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.
[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.
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]
[96] The following inscription is on his grave-stone:—