,
placed a light on his table, as was her custom, then retired to her
bedroom. In the course of the night she was awakened by an unusual
noise, similar to loud snoring in her master's room. She rose, went
in, but all was then quiet, the light still burning; and she returned
to her bed. Between five and six o'clock in the morning, having risen,
she went into Grimaldi's room, and on approaching the bed was shocked
on discovering her master a corpse. She ran for Mr. Fennill, a surgeon
in the neighbourhood, who immediately attended; pronounced him quite
dead; said that he had been so some hours; and that his death he had
no doubt arose from natural causes. The inquest held at the Marquis of
Cornwallis declared their verdict, "Died by the visitation of God."
Joe was consigned to his last home at one o'clock in the afternoon of
Monday, June 5th: the funeral was strictly private and simply plain--a
hearse and two mourning coaches, in which were Mr. Richard Hughes, Mr.
Dixon, Mr. Arthur, Mr. Dayus, Treasurer of Sadler's Wells; Mr. Norman,
Mr. Wells, of the Sir Hugh Myddleton's Head Tavern, Mr. Lawrence,
Treasurer of the Surrey Theatre, and three other private friends. So
little was the interment expected so soon, that but one or two of his
professional friends were present, and a few casual spectators were all
who witnessed his funeral.
[96] The following inscription is on his grave-stone:--
SACRED
TO THE MEMORY OF
M R. J O S E P H G R I M A L D I,
WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE,
MAY 31st, 1837,
AGED FIFTY-EIGHT YEARS.
[97] Tom Matthews, perhaps, presents at this time the nearest approach.
[98] The seller's warranty was doubtless that of some Jew money-lender,
by which class of persons he seems to have been almost devoured: when
their pressure became insupportable, or they pushed their claims to
a consummation not too devoutly to be wished, and sent a sheriff's
officer to enforce the demand, Joe was wont to accompany them to the
shop of Mr. Crouch, a pawnbroker, in Ray-street, Clerkenwell, by
whom the sum was immediately paid. When the hour approached for his
appearance at the Wells, the messenger belonging to the theatre, always
knew where to find him; and being told the sum required to redeem him,
Joe would wait patiently till he returned and released him; he would
then proceed to delight an audience, who had but a few minutes before
threatened to pull the house down if he did not appear.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
Unusual and archaic spellings have been maintained, although some
attempt has been made to standardize spelling of words throughout the
book. The oe ligature has been replaced by the letters oe in this
version without further comment below. The following printing errors or
inconsistencies were fixed:
Page xiv: Chapter XIV ... Sudden recall to Town
originally: Chapter XIV ... Sudden recal to Town
Page xvi: Concluding Chapter
originally: CHAPTER XVI. ... Conclusion
Page 7: about Saddler's Wells, and Astley's, and
originally: about Saddler's Wells, and Astleys, and
Note 1 (Chap. I.): Drury Lane playbill, October 10, 1761,
originally: Drury Lane play-bill, October 10, 1761,
Note 4 (Chap. I.): by Wright, Grimaldi, and Delpini
originally: by Wright, Grimaldi, and Delphini
Page 26: occupying herself with needlework
originally: occupying herself with needle-work
Note 18 (Chap. II.): Mr. Lascelles Williamson, Ballet Master,
originally: Mr. Lassells Williamson, Ballet Master,
Page 28: somewhat re-assured the lover,
originally: somewhat reassured the lover,
Page 34: Grimaldi with an old broadsword
originally Grimaldi with an old broad-sword
Page 42: the parlour, and the bedroom,
originally: the parlour, and the bed-room,
Note 21 (Chap. IV.): made their _début_ in 1820
originally: made their debut in 1820
Page 68: astonished at their re-appearance,
originally: astonished at their reappearance,
Page 85: the latter theatre late overnight
originally: the latter theatre late over-night
Page 103: in the neighbourhood of the theatre
originally: in the neighbourhoood of the theatre
Page 107: and re-opened on the 4th of October;
originally; and reopened on the 4th of October;
Page 107: having been previously apprised
originally: having been previously apprized
Page 113: stand a rump-steak dinner
originally: stand a rumpsteak dinner
Page 114: re-opened, as usual, at Easter, 1805:
originally: reopened, as usual, at Easter, 1805:
Page 114: and re-opened again on the 21st of September,
originally: and reopened again on the 21st of September,
Page 124: proceeded to apprise him
originally: proceeded to apprize him
Page 144: Mr. Alley proposed offering a satisfactory
originally: Mr. Alley proposed offering a satsifactory
Page 154: unsuccessful melodrama, entitled "Bonifacio
originally: unsuccessful melo-drama, entitled "Bonifacio
Page 156: encored--"Tippitywitchet" three times,
originally: encored--"Tippitywitchit" three times,
Note 51 (Chap. XV.): Melodramatic Romance of "The Wild Man:
originally: Melo-dramatic Romance of "The Wild Man:
Page 176: and re-opened in October.
originally: and reopened in October.
Page 179: sang Tippitywitchet with great
originally: sang Tippitywitchit with great
Note 53 (Chap. XVII.): the Old Price Riots
originally: the Old-Price Riots
Page 187: previous to the _début_, the pains
originally: previous to the _débût_, the pains
Page 188: entreating the postboys to drive
originally: entreating the post-boys to drive
Note 67 (Chap. XIX.): Joe made his _début_ on the stage,
originally: Joe made his _débût_ on the stage,
Page 199: it was situated up a stable yard,
originally: it was situate up a stable yard,
Note 79 (Chap. XXII.): the melodramatic romance of "Cherry
originally: the melo-dramatic romance of "Cherry
Note 84 (Chap. XXIII.): melodrama, entitled, "The Caliph
originally: melo-drama, entitled, "The Caliph
Note 88 (Chap. XXIV.): belief of his _début_ in "Robinson Crusoe,"
originally: belief of his _débût_ in "Robinson Crusoe,"
Note 94 (Chap. XXV.): made her _début_ with him
originally: made her _débût_ with him
End of Project Gutenberg's Memoirs of Joseph Grimaldi, by Joseph Grimaldi