MEMOIRS
OF
JOSEPH GRIMALDI

EDITED
By "BOZ"

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK

LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL
NEW YORK: 416 BROOME STREET

GEORGE CRUIKSHANK

Price 2s. each, boards.

The Greatest Plague of Life; or, The Adventures of a Lady in Search of a Good Servant. Edited by the Brothers Mayhew. With Illustrations by George Cruikshank.

Whom to Marry and How to Get Married; or, The Adventures of a Lady in Search of a Good Husband. Edited by the Brothers Mayhew, and Illustrated by George Cruikshank.

Mornings at Bow Street. With Steel Frontispiece and 21 Illustrations by George Cruikshank.

INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER

It is some years now, since we first conceived a strong veneration for Clowns, and an intense anxiety to know what they did with themselves out of pantomime time, and off the stage. As a child, we were accustomed to pester our relations and friends with questions out of number concerning these gentry;—whether their appetite for sausages and such like wares was always the same, and if so, at whose expense they were maintained; whether they were ever taken up for pilfering other people's goods, or were forgiven by everybody because it was only done in fun; how it was they got such beautiful complexions, and where they lived; and whether they were born Clowns, or gradually turned into Clowns as they grew up. On these and a thousand other points our curiosity was insatiable. Nor were our speculations confined to Clowns alone: they extended to Harlequins, Pantaloons, and Columbines, all of whom we believed to be real and veritable personages, existing in the same forms and characters all the year round. How often have we wished that the Pantaloon were our god-father! and how often thought that to marry a Columbine would be to attain the highest pitch of all human felicity!

The delights—the ten thousand million delights of a pantomime—come streaming upon us now,—even of the pantomime which came lumbering down in Richardson's waggons at fair-time to the dull little town in which we had the honour to be brought up, and which a long row of small boys, with frills as white as they could be washed, and hands as clean as they would come, were taken to behold the glories of, in fair daylight.

We feel again all the pride of standing in a body on the platform, the observed of all observers in the crowd below, while the junior usher pays away twenty-four ninepences to a stout gentleman under a Gothic arch, with a hoop of variegated lamps swinging over his head. Again we catch a glimpse (too brief, alas!) of the lady with a green parasol in her hand, on the outside stage of the next show but one, who supports herself on one foot, on the back of a majestic horse, blotting-paper coloured and white; and once again our eyes open wide with wonder, and our hearts throb with emotion, as we deliver our card-board check into the very hands of the Harlequin himself, who, all glittering with spangles, and dazzling with many colours, deigns to give us a word of encouragement and commendation as we pass into the booth!

But what was this—even this—to the glories of the inside, where, amid the smell of saw-dust, and orange-peel, sweeter far than violets to youthful noses, the first play being over, the lovers united, the ghost appeased, the baron killed, and everything made comfortable and pleasant,—the pantomime itself began! What words can describe the deep gloom of the opening scene, where a crafty magician holding a young lady in bondage was discovered, studying an enchanted book to the soft music of a gong!—or in what terms can we express the thrill of ecstasy with which, his magic power opposed by superior art, we beheld the monster himself converted into Clown! What mattered it that the stage was three yards wide, and four deep? we never saw it. We had no eyes, ears, or corporeal senses, but for the pantomime. And when its short career was run, and the baron previously slaughtered, coming forward with his hand upon his heart, announced that for that favour Mr. Richardson returned his most sincere thanks, and the performances would commence again in a quarter of an hour, what jest could equal the effects of the Baron's indignation and surprise, when the Clown, unexpectedly peeping from behind the curtain, requested the audience "not to believe it, for it was all gammon!" Who but a Clown could have called forth the roar of laughter that succeeded; and what witchery but a Clown's could have caused the junior usher himself to declare aloud, as he shook his sides and smote his knee in a moment of irrepressible joy, that that was the very best thing he had ever heard said!

We have lost that clown now;—he is still alive, though, for we saw him only the day before last Bartholomew Fair, eating a real saveloy, and we are sorry to say he had deserted to the illegitimate drama, for he was seated on one of "Clark's Circus" waggons:—we have lost that Clown and that pantomime, but our relish for the entertainment still remains unimpaired. Each successive Boxing-day finds us in the same state of high excitement and expectation. On that eventful day, when new pantomimes are played for the first time at the two great theatres, and at twenty or thirty of the little ones, we still gloat as formerly upon the bills which set forth tempting descriptions of the scenery in staring red and black letters, and still fall down upon our knees, with other men and boys, upon the pavement by shop-doors, to read them down to the very last line. Nay, we still peruse with all eagerness and avidity the exclusive accounts of the coming wonders in the theatrical newspapers of the Sunday before, and still believe them as devoutly as we did before twenty years' experience had shown us that they are always wrong.

With these feelings upon the subject of pantomimes, it is no matter of surprise that when we first heard that Grimaldi had left some memoirs of his life behind him, we were in a perfect fever until we had perused the manuscript. It was no sooner placed in our hands by "the adventurous and spirited publisher,"—(if our recollection serve us, this is the customary style of the complimentary little paragraphs regarding new books which usually precede advertisements about Savory's clocks in the newspapers,)—than we sat down at once and read it every word.

See how pleasantly things come about, if you let them take their own course! This mention of the manuscript brings us at once to the very point we are anxious to reach, and which we should have gained long ago, if we had not travelled into those irrelevant remarks concerning pantomimic representations.

For about a year before his death, Grimaldi was employed in writing a full account of his life and adventures. It was his chief occupation and amusement; and as people who write their own lives, even in the midst of very many occupations, often find time to extend them to a most inordinate length, it is no wonder that his account of himself was exceedingly voluminous.

This manuscript was confided to Mr. Thomas Egerton Wilks: to alter and revise, with a view to its publication. Mr. Wilks, who was well acquainted with Grimaldi and his connexions, applied himself to the task of condensing it throughout, and wholly expunging considerable portions, which, so far as the public were concerned, possessed neither interest nor amusement, he likewise interspersed here and there the substance of such personal anecdotes as he had gleaned from the writer in desultory conversation. While he was thus engaged, Grimaldi died.

Mr. Wilks having by the commencement of September concluded his labours, offered the manuscript to the present publisher, by whom it was shortly afterwards purchased unconditionally, with the full consent and concurrence of Mr. Richard Hughes, Grimaldi's executor.

The present Editor of these Memoirs has felt it necessary to say thus much in explanation of their origin, in order to establish beyond doubt the unquestionable authenticity of the memoirs they contain.

His own share in them is stated in a few words. Being much struck by several incidents in the manuscript—such as the description of Grimaldi's infancy, the burglary, the brother's return from sea under the extraordinary circumstances detailed, the adventure of the man with the two fingers on his left hand, the account of Mackintosh and his friends, and many other passages,—and thinking that they might be related in a more attractive manner, (they were at that time told in the first person, as if by Grimaldi himself, although they had necessarily lost any original manner which his recital might have imparted to them;) he accepted a proposal from the publisher to edit the book, and has edited it to the best of his ability, altering its form throughout, and making such other alterations as he conceived would improve the narration of the facts, without any departure from the facts themselves.

He has merely to add, that there has been no book-making in this case. He has not swelled the quantity of matter, but materially abridged it. The account of Grimaldi's first courtship may appear lengthy in its present form; but it has undergone a double and most comprehensive process of abridgment. The old man was garrulous upon a subject on which the youth had felt so keenly; and as the feeling did him honour in both stages of life, the Editor has not had the heart to reduce it further.

Here is the book, then, at last. After so much pains from so many hands—including the good right hand of George Cruikshank, which has seldom been better exercised,—he humbly hopes it may find favour with the public.

Doughty Street,
February, 1838.

CONTENTS.

MEMOIRS
OF
JOSEPH GRIMALDI.

CHAPTER I.

His Grandfather and Father—His Birth and first appearance at Drury Lane Theatre, and at Sadler's Wells—His Father's severity—Miss Farren—The Earl of Derby and the Wig—The Fortune-box and Charity's reward—His Father's pretended death, and the behaviour of himself and his brother thereupon.

The paternal grandfather of Joseph Grimaldi was well known, both to the French and Italian public, as an eminent dancer, possessing a most extraordinary degree of strength and agility,—qualities which, being brought into full play by the constant exercise of his frame in his professional duties, acquired for him the distinguishing appellation of "Iron Legs." Dibdin, in his History of the Stage, relates several anecdotes of his prowess in these respects, many of which are current elsewhere, though the authority on which they rest would appear from his grandson's testimony to be somewhat doubtful; the best known of these, however, is perfectly true. Jumping extremely high one night in some performance on the stage, possibly in a fit of enthusiasm occasioned by the august presence of the Turkish Ambassador, who, with his suite, occupied the stage-box, he actually broke one of the chandeliers which in those times hung above the stage doors; and one of the glass drops was struck with some violence against the eye or countenance of the Turkish Ambassador aforesaid. The dignity of this great personage being much affronted, a formal complaint was made to the Court of France, who gravely commanded "Iron Legs" to apologize, which "Iron Legs" did in due form, to the great amusement of himself, and the court, and the public; and, in short, of everybody else but the exalted gentleman whose person had been grievously outraged. The mighty affair terminated in the appearance of a squib, which has been thus translated:—

Hail, Iron Legs! immortal pair,

Agile, firm knit, and peerless,

That skim the earth, or vault in air,

Aspiring high and fearless.

Glory of Paris! outdoing compeers,

Brave pair! may nothing hurt ye;

Scatter at will our chandeliers,

And tweak the nose of Turkey.

And should a too presumptuous foe

But dare these shores to land on,

His well-kicked men shall quickly know

We've Iron Legs to stand on.

This circumstance occurred on the French stage. The first Grimaldi[1] who appeared in England was the father of the subject of these Memoirs, and the son of "Iron Legs," who, holding the appointment of Dentist to Queen Charlotte, came to England in that capacity in 1760; he was a native of Genoa, and long before his arrival in this country had attained considerable distinction in his profession. We have not many instances of the union of the two professions of dentist and dancing-master; but Grimaldi, possessing a taste for both pursuits, and a much higher relish for the latter than the former, obtained leave to resign his situation about the Queen, soon after his arrival in this country, and commenced giving lessons in dancing and fencing, occasionally giving his pupils a taste of his quality in his old capacity. In those days of minuets and cotillions, private dancing was a much more laborious and serious affair than it is at present; and the younger branches of the nobility and gentry kept Mr. Grimaldi in pretty constant occupation. In many scattered notices of OUR Grimaldi's life, it has been stated that the father lost his situation at court in consequence of the rudeness of his behaviour, and some disrespect which he had shown the King; an accusation which his son always took very much to heart, and which the continual patronage of the King and Queen, bestowed upon him publicly, on all possible occasions, sufficiently proves to be unfounded.

[1] Giuseppe Grimaldi was really "Iron Legs;" of the grandfather no particulars are known. The father of our Joe was originally a pantomime actor at the fairs in Italy and France, at the time these fairs supplied the French Theatre with some of the finest dancers that have conferred distinction on that stage. His first employment in England was at the King's Theatre in the Haymarket, where the lighter kind of ballet proving attractive, similar dances were introduced early in the season 1758, 1759, on the boards of Drury Lane and Covent Garden Theatres. At the former, under Garrick's management, a new pantomime dance, entitled "The Millers," was performed for the first time, October 12th, 1758; in which Signor Grimaldi, it was announced, made his first appearance on the English Stage. A writer in the "London Chronicle," in reference to this piece, observes, as regards the debutant—"Grimaldi is a man of great strength and agility; he indeed treads the air. If he has any fault, he is rather too comical; and from some feats of his performing, which I have been a witness to, at the King's Theatre, in the Haymarket, those spectators will see him, it is my opinion, with most pleasure, who are least solicitous whether he breaks his neck, or not." In reference to the dance of "The Millers," composed by Grimaldi, then deemed an innovation, he continues:—

"Some people hold dancing to be below the dignity of a regular theatre; but I can by no means subscribe to their opinion, since one of the principal ends of every theatre, is to delight; and everything that can contribute to that purpose, under proper restrictions, has an undoubted right to a place there. I shall not affect to show my learning, by adding, the ancients not only admitted dancing, but thought it a necessary ornament in the performance of the most celebrated tragedies.

"The French in this kind of merit, for many years carried all before them; but of late the Italians seem to have the start of them; and it must be allowed, the latter are much better actors, which, in the comic dance that now almost everywhere prevails, is infinitely more requisite, than those graceful postures and movements on which the French dancers for the most part pique themselves; but in this case a vast deal depends on the Maître de Ballet; and whoever composed 'The Millers,' has, I think, shown himself a man of genius; the figure of the contra-danse being pleasingly intricate, and the whole admirably well adapted to the music. I cannot, however, help observing, he has been indebted to Don Quixote; for when Signor Grimaldi comes in asleep on his ass, it is stolen from under him in the same manner that Gines de Passamont robs poor Sancho of his, and the same joy is testified by both parties in the recovery of the beloved brute."

The Drury Lane playbill, October 10, 1761, announced as "not acted this season," a Comedy called the Confederacy; Brass, Mr. King; Flippanta, Mrs. Clive. At the end of Act II. an entertainment of Dancing, called the Italian Gardener, by Signor Grimaldi, Miss Baker, &c. Garrick's Pageant of the Coronation concluded the night's diversion.

From his first appearance in October, 1758, Grimaldi continued at Drury Lane as Maître de Ballet, Primo Buffo, Clown, Pantaloon, or Cherokee, or any part required in the ballet, till his death. The dancers, it would appear, were not paid during the whole season, but for certain periods; in the interim they were employed, under certain restrictions, at other places of amusement. Those belonging to Drury Lane, in Garrick's time, were in the summer months, and from Easter to Michaelmas attached to Sadler's Wells; and in the bills which announced the opening of that suburban theatre, at Easter, 1763 and 1764, Signor Grimaldi appears as Maître de Ballet, and chief dancer. On May 1, in the latter year, Grimaldi, and an English dancer named Aldridge, of considerable eminence in his profession, jointly had a benefit; Shakspeare's "Tempest" was performed, as also the pantomime of "Fortunatus," Harlequin by Signor Grimaldi. In the September of the same year, at Sadler's Wells, the Signor had another benefit; the bill of the evening is subjoined:

FOR THE BENEFIT OF SIGNOR GRIMALDI.

AT SADLER'S WELLS, ISLINGTON.

On Wednesday, September 19, 1764, will be exhibited a Variety of New Performances.

Dancing both serious and comic, viz.:—1. "The Miller's Dance," by Signor Duval, Signor Amoire, Signora Mercucius, Mrs. Preston, and others.—2. "The Shoemakers," by Signor Grimaldi, Signor Amoire, Miss Wilkinson, and others.—3. "The Country Wedding," by Signor Duval, Signor Amoire, Signora Mercucius, Miss Wilkinson, and Signor Grimaldi, and others.

And by particular desire, for that night only,
A Double Hornpipe by Master Cape and Miss Taylor.
Tumbling by Mr. Sturgess, Signor Pedro, and Mr. Garman.
Singing by Mr. Prentice, Mr. Cooke, and Miss Brown.
With a variety of Curious Performances by

THE VENETIAN AND HIS CHILDREN.

The Wire by Master Wilkinson.
The Musical Glasses by Miss Wilkinson, accompanied by Master Wilkinson.
The whole to conclude with a New Entertainment of Music and Dancing, called

DON QUIXOTE.

Harlequin, Mr. Banks.
Don Quixote, Mr. Niepeker.
Sancho, Mr. Warner.
Columbine, Miss Wilkinson.
The Paintings, Music, and Habits, are all entirely New.
Pit and Boxes, 2s. 6d.      Gallery, 1s. 6d.

[To begin exactly at Six.]         [Vivant Rex et Regina.]

Tickets and Places to be had of Signor Grimaldi, at the New Tunbridge Wells; and he begs the favour of those Ladies and Gentlemen, who have already taken Places, to send their servants by Half-an-Hour after Four o'clock.

At Drury Lane, December 26, in the same year, was performed the Tragedy of "The Earl of Essex" at the end of Act IV. a Dance called "The Irish Lilt," by Mr. Aldridge, Miss Baker, and others. After which, not performed these three years, an Entertainment in Italian Grotesque Characters, called "Queen Mab." Harlequin, by Mr. Rooker; Pantaloon, by Signor Grimaldi; Silvio, by Mr. Baddeley; Puck, Master Cape; Queen Mab, by Miss Ford; Columbine, by Miss Baker. The facetious Ned Rooker, principal Harlequin at Drury Lane, was a painter of great excellence: his paintings and drawings are still held in high repute, and his theatrical scenery was not surpassed in his time; some of it was in use till recently at the Haymarket Theatre.

Grimaldi continued at Sadler's Wells till the close of the season of 1767, and never afterwards was employed there. Signor Spinacuti and his "funambulistical" monkey, so took the town by surprise in 1768, that dancing at that theatre was altogether thrown into the back-ground.

His new career being highly successful, Mr. Grimaldi was appointed ballet-master of old Drury Lane Theatre and Sadler's Wells, with which he coupled the situation of primo buffo; in this double capacity he became a very great favourite with the public, and their majesties, who were nearly every week accustomed to command some pantomime of which Grimaldi was the hero. He bore the reputation of being a very honest man, and a very charitable one, never turning a deaf ear to the entreaties of the distressed, but always willing, by every means in his power, to relieve the numerous reduced and wretched persons who applied to him for assistance. It may be added—and his son always mentioned it with just pride—that he was never known to be inebriated: a rather scarce virtue among players of later times, and one which men of far higher rank in their profession would do well to profit by.

He appears to have been a very singular and eccentric man. It would be difficult to account for the little traits of his character which are developed in the earlier pages of this book, unless this circumstance were borne in mind. He purchased a small quantity of ground at Lambeth once, part of which was laid out as a garden; he entered into possession of it in the very depth of a most inclement winter, but he was so impatient to ascertain how this garden would look in full bloom, that, finding it quite impossible to wait till the coming of spring and summer gradually developed its beauties, he had it at once decorated with an immense quantity of artificial flowers, and the branches of all the trees bent beneath the weight of the most luxuriant foliage, and the most abundant crops of fruit, all, it is needless to say, artificial also.

A singular trait in this individual's character, was a vague and profound dread of the 14th day of the month. At its approach he was always nervous, disquieted, and anxious: directly it had passed he was another man again, and invariably exclaimed, in his broken English, "Ah! now I am safe for anoder month." If this circumstance were unaccompanied by any singular coincidence it would be scarcely worth mentioning; but it is remarkable that he actually died on the 14th day of March; and that he was born, christened, and married on the 14th of the month.

There are other anecdotes of the same kind told of Henri Quatre, and others; this one is undoubtedly true, and it may be added to the list of coincidences or presentiments, or by whatever name the reader pleases to call them, as a veracious and well-authenticated instance.

These are not the only odd characteristics of the man. He was a most morbidly sensitive and melancholy being, and entertained a horror of death almost indescribable. He was in the habit of wandering about churchyards and burying-places, for hours together, and would speculate on the diseases of which the persons whose remains occupied the graves he walked among, had died; figure their death-beds, and wonder how many of them had been buried alive in a fit or a trance: a possibility which he shuddered to think of, and which haunted him both through life and at its close. Such an effect had this fear upon his mind, that he left express directions in his will that, before his coffin should be fastened down, his head should be severed from his body, and the operation was actually performed in the presence of several persons.

It is a curious circumstance, that death, which always filled his mind with the most gloomy and horrible reflections, and which in his unoccupied moments can hardly be said to have been ever absent from his thoughts, should have been chosen by him as the subject of one of his most popular scenes in the pantomimes of the time. Among many others of the same nature, he invented the well-known skeleton scene for the clown, which was very popular in those days, and is still occasionally represented. Whether it be true, that the hypochondriac is most prone to laugh at the things which most annoy and terrify him in private, as a man who believes in the appearance of spirits upon earth is always the foremost to express his unbelief; or whether these gloomy ideas haunted the unfortunate man's mind so much, that even his merriment assumed a ghastly hue, and his comicality sought for grotesque objects in the grave and the charnel-house, the fact is equally remarkable.

This was the same man who, in the time of Lord George Gordon's riots, when people, for the purpose of protecting their houses from the fury of the mob, inscribed upon their doors the words "No Popery,"—actually, with the view of keeping in the right with all parties, and preventing the possibility of offending any by his form of worship, wrote up "No religion at all;" which announcement appeared in large characters in front of his house, in Little Russell-street.[2] The idea was perfectly successful; but whether from the humour of the description, or because the rioters did not happen to go down that particular street, we are unable to determine.

[2] Henry Angelo, in his Reminiscences, gives a different version of this story. "The father of Grimaldi, for many years the favourite clown, was my dancing-master when I was a boy, and encouraged my harlequin and monkey tricks; he related the anecdote to me, himself, and I am therefore justified in repeating it. At the time of the riots, in June, 1780, he resided in a front room, on the second floor in Holborn, on the same side of the way near to Red Lion Square, when the mob passing by the house, and Grimaldi being a foreigner, they thought he must be a papist. On hearing he lived there, they all stopped, and there was a general shouting; a cry of 'No Popery!' was raised, and they were about to assail the house, when Grimaldi, who had been listening all the time, and knew their motives, put his head out of the window from the second floor, and making comical grimaces, called out, 'Genteelmen, in dis hose dere be no religion at all.' Laughing at their mistake, the mob proceeded on, first giving him three huzzas, though his house, unlike all the others, had not written on the door—'No Popery!'"

On the 18th of December, 1779, the year in which Garrick died, Joseph Grimaldi, "Old Joe," was born, in Stanhope-street,[3] Clare-market; a part of the town then as now, much frequented by theatrical people, in consequence of its vicinity to the theatres. At the period of his birth, his eccentric father was sixty-five years old, and twenty-five months afterwards another son was born to him—Joseph's only brother.

[3] Joe, from some erroneous information he had received, always stated he was born in Stanhope-street, Clare-market, December 18, 1779; he mentioned this in his farewell address at Sadler's Wells, and again subscribed that date at the end of his autobiographical notes. He was in error: a reference to the baptismal register of St. Clement's Danes, proved he was born on December 18, 1778, and that he was baptized as the son of Joseph and Rebecca, on the 28th of the same month and year. From this entry, it might be inferred that Joe was legitimate; but we are sorry to be compelled to record that he was not so. Rebecca was Mrs. Brooker, who had been from her infancy a dancer at Drury Lane, and subsequently, at Sadler's Wells, played old women, or anything to render herself generally useful. Mr. Hughes and others who well remember her, describe her as having been a short, stout, very dark woman. The same baptismal register from 1773 to 1788, has been carefully inspected, but no mention occurs of Joe's only brother, John Baptist, or of any other of the Grimaldi family.

The child did not remain very long in a state of helpless and unprofitable infancy, for at the age of one year and eleven months he was brought out by his father on the boards of Old Drury, where he made his first bow and his first tumble.[4] The piece in which his precocious powers were displayed was the well-known pantomime of Robinson Crusoe, in which the father sustained the part of the Shipwrecked Mariner, and the son performed that of the Little Clown. The child's success was complete; he was instantly placed on the establishment, accorded a magnificent weekly salary of fifteen shillings, and every succeeding year was brought forward in some new and prominent part. He became a favourite behind the curtain as well as before it, being henceforth distinguished in the green-room as "Clever little Joe;" and Joe he was called to the last day of his life.

[4] Joe's first appearance was at Sadler's Wells, not at Drury Lane; the announcement bill for the opening on April 16, Easter Monday, 1781, of the former theatre, tells us of Dancing by Mr. Le Mercier, Mr. Languish, Master and Miss Grimaldi, and Mrs. Sutton. Here we see Joe, and his sister Mary, afterwards Mrs. Williamson, thrust forward sufficiently early to earn their bread. Grimaldi, in his farewell address, on his last appearance at Sadler's Wells, pathetically alluded to this fact—"at a very early age, before that of three years, I was introduced to the public, by my father, at this theatre."

That Joe did not play the "Little Clown" in Sheridan's Pantomime of "Robinson Crusoe," is evident from the construction of the drama. On January 29, 1781, after the "Winter's Tale," Florizel, Mr. Brereton; Perdita, Mrs. Brereton, afterwards Mrs. J. P. Kemble; and Hermione, Miss Farren; was performed, for the first time, "Robinson Crusoe; or, Harlequin Friday." The bill of the night lets us know, that the principal characters were by Mr. Wright, Mr. Grimaldi, Mr. Delpini, Mr. Suett, Mr. Gaudry, and Miss Collett. This pantomime was performed thirty-eight times that season. Grimaldi played Friday, not the "Shipwrecked Mariner;" and the probability is, that young Joe made his first appearance on the boards of Old Drury, in the Pantomime of 1782, entitled "The Triumph of Mirth; or, Harlequin's Wedding," the principal characters in which were by Wright, Grimaldi, and Delpini. There were many minor persons of the drama.

In 1782, he first appeared at Sadler's Wells, in the arduous character of a monkey; and here he was fortunate enough to excite as much approbation, as he had previously elicited in the part of clown at Drury Lane. He immediately became a member of the regular company at this theatre, as he had done at the other; and here he remained (one season only excepted) until the termination of his professional life, forty-nine years afterwards.

Now that he had made, or rather that his father had made for him, two engagements, by which he was bound to appear at two theatres on the same evening, and at very nearly the same time, his labours began in earnest. They would have been arduous for a man, much more so for a child; and it will be obvious, that if at any one portion of his life his gains were very great, the actual toil both of mind and body by which they were purchased was at least equally so. The stage-stricken young gentlemen who hang about Sadler's Wells, and Astley's, and the Surrey, and private theatres of all kinds, and who long to embrace the theatrical profession because it is "so easy," little dream of all the anxieties and hardships, and privations and sorrows, which make the sum of most actors' lives.

We have already remarked that the father of Grimaldi was an eccentric man; he appears to have been peculiarly eccentric, and rather unpleasantly so, in the correction of his son. The child being bred up to play all kinds of fantastic tricks, was as much a clown, a monkey, or anything else that was droll and ridiculous, off the stage, as on it; and being incited thereto by the occupants of the green-room, used to skip and tumble about as much for their diversion as that of the public. All this was carefully concealed from the father, who, whenever he did happen to observe any of the child's pranks, always administered the same punishment—a sound thrashing; terminating in his being lifted up by the hair of the head, and stuck in a corner, whence his father, with a severe countenance and awful voice, would tell him "to venture to move at his peril."

Venture to move, however, he did, for no sooner would the father disappear, than all the cries and tears of the boy would disappear too; and with many of those winks and grins which afterwards became so popular, he would recommence his pantomime with greater vigour than ever; indeed, nothing could ever stop him but the cry of "Joe! Joe! here's your father!" upon which the boy would dart back into the old corner, and begin crying again as if he had never left off.

This became quite a regular amusement in course of time, and whether the father was coming or not, the caution used to be given for the mere pleasure of seeing "Joe" run back to his corner; this "Joe" very soon discovered, and often confounding the warning with the joke, received more severe beatings than before, from him whom he very properly describes in his manuscript as his "severe but excellent parent." On one of these occasions, when he was dressed for his favourite part of the little clown in Robinson Crusoe, with his face painted in exact imitation of his father's, which appears to have been part of the fun of the scene, the old gentleman brought him into the green-room, and placing him in his usual solitary corner, gave him strict directions not to stir an inch, on pain of being thrashed, and left him.

The Earl of Derby, who was at that time in the constant habit of frequenting the green-room, happened to walk in at the moment, and seeing a lonesome-looking little boy dressed and painted after a manner very inconsistent with his solitary air, good-naturedly called him towards him.

"Hollo! here, my boy, come here!" said the Earl.

Joe made a wonderful and astonishing face, but remained where he was. The Earl laughed heartily, and looked round for an explanation.

"He dare not move!" explained Miss Farren, to whom his lordship was then much attached, and whom he afterwards married; "his father will beat him if he does."

"Indeed!" said his lordship. At which Joe, by way of confirmation, made another face more extraordinary than his former contortions.

"I think," said his lordship, laughing again, "the boy is not quite so much afraid of his father as you suppose. Come here, sir!"

With this, he held up half-a-crown, and the child, perfectly well knowing the value of money, darted from his corner, seized it with pantomimic suddenness, and was darting back again, when the Earl caught him by the arm.

"Here, Joe!" said the Earl, "take off your wig and throw it in the fire, and here's another half-crown for you."

No sooner said than done. Off came the wig,—into the fire it went; a roar of laughter arose; the child capered about with a half-crown in each hand; the Earl, alarmed for the consequences to the boy, busied himself to extricate the wig with the tongs and poker; and the father, in full dress for the Shipwrecked Mariner, rushed into the room at the same moment. It was lucky for "Little Joe" that Lord Derby promptly and humanely interfered, or it is exceedingly probable that his father would have prevented any chance of his being buried alive at all events, by killing him outright.

As it was, the matter could not be compromised without his receiving a smart beating, which made him cry very bitterly; and the tears running down his face, which was painted "an inch thick," came to the "complexion at last," in parts, and made him look as much like a little clown as like a little human being, to neither of which characters he bore the most distant resemblance. He was "called" almost immediately afterwards, and the father being in a violent rage, had not noticed the circumstance until the little object came on the stage, when a general roar of laughter directed his attention to his grotesque countenance. Becoming more violent than before, he fell upon him at once, and beat him severely, and the child roared vociferously. This was all taken by the audience as a most capital joke; shouts of laughter and peals of applause shook the house; and the newspapers next morning declared, that it was perfectly wonderful to see a mere child perform so naturally, and highly creditable to his father's talents as a teacher!

This is no bad illustration of some of the miseries of a poor actor's life. The jest on the lip, and the tear in the eye, the merriment on the mouth, and the aching of the heart, have called down the same shouts of laughter and peals of applause a hundred times. Characters in a state of starvation are almost invariably laughed at upon the stage—the audience have had their dinner.

The bitterest portion of the boy's punishment was the being deprived of the five shillings, which the excellent parent put into his own pocket, possibly because he received the child's salary also, and in order that everything might be, as Goldsmith's Bear-leader has it, "in a concatenation accordingly," The Earl gave him half-a-crown every time he saw him afterwards though, and the child had good cause for regret when his lordship married Miss Farren,[5] and left the green-room.

[5] Miss Farren, previously to her marriage with the Earl of Derby, took her final leave of the stage, as Lady Teazle, in "The School for Scandal," April 8, 1797.

At Sadler's Wells he became a favourite almost as speedily as at Drury Lane. King, the comedian,[6] who was principal proprietor of the former theatre and acting manager of the latter, took a great deal of notice of him, and occasionally gave the child a guinea to buy a rocking-horse or a cart, or some toy that struck his fancy. During the run of the first piece in which he played at Sadler's Wells, he produced his first serious effect, which, but for the good fortune which seems to have attended him in such cases, might have prevented his subsequent appearance on any stage. He played a monkey, and had to accompany the clown (his father) throughout the piece. In one of the scenes, the clown used to lead him on by a chain attached to his waist, and with this chain he would swing him round and round, at arm's length, with the utmost velocity. One evening, when this feat was in the act of performance, the chain broke, and he was hurled a considerable distance into the pit, fortunately without sustaining the slightest injury; for he was flung by a miracle into the very arms of an old gentleman who was sitting gazing at the stage with intense interest.

[6] Tom King was the manager of Sadler's Wells Theatre from Easter, 1772, till the close of the season, 1782; when, on Sheridan's resignation as manager of Drury Lane, King succeeded him in September, 1782, and relinquished the management of Sadler's Wells to Wroughton, whose term commenced at Easter, 1783. We have already explained that Joe's father was not employed at Sadler's Wells in 1781; and yet, perhaps in consideration of Master and Miss, Signor Grimaldi had a benefit at that theatre, on Thursday, September 12, 1782; the usual diversions were announced, but he did not take any part in the business of the evening. The bills announced, "Tickets and Places to be had only of Mr. Grimaldi, at No. 5, Princes Street, Drury Lane, and opposite Sadler's Wells Gate." Signor Placido's night followed on Monday, September 16, when, with other new amusements, was introduced "A new Pantomime Dance, for the first time, called 'The Woodcutter; or, the Lucky Mischance,' characters by Mr. Dupuis, then principal dancer at the Wells, Mr. Meunier, Mr. Grimaldi, Mrs. Sutton, Signor Placido, and the Little Devil, being their first Pantomimical performance in this kingdom." This was the only appearance of Signor Grimaldi at the Wells in 1782; for which, possibly, he was paid by Placido.

Young Joe's introduction to Sadler's Wells, in 1781, as also the benefit here noticed, in 1782, were kindnesses probably rendered to Grimaldi by Tom King, during the last two years of his management.

Reynolds, the dramatist, was wont to relate a droll story of the Signor, which may not improperly be told here. "Walking one day in Pall Mall with Tom King, we met the celebrated clown, Grimaldi, father of Joe Grimaldi, approaching us with a face of the most ludicrous astonishment and delight, when he exclaimed: 'Oh, vatt a clevare fellow dat Sheridan is!—shall I tell you?—oui—yes; I vill, bien donc. I could no nevare see him at de theatre, so je vais chez lui, to his house in Hertford-street, muffled in de great coat, and I say, 'Domestique!—you hear?' 'Yes, Sare.' 'Vell, den, tell your master, dat Mistare—you know, de Mayor of Stafford be below.' Domestique fly; and on de instant I vas shown into de drawing-room. In von more minuet, Sheridan leave his dinner party, enter de room hastily—stop suddenly, and say, 'How dare you, Grim, play me such a trick?' Then putting himself into von grand passion, he go on: 'Go, Sare!—get out of my house!' 'Begar,' say I, placing my back against de door, 'not till you pay me my forty pounds;' and then I point to de pen, ink, and paper, on von small tables in de corner, and say, 'Dere, write me de check, and de Mayor shall go vitement—entendez-vous? If not, morbleu! I shall—'

"'Oh!' interrupted dis clevare man, 'if I must, Grim, I must,' and as if he vare très-pressé—vary hurry, he write de draft, and pushing it into my hand, he squeeze it, and I do push it into my pocket. Eh bien!—vell, den, I do make haste to de banquier, and giving it to de clerks, I say, vitement, 'four tens, if you please, Sare. 'Four tens!' he say, with much surprise; 'de draft be only for four pounds!' O, vat a clevare fellow dat Sheridan is! Vell, den, I say, 'If you please, Sare, donnez-moi donc, dose four pounds.' And den he say, 'Call again to-morrow.' Next day, I meet de manager in de street, and I say, 'Mistare Sheridan! have you forget?' and den he laugh, and say, 'Vy, Grim, I recollected afterwards—I left out de 0!' O, vat a clevare fellow dat Sheridan is!'"

Again meeting Grimaldi, some months afterwards, Reynolds asked him, whether the manager had found means to pay him the amount of his dishonoured cheque. He replied in the affirmative; but with a look and tone of voice so altered, it seemed as if the successful adroitness of Sheridan's ruse contre ruse, had afforded him more enjoyment, and given him a higher opinion of the manager as "a clevare fellow," than the mere passing business affair of paying him his demand.

Among the many persons who in this early stage of his career behaved with great kindness to him, were the famous rope-dancers, Mr. and Mrs. Redigé, then called Le Petit Diable,[7] and La Belle Espagnole; who often gave him a guinea to buy some childish luxury, which his father invariably took away and deposited in a box, with his name written outside, which he would lock very carefully, and then, giving the boy the key, say, "Mind, Joe, ven I die, dat is your vortune." Eventually he lost both the box and the fortune, as will hereafter appear.

[7] Paulo Redigé, "Le Petit Diable," made his first appearance at Sadler's Wells with Placide, the "French Voltigeur," under the Italianised name of Signor Placido, on Easter Monday, 1781, on the same night with young Joe. La Belle Espagnole, whom Angelo describes as "a very beautiful woman," made her first appearance at the same theatre, on April 1, 1785; having, as the bills expressed it, "been celebrated at Paris all the winter, for her very elegant and wonderful performances." She soon after became the wife of the "Little Devil." Paulo, the late clown, was their son, and might be almost said to have been born within the walls of that theatre. The manager's attentions to this beautiful Spaniard were the cause of much jealousy to Mrs. Wroughton, and some ludicrous stories are still afloat.

As he had now nearly four months vacant out of every twelve, the run of the Christmas pantomime at Drury Lane seldom exceeding a month, and Sadler's Wells not opening until Easter, he was sent for that period of the year to a boarding-school at Putney, kept by a Mr. Ford, of whose kindness and goodness of heart to him on a later occasion of his life, he spoke, when an old man, with the deepest gratitude. He fell in here with many schoolfellows who afterwards became connected one way or another with dramatic pursuits, among whom was Mr. Henry Harris, of Covent Garden Theatre. We do not find that any of these schoolfellows afterwards became pantomime actors; but recollecting the humour and vivacity of the boy, the wonder to us is, that they were not all clowns when they grew up. In the Christmas of 1782, he appeared in his second character[8] at Drury Lane, called "Harlequin Junior; or, the Magic Cestus," in which he represented a demon, sent by some opposing magician to counteract the power of the harlequin. In this, as in his preceding part, he was fortunate enough to meet with great applause; and from this period his reputation was made, although it naturally increased with his years, strength, and improvement.

[8] The pantomime of "Harlequin Junior; or, the Magic Cestus," was performed for the first time, on Wednesday, January 7, 1784, not Christmas, 1782; and was highly successful, from the excellence of the characters, the beautiful scenery, and the new deceptions—Grimaldi, as Clown, obtruding into a hot-house, became suddenly transformed into a fine large water-melon; in another scene, changed into a goose, his affected airs in displaying his tail in the peacock style, set the house in roars of laughter. The change of the Bank of Paris into an air-balloon, was a trick that obtained a full plaudit. So great, in fact, was the attraction, it was not only frequently performed during the remainder of the season, 1783-4, but also in that of 1784-5, being revived on September 28, 1784, and repeated in lieu of a new pantomime, on December 27, in that year, and it ran its full complement of representations as a new piece.

In the following Easter[9] he repeated the monkey at Sadler's Wells without the pit effect. As the piece was withdrawn at the end of a month, and he had nothing to do for the remainder of the season, he again repaired to Putney.

[9] We do not find that at Easter, 1784, any piece was withdrawn in which a monkey was likely to be introduced. The Sieur Scaglioni's troop of Dancing Dogs, and their sagacious manœuvres, made up speedily for the losses of the previous season. The pantomime was entitled "The Enchanted Wood; or, Harlequin's Vagaries;" a dance called the "Fricassee;" and the whole concluded with the "Death and Revival of Harlequin," which "ran" the whole of the season.

In Christmas 1783, he once more appeared at Drury Lane, in a pantomime called "Hurly Burly."[10] In this piece he had to represent, not only the old part of the monkey, but that of a cat besides; and in sustaining the latter character he met with an accident, his speedy recovery from which would almost induce one to believe that he had so completely identified himself with the character as to have eight additional chances for his life. The dress he wore was so clumsily contrived, that when it was sewn upon him he could not see before him; consequently, as he was running about the stage, he fell down a trap-door, which had been left open to represent a well, and tumbled down a distance of forty feet, thereby breaking his collar-bone, and inflicting several contusions upon his body. He was immediately conveyed home, and placed under the care of a surgeon, but he did not recover soon enough to appear any more that season at Drury Lane, although at Easter he performed at Sadler's Wells as usual.

[10] A pantomimical olio, entitled "The Caldron," in which Grimaldi played Clown, was produced at Drury-lane, September 27, 1785, performed a few nights, and withdrawn. The pantomime of "Hurly Burly; or, the Fairy of the Wells," was produced for the first time, on December 26, in that year, and not at Christmas, 1783. Grimaldi played "Clodpate," the Clown, in this piece: it was very successful.

In the summer of this year, he used to be allowed, as a mark of high and special favour, to spend every alternate Sunday at the house of his mother's father, "who," says Grimaldi himself, "resided in Newton-street, Holborn, and was a carcase butcher, doing a prodigious business; besides which, he kept the Bloomsbury slaughter-house, and, at the time of his death, had done so for more than sixty years." With this grandfather, "Joe" was a great favourite; and as he was very much indulged and petted when he went to see him, he used to look forward to every visit with great anxiety. His father, upon his part, was most anxious that he should support the credit of the family upon these occasions, and, after great deliberation, and much consultation with tailors, the "little clown" was attired for one of these Sunday excursions in the following style. On his back he wore a green coat, embroidered with almost as many artificial flowers as his father had put in the garden at Lambeth; beneath this there shone a satin waistcoat of dazzling whiteness; and beneath that again were a pair of green cloth breeches (the word existed in those days) richly embroidered. His legs were fitted into white silk stockings, and his feet into shoes with brilliant paste buckles, of which he also wore another resplendent pair at his knees: he had a laced shirt, cravat, and ruffles; a cocked-hat upon his head; a small watch set with diamonds—theatrical, we suppose—in his fob; and a little cane in his hand, which he switched to and fro as our clowns may do now.

Being thus thoroughly equipped for starting, he was taken in for his father's inspection: the old gentleman was pleased to signify his entire approbation with his appearance, and, after kissing him in the moment of his gratification, demanded the key of the "fortune-box." The key being got with some difficulty out of one of the pockets of the green smalls, the bottom of which might be somewhere near the buckles, the old gentleman took a guinea out of the box, and, putting it into the boy's pocket, said, "Dere now, you are a gentleman, and something more—you have got a guinea in your pocket." The box having been carefully locked, and the key returned to the owner of the "fortune," off he started, receiving strict injunctions to be home by eight o'clock. The father would not allow anybody to attend him, on the ground that he was a gentleman, and consequently perfectly able to take care of himself; so away he went, to walk all the way from Little Russel-street, Drury-lane, to Newton-street, Holborn.

The child's appearance in the street excited considerable curiosity, as the appearance of any other child, alone, in such a costume, might very probably have done; but he was a public character besides, and the astonishment was proportionate. "Hollo!" cried one boy, "here's 'Little Joe!'" "Get along," said another, "it's the monkey." A third, thought it was the "bear dressed for a dance," and the fourth suggested "it might be the cat going out to a party," while the more sedate passengers could not help laughing heartily, and saying how ridiculous it was to trust such a child in the streets alone. However, he walked on, with various singular grimaces, until he stopped to look at a female of miserable appearance, who was reclining on the pavement, and whose diseased and destitute aspect had already collected a crowd. The boy stopped, like others, and hearing her tale of distress, became so touched, that he thrust his hand into his pocket, and having at last found the bottom of it, pulled out his guinea, which was the only coin he had, and slipped it into her hand; then away he walked again with a greater air than before.

The sight of the embroidered coat, and breeches, and the paste buckles, and the satin waistcoat and cocked-hat, had astonished the crowd not a little in the outset; but directly it was understood that the small owner of these articles had given the woman a guinea, a great number of people collected around him, and began shouting and staring by turns most earnestly. The boy, not at all abashed, headed the crowd, and walked on very deliberately, with a train a street or two long behind him, until he fortunately encountered a friend of his father's, who no sooner saw the concourse that attended him, than he took him in his arms and carried him, despite a few kicks and struggles, in all his brilliant attire, to his grandfather's house, where he spent the day very much to the satisfaction of all parties concerned.

When he got safely home at night, the father referred to his watch, and finding that he had returned home punctual to the appointed time, kissed him, extolled him for paying such strict attention to his instructions, examined his dress, discovered satisfactorily that no injury had been done to his clothes, and concluded by asking for the key of the "fortune-box," and the guinea. The boy, at first, quite forgot the morning adventure; but, after rummaging his pockets for the guinea, and not finding it, he recollected what had occurred, and, falling upon the knees of the knee-smalls, confessed it all, and implored forgiveness.

The father was puzzled; he was always giving away money in charity himself, and he could scarcely reprimand the child for doing the same. He looked at him for some seconds with a perplexed countenance, and then, contenting himself with simply saying, "I'll beat you," sent him to bed.

Among the eccentricities of the old gentleman, one—certainly not his most amiable one—was, that whatever he promised he performed; and that when, as in this case, he promised to thrash the boy, he would very coolly let the matter stand over for months, but never forget it in the end. This was ingenious, inasmuch as it doubled, or trebled, or quadrupled the punishment, giving the unhappy little victim all the additional pain of anticipating it for a long time, with the certainty of enduring it in the end. Four or five months after this occurrence, and when the child had not given his father any new cause of offence, he suddenly called him to him one day, and communicated the intelligence that he was going to beat him forthwith. Hereupon the boy began to cry most piteously, and faltered forth the inquiry, "Oh! father, what for?"—"Remember the guinea!" said the father. And he gave him a caning which he remembered to the last day of his life.

The family consisted at this time of the father, mother, Joe, his only brother John Baptist, three or four female servants, and a man of colour who acted as footman, and was dignified with the appellation of "Black Sam."

The father was extremely hospitable, and fond of company; he rarely dined alone, and on certain gala days, of which Christmas-eve was one, had a very large party, upon which occasions his really splendid service of plate, together with various costly articles of bijouterie, were laid out for the admiration of the guests. Upon one Christmas-eve, when the dining-parlour was decorated and prepared with all due gorgeousness and splendour, the two boys, accompanied by Black Sam, stole into it, and began to pass various encomiums on its beautiful appearance.

"Ah!" said Sam, in reply to some remark of the brothers, "and when old Massa die, all dese fine things vill be yours."

Both the boys were much struck with this remark, and especially John, the younger, who, being extremely young, probably thought much less about death than his father, and accordingly exclaimed, without the least reserve or delicacy, that he should be exceedingly glad if all these fine things were his.

Nothing more was said upon the subject. Black Sam went to his work, the boys commenced a game of play, and nobody thought any more of the matter except the father himself, who, passing the door of the room at the moment the remarks were made, distinctly heard them. He pondered over the matter for some days, and at length, with the view of ascertaining the dispositions of his two sons, formed a singular resolution, still connected with the topic ever upwards in his mind, and determined to feign himself dead. He caused himself to be laid out in the drawing-room, covered with a sheet, and had the room darkened, the windows closed, and all the usual ceremonies which accompany death, performed. All this being done, and the servants duly instructed, the two boys were cautiously informed that their father had died suddenly, and were at once hurried into the room where he lay, in order that he might hear them give vent to their real feelings.[11]

[11] A similar scene has been frequently represented on the stage. It is probable that the father derived the notion from some play in which he had acted, or which he had seen performed.

When Joe was brought into the dark room on so short a notice, his sensations were rather complicated, but they speedily resolved themselves into a firm persuasion that his father was not dead. A variety of causes led him to this conclusion, among which the most prominent were, his having very recently seen his father in the best health; and, besides several half-suppressed winks and blinks from Black Sam, his observing, by looking closely at the sheet, that his deceased parent still breathed. With very little hesitation the boy perceived what line of conduct he ought to adopt, and at once bursting into a roar of the most distracted grief, flung himself upon the floor, and rolled about in a seeming transport of anguish.

John, not having seen so much of public life as his brother, was not so cunning, and perceiving in his father's death nothing but a relief from flogging and books (for both of which he had a great dislike), and the immediate possession of all the plate in the dining room, skipped about the room, indulging in various snatches of song, and, snapping his fingers, declared that he was glad to hear it.

"O! you cruel boy," said Joe, in a passion of tears, "hadn't you any love for your dear father? Oh! what would I give to see him alive again!"

"Oh! never mind," replied the brother; "don't be such a fool as to cry; we can have the cuckoo-clock all to ourselves now."

This was more than the deceased could bear. He jumped from the bier, opened the shutters, threw off the sheet, and attacked his younger son most unmercifully; while Joe, not knowing what might be his own fate, ran and hid himself in the coal-cellar, where he was discovered some four hours afterwards, by Black Sam, fast asleep, who carried him to his father, who had been anxiously in search of him, and by whom he was received with every demonstration of affection, as the son who truly and sincerely loved him.

From this period, up to the year 1788, he continued regularly employed upon the same salaries as he had originally received both at Drury Lane and Sadler's Wells.

CHAPTER II.

1788 to 1794.

The Father's real Death—His Will, and failure of the Executor—Generous conduct of Grimaldi's Schoolmaster, and of Mr. Wroughton, the Comedian—Kindness of Sheridan—Grimaldi's industry and amusements—Fly catching—Expedition in search of the "Dartford Blues"—Mrs. Jordan—Adventure on Clapham Common: the piece of Tin—His first love and its consequences.

It has been stated in several publications that Grimaldi's father died in 1787. It would appear from several passages in the memoranda dictated by his son, that he expired on the 14th of March, 1788, of dropsy, in the seventy-eighth year[12] of his age, and that he was interred in the burial-ground attached to Exmouth-street Chapel; a spot of ground in which, if it bore any resemblance at that time to its present condition, he could have had very little room to walk about and meditate when alive. He left a will, by which he directed all his effects and jewels to be sold by public auction, and the proceeds to be added to his funded property, which exceeded 15,000l.; the whole of the gross amount, he directed should be divided equally between the two brothers as they respectively attained their majority. Mr. King,[13] to whom allusion has already been made, was appointed co-executor with a Mr. Joseph Hopwood, a lace manufacturer in Long-acre, at that time supposed to possess not only an excellent business, but independent property to a considerable amount besides. Shortly after they entered upon their office, in consequence of Mr. King declining to act, the whole of the estate fell to the management of Mr. Hopwood, who, employing the whole of the brothers' capital in his trade, became a bankrupt within a year, fled from England, and was never heard of afterwards. By this unfortunate and unforeseen event, the brothers lost the whole of their fortune, and were thrown upon their own resources and exertions for the means of subsistence.

[12] The newspapers, in March, 1788, noticed the death, on the 14th of that month, of "Mr. Joseph Grimaldi, many years Ballet-Master at Drury Lane Theatre, aged 72." Decastro, who notwithstanding his love of gossip, and occasionally, by a too frequent repetition, perverting the vein of his story, was no mean authority as regarded the old players, most of whom are now—

Down among the dead men!

He used to assert that old Grimaldi died in Lambeth, at his apartments, up a court within a door or two of the Pheasant public-house in Stangate-street. Reference to the burial-register of St. Mary's, Lambeth, elicited nothing as to his interment there; but on searching the register belonging to Northampton Chapel, in Exmouth-street, we found it there recorded "March 23, 1788, Mr. Joseph Grimaldi, from Lambeth, aged 75." It will be observed, there is a difference of three years in the age, as stated in the daily papers of the time, and in the register of his burial. No stone, or other memorial, marks the spot where his ashes lie.

The court in which Grimaldi died, in poverty, not wealth, was, till the last destruction of Astley's Amphitheatre, under the tenancy of Ducrow, called Theatre-court, or place; but the fire consumed the greater part, and its site is now occupied by that portion of Batty's Amphitheatre which is in the Palace New-road.

[13] The original Editor has been misinformed. We are sorry to have to record that Signor Grimaldi had nothing to bequeath to any one; he made no will; and a search at the Prerogative Office, Doctor's Commons, for the two years following his death, is evidence of this, no probate having issued thence.

It is very creditable to all parties, and while it speaks highly for the kind feeling of the friends of the widow, and her two sons, bears high testimony to their conduct and behaviour, that no sooner was the failure of the executor known than offers of assistance were heaped upon them from all quarters. Mr. Ford, the Putney schoolmaster, offered at once to receive Joseph into his school and to adopt him as his own son; this offer being declined by his mother, Mr. Sheridan, who was then proprietor of Drury Lane Theatre, raised the boy's salary, unasked, to one pound per week, and permitted his mother, who was and had been from her infancy a dancer at that establishment, to accept a similar engagement at Sadler's Wells, which was, in fact, equivalent to a double salary, both theatres being open together for a considerable period of the year.

At Sadler's Wells, where Joseph appeared as usual in 1788,[14] shortly after his father's death, they were not so liberal, nor was the aspect of things so pleasing, his salary of fifteen shillings a-week being very unceremoniously cut down to three, and his mother being politely informed, upon her remonstrating, that if the alteration did not suit her, he was at perfect liberty to transfer his valuable services to any other house. Small as the pittance was, they could not afford to refuse it; and at that salary he remained at Sadler's Wells for three years, occasionally superintending the property-room, sometimes assisting in the carpenter's, and sometimes in the painter's, and, in fact, lending a hand wherever it was most needed.

[14] The season of 1788, at Sadler's Wells, was one of no common interest. On Whitsun Monday, May 12, in a musical piece, entitled "Saint Monday; or, a Cure for a Scold," Mr. Braham, then Master Abrahams, made his first appearance. He is named in the bills of August 18, but appears soon after to have left Sadler's Wells, and on the 30th of the same month had a benefit at the Royalty Theatre, Well-street, near Goodman's-fields, as "Master Braham," when the celebrated tenor singer, Leoni, his master, announced that as the last time of his performing on the stage. Miss Shields, who appeared at Sadler's Wells in the same piece on Whitsun Monday, became towards the end of May, Mrs. Leffler. Two Frenchmen, named Duranie and Bois-Maison, as pantomimists, eclipsed all their predecessors on that stage. Boyce, a distinguished engraver, was the Harlequin, and by those who remember him, he is eulogised as the most finished actor of the motley hero, either in his own day, or since. On the benefit night of Joseph Dortor, Clown to the rope, and Richer, the rope dancer, Miss Richer made her first appearance on two slack wires, passing through a hoop, with a pyramid of glasses on her head; and Master Richer performed on the tight rope, with a skipping rope. Joseph Dortor, among other almost incredible feats, drank a glass of wine backwards from the stage-floor, beating a drum at the same time. Lawrence, the father of Joe's friend, Richard Lawrence, threw a summerset over twelve men's heads, and Paul Redigé, "The Little Devil," on October 1, threw a summerset over two men on horseback, the riders having each a lighted candle on his head. Dubois, as Clown to the Pantomime, had no superior in his time; and the troop of Voltigeurs were pre-eminent for their agility, skill, and daring.

When the defalcation of the executor took place, the family were compelled to give up their comfortable establishment, and to seek for lodgings of an inferior description. His mother knowing a Mr. and Mrs. Bailey, who then resided in Great Wild-street, and who let lodgings, applied to them, and there they lived, in three rooms on the first floor, for several years. The brother could not be prevailed upon to accept any regular engagement, for he thought and dreamt of nothing but going to sea, and evinced the utmost detestation of the stage. Sometimes, when boys were wanted in the play at Drury Lane, he was sent for, and attended, for which he received a shilling per night; but so great was his unwillingness and evident dissatisfaction on such occasions, that Mr. Wroughton, the comedian, who, by purchasing the property of Mr. King, became about this period[15] proprietor of Sadler's Wells, stepped forward in the boy's behalf, and obtained for him a situation on board an East-Indiaman, which then lay in the river, and was about to sail almost immediately.

[15] Further inquiries enable us to prove that King transferred his right in Sadler's Wells to Messrs. Wroughton and Serjeant, at the close of the year 1788.

John was delighted when the prospect of realizing his ardent wishes opened upon him so suddenly; but his raptures were diminished by the discovery that an outfit was indispensable, and that it would cost upwards of fifty pounds: a sum which, it is scarcely necessary to say, his friends, in their reduced position, could not command. But the same kind-hearted gentleman removed this obstacle, and with a generosity and readiness which enhanced the value of the gift an hundredfold, advanced, without security or obligation, the whole sum required, merely saying, "Mind, John, when you come to be a captain you must pay it me back again."

There is no difficulty in providing the necessaries for a voyage to any part of the world when you have provided the first and most important—money. In two days, John took his leave of his mother and brother, and with his outfit, or kit, was safely deposited on board the vessel in which a berth had been procured for him; but the boy, who was of a rash, hasty, and inconsiderate temper, finding, on going on board, that a delay of ten days would take place before the ship sailed, and that a king's ship, which lay near her, was just then preparing to drop down to Gravesend with the tide, actually swam from his own ship to the other, entered himself as a seaman or cabin-boy on board the latter in some feigned name,—what it was his friends never heard,—and so sailed immediately, leaving every article of his outfit, down to the commonest necessary of wearing apparel, on board the East-Indiaman, on the books of which he had been entered through the kindness of Mr. Wroughton. He disappeared in 1789, and he was not heard of, or from, or seen, for fourteen years afterwards.

At this period of his life, Joseph was far from idle; he had to walk from Drury Lane to Sadler's Wells every morning to attend rehearsals, which then began at ten o'clock; to be back at Drury Lane to dinner by two, or go without it; to be back again at Sadler's Wells in the evening, in time for the commencement of the performances at six o'clock; to go through uninterrupted labour from that time until eleven o'clock, or later; and then to walk home again, repeatedly after having changed his dress twenty times in the course of the night.

Occasionally, when the performances at Sadler's Wells were prolonged so that the curtain fell very nearly at the same time as the concluding piece at Drury Lane began, he was so pressed for time as to be compelled to dart out of the former theatre at his utmost speed, and never to stop until he reached his dressing-room at the latter. That he could use his legs to pretty good advantage at this period of his life, two anecdotes will sufficiently show.

On one occasion, when by unforeseen circumstances he was detained at Sadler's Wells beyond the usual time, he and Mr. Fairbrother (the father of the well-known theatrical printer), who, like himself, was engaged at both theatres, and had agreed to accompany him that evening, started hand-in-hand from Sadler's Wells theatre, and ran to the stage-door of Drury Lane in eight minutes by the stop watches which they carried. Grimaldi adds, that this was considered a great feat at the time; and we should think it was.

Another night, during the time when the Drury Lane company were playing at the Italian Opera-house in the Haymarket, in consequence of the old theatre being pulled down and a new one built, Mr. Fairbrother and himself, again put to their utmost speed by lack of time, ran from Sadler's Wells to the Opera-house in fourteen minutes, meeting with no other interruption by the way than one which occurred at the corner of Lincoln's Inn Fields, where they unfortunately ran against and overturned an infirm old lady, without having time enough to pick her up again. After Grimaldi's business at the Opera-house was over, (he had merely to walk in the procession in Cymon,) he ran back alone to Sadler's Wells in thirteen minutes, and arrived just in time to dress for Clown in the concluding pantomime.

For some years his life went on quietly enough, possessing very little of anecdote or interest beyond his steady and certain rise in his profession and in the estimation of the public, which, although very important to him from the money he afterwards gained by it, and to the public from the amusement which his peculiar excellence yielded them for so many years, offers no material for our present purpose. This gradual progress in the good opinion of the town exercised a material influence on his receipts; for, in 1794, his salary at Drury Lane was trebled, while his salary at Sadler's Wells had risen from three shillings per week to four pounds. He lodged in Great Wild-street with his mother all this time: their landlord had died, and the widow's daughter, from accompanying Mrs. Grimaldi[16] to Sadler's Wells theatre, had formed an acquaintance with, and married Mr. Robert Fairbrother, of that establishment, and Drury Lane, upon which Mrs. Bailey, the widow, took Mr. Fairbrother into partnership as a furrier, in which pursuit, by industry and perseverance, he became eminently successful.

[16] Mrs. Brooker.

This circumstance would be scarcely worth mentioning, but that it shows the industry and perseverance of Grimaldi, and the ease with which, by the exercise of those qualities, a very young person may overcome all the disadvantages and temptations incidental to the most precarious walk of a precarious pursuit, and become a useful and respectable member of society. He earned many a guinea from Mr. Fairbrother by working at his trade, and availing himself of his instruction in his leisure hours; and when he could do nothing in that way, he would go to Newton-street, and assist his uncle and cousin, the carcase butchers, for nothing; such was his unconquerable antipathy to being idle. He does not inform us, whether it required a practical knowledge of trade, to display that skill and address with which, in his subsequent prosperity, he would diminish the joints of his customers as a baker, or increase the weight of their meat as a butcher, but we hope, for the credit of trade, that his morals in this respect were wholly imaginary.

These were his moments of occupation, but he contrived to find moments of amusement besides, which were devoted to the breeding of pigeons, and collecting of insects, which latter amusement he pursued with such success, as to form a cabinet containing no fewer than 4000 specimens of flies, "collected," he says, "at the expense of a great deal of time, a great deal of money, and a great deal of vast and actual labour,"—for all of which, no doubt, the entomologist will deem him sufficiently rewarded. He appears in old age to have entertained a peculiar relish for the recollection of these pursuits, and calls to mind a part of Surrey where there was a very famous fly, and a part of Kent where there was another famous fly; one of these was called the Camberwell Beauty (which he adds was very ugly), and another, the Dartford Blue, by which Dartford Blue he seems to have set great store; and which were pursued and caught in the manner following, in June, 1794, when they regularly make their first appearance for the season.

Being engaged nightly at Sadler's Wells, he was obliged to wait till he had finished his business upon the stage: then he returned home, had supper, and shortly after midnight started off to walk to Dartford, fifteen miles from town. Here he arrived about five o'clock in the morning, and calling upon a friend of the name of Brooks, who lived in the neighbourhood, and who was already stirring, he rested, breakfasted, and sallied forth into the fields. His search was not very profitable, however, for after some hours he only succeeded in bagging, or bottling, one "Dartford Blue," with which he returned to his friend perfectly satisfied. At one o'clock he bade his friend good by, walked back to town, reached London by five, washed, took tea, and hurried to Sadler's Wells. No time was to be lost—the fact of the appearance of the "Dartford Blues" having been thoroughly established—in securing more specimens; so on the same night, directly the pantomime was over, and supper over, too, off he walked down to Dartford again, found the friend up again, took a hasty breakfast again, and resumed his search again. Meeting with better sport, and capturing no fewer than four dozen Dartford Blues, he hurried back to the friend's; set them—an important process, which consists in placing the insects in the position in which their natural beauty can be best displayed—started off with the Dartford Blues in his pocket for London once more, reached home by four o'clock in the afternoon, washed, and took a hasty meal, and then went to the theatre for the evening's performance.

As not half the necessary number of Blues had been taken, he had decided upon another visit to Dartford that same night, and was consequently much pleased to find that, from some unforeseen circumstance, the pantomime was to be played first. By this means he was enabled to leave London at nine o'clock, to reach Dartford at one, to find a bed and supper ready, to meet a kind reception from his friend, and finally to turn into bed, a little tired with the two days' exertions. The next day was Sunday, so that he could indulge himself without being obliged to return to town, and in the morning he caught more flies than he wanted; so the rest of the day was devoted to quiet sociality. He went to bed at ten o'clock, rose early next morning, walked comfortably to town, and at noon was perfect in his part, at the rehearsal on the stage at Drury Lane theatre.

It is probable that by such means as these, united to temperance and sobriety, Grimaldi acquired many important bodily requisites for the perfection which he afterwards attained. But his love of entomology, or exercise, was not the only inducement in the case of the Dartford Blues; he had, he says, another strong motive, and this was, the having promised a little collection of insects to "one of the most charming women of her age,"—the lamented Mrs. Jordan, at that time a member of the Drury Lane company.

Upon one occasion he had held under his arm, during a morning rehearsal, a box containing some specimens of flies: Mrs. Jordan was much interested to know what could possibly be in the box that Grimaldi carried about with him with so much care, and would not lose sight of for an instant, and in reply to her inquiry whether it contained anything pretty, he replied by exhibiting the flies.

He does not say whether these particular flies, which Mrs. Jordan admired, were Dartford Blues, or not; but he gives us to understand, that his skill in preserving and arranging insects was really very great; that all this trouble and fatigue were undertaken in a spirit of respectful gallantry to the most winning person of her time; and that, having requested permission previously, he presented two frames of insects to Mrs. Jordan, on the first day of the new season, and immediately after she had finished the rehearsal of Rosalind in "As you like it;" that Mrs. Jordan was delighted, that he was at least equally so, that she took the frames away in her carriage, and warmed his heart by telling him that his Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence considered the flies equal, if not superior, to any of the kind he had ever seen.

His only other companion in these trips, besides his Dartford friend, was Robert Gomery, or "friend Bob," as he was called by his intimates, at that time an actor at Sadler's Wells,[17] and for many years afterwards a public favourite at the various minor theatres of the metropolis; who is now, or was lately, enjoying a handsome independence at Bath. With this friend he had a little adventure, which it was his habit to relate with great glee.

[17] "Friend Bob" was not employed at Sadler's Wells till three years later than 1794, when he personated, on May 29, 1797, one of the Spahis in Tom Dibdin's "Sadak and Kalasrade."

One day, he had been fly-hunting with his friend, from early morning until night, thinking of nothing but flies, until at length their thoughts naturally turning to something more substantial, they halted for refreshment.

"Bob," said Grimaldi, "I am very hungry."

"So am I," said Bob.

"There is a public-house," said Grimaldi.

"It is just the very thing," observed the other.

It was a very neat public-house, and would have answered the purpose admirably, but Grimaldi having no money, and very much doubting whether his friend had either, did not respond to the sentiment quite so cordially as he might have done.

"We had better go in," said the friend; "it is getting late—you pay."

"No, no! you."

"I would in a minute," said his friend, "but I have not got any money."

Grimaldi thrust his hand into his right pocket with one of his queerest faces, then into his left, then into his coat pockets, then into his waistcoat, and finally took off his hat and looked into that; but there was no money anywhere.

They still walked on towards the public-house, meditating with rueful countenances, when Grimaldi spying something lying at the foot of a tree, picked it up, and suddenly exclaimed, with a variety of winks and nods, "Here's a sixpence."

The hungry friend's eyes brightened, but they quickly resumed their gloomy expression as he rejoined, "It's a piece of tin!"

Grimaldi winked again, rubbed the sixpence or the piece of tin very hard, and declared, putting it between his teeth by way of test, that it was as good a sixpence as he would wish to see.

"I don't think it," said the friend, shaking his head.

"I'll tell you what," said Grimaldi, "we'll go to the public-house, and ask the landlord whether it's a good one, or not. They always know."

To this the friend assented, and they hurried on, disputing all the way whether it was really a sixpence, or not; a discovery which could not be made at that time, when the currency was defaced and worn nearly plain, with the ease with which it could be made at present.

The publican, a fat, jolly fellow, was standing at his door, talking to a friend, and the house looked so uncommonly comfortable, that Gomery whispered as they approached, that perhaps it might be best to have some bread and cheese first, and ask about the sixpence afterwards.

Grimaldi nodded his entire assent, and they went in and ordered some bread and cheese, and beer. Having taken the edge off their hunger, they tossed up a farthing which Grimaldi happened to find in the corner of some theretofore undiscovered pocket, to determine who should present the "sixpence." The chance falling on himself, he walked up to the bar, and with a very lofty air, and laying the questionable metal down with a dignity quite his own, requested the landlord to take the bill out of that.

"Just right, sir," said the landlord, looking at the strange face that his customer assumed, and not at the sixpence.

"It's right, sir, is it?" asked Grimaldi, sternly.

"Quite," answered the landlord; "thank ye, gentlemen." And with this he slipped the—whatever it was—into his pocket.

Gomery looked at Grimaldi, and Grimaldi, with a look and air which baffle all description, walked out of the house, followed by his friend.

"I never knew anything so lucky," he said, as they walked home to supper—"it was quite a Providence—that sixpence."

"A piece of tin, you mean," said Gomery.

Which of the two it was, is uncertain, but Grimaldi often patronised the same house afterwards, and as he never heard anything more about the matter, he felt quite convinced that it was a real good sixpence.

In the early part of the year 1794, they quitted their lodgings in Great Wild-street, and took a six-roomed house, in Penton-place, Pentonville, with a garden attached; a part of this they let off to a Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, who then belonged to Sadler's Wells; and in this manner they lived for three years, during the whole of which period his salaries steadily rose in amount, and he began to consider himself quite independent.

At Easter,[18] Sadler's Wells opened as usual, and making a great hit in a new part, his fame rapidly increased. At this time he found a new acquaintance, which exercised a material influence upon his comfort and happiness for many years. The intimacy commenced thus:—

[18] On Easter Monday, 1796, Sadler's Wells opened with Tom Dibdin's Serio-Comic Entertainment called "The Talisman of Orosmanes; or, Harlequin made Happy." Grimaldi enacted the part of the Hag Morad; the principal characters in the action being King, Dibdin, the author, his second season; Dubois, Master Grimaldi, as he was then designated in the bills, and Mrs. Wybrow. Having in such company made a hit in this part, his fame rapidly increased; and in the new Harlequinade Burletta, entitled "Venus's Girdle; or, the World Bewitched," produced on the 1st of August in that year, Master Grimaldi played the part of the Old Woman; his mother, Mrs. Brooker, Lady Simpleton. These entertainments ran through the whole season.

It may not be out of place to notice that Philip Astley this year announced as attractions at his Amphitheatre of Arts, Westminster Bridge, "The most splendid Variety of Novel Amusements ever produced, and which have been composed and arranged by the following celebrated persons,—viz.

"Mons. Mercerot, principal Pastoral Dancer, Ballet Master, and Pantomime Composer.

"Mons. Laurent, Performer of Action, Pierrot, and Pantomime Composer.

"Mr. West, Ballet Master, principal Buffo Dancer, Clown, and Pantomime Composer.

"Mr. Lascelles Williamson, Ballet Master, principal Comic Dancer, Harlequin, and Pantomime Composer. The above are the only Pupils of the late celebrated Signor Grimaldi.

The bills added, "Messrs. Astleys most respectfully beg leave to remark, that there never was at any Public Place of Entertainment so many Ballet Masters, Pantomime Composers, &c., engaged at one and the same time, possessing abilities equal to the above performers; their exertions joined to those of Messrs. Astleys, must enable them to give a greater variety than any other Public Place of Summer Amusement."

Williamson was not only the pupil of Signor Grimaldi, but was also his son-in-law, having married Joe's sister, who was announced with him in the Sadler's Wells bills in 1781, as Miss Grimaldi; she was engaged with her husband as Mrs. Williamson at Astley's, and appears among the Wizards and Witches, in the Dramatis Personæ of the Grand Comic Pantomime, called "The Magician of the Rocks; or, Harlequin in London," produced there on Whitsun Monday. "Clown, Mr. West, after the manner of his old Master, Grimaldi."

When there was a rehearsal at Sadler's Wells, his mother, who was engaged there as well as himself, was in the habit of remaining at the theatre all day, taking her meals in her dressing-room, and occupying herself with needlework. This she had done to avoid the long walk in the middle of the day from Sadler's Wells to Great Wild-street, and back again almost directly. It became a habit; and when they had removed to Penton-place, and consequently were so much nearer the theatre that it was no longer necessary, it still continued. Mr. Hughes, who had now become principal proprietor of the theatre, and who lived in the house attached to it, had several children, the eldest of whom was Miss Maria Hughes, a young lady of considerable accomplishments, who had always been much attached to Grimaldi's mother, and who embraced every opportunity of being in her society. Knowing the hours at which she was in the dressing-room during the day, Miss Hughes was in the habit of taking her work, and sitting with her from three or four o'clock until six, when the other female performers beginning to arrive, she retired. Grimaldi was generally at the theatre between four and five, always taking tea with his mother at the last-named hour, and sitting with her until the arrival of the ladies broke up the little party. In this way an intimacy arose between Miss Hughes and himself, which ultimately ripened into feelings of a warmer nature.

The day after he made his great hit in the new piece, he went as usual to tea in the dressing-room, where Mrs. Lewis, their lodger, who was the wardrobe-keeper of the theatre, happening to be present, overwhelmed him with compliments on his great success. Miss Hughes was there too, but she said nothing for a long time, and Grimaldi, who would rather have heard her speak for a minute than Mrs. Lewis for an hour, listened as patiently as he could to the encomiums which the good woman lavished upon him. At length she stopped, as the best talkers must now and then, to take breath, and then Miss Hughes, looking up, said, with some hesitation, that she thought Mr. Grimaldi had played the part uncommonly well; so well that she was certain there was no one who could have done it at all like him.

Now, before he went into the room, he had turned the matter over in his mind, and had come to the conclusion that if Miss Hughes praised his acting he would reply by some neatly turned compliment to her, which might afford some hint of the state of his feelings; and with this view he had considered of a good many very smart ones, but somehow or other, the young lady no sooner opened her lips in speech, than Grimaldi opened his in admiration, and out flew all the compliments in empty breath, without producing the slightest sound. He turned very red, looked very funny, and felt very foolish. At length he made an awkward bow, and turned to leave the room.

It was six o'clock, and the lady performers just then came in. As he was always somewhat of a favourite among them, a few of the more volatile and giddy—for there are a few such, in almost all companies, theatrical or otherwise,—began first to praise his acting, and then to rally him upon another subject.

"Now Joe has become such a favourite," said one, "he ought to look out for a sweetheart."

Here Joe just glanced at Miss Hughes, and turned a deeper red than ever.

"Certainly he ought," said another. "Will any of us do Joe?"

Upon this Joe exhibited fresh symptoms of being uncomfortable, which were hailed by a general burst of laughter.

"I'll tell you what, ladies," said Mrs. Lewis, "if I'm not greatly mistaken, Joe has got a sweetheart already."

Another lady said, that to her certain knowledge he had two, and another that he had three, and so on: he standing among them the whole time, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, vexed to death to think that Miss Hughes should hear these libels, and frightened out of his wits lest she should be disposed to believe them.

At length he made his escape, and being induced, by the conversation which had just passed, to ponder upon the matter, he was soon led to the conclusion that the fair daughter of Mr. Hughes had made an impression on his heart, and that, unless he could marry her, he would marry nobody, and must be for ever miserable, with other like deductions which young men are in the habit of making from similar premises. The discovery was not unattended by many misgivings. The great difference of station, then existing between them, appeared to interpose an almost insurmountable obstacle in the way of their marriage; and, further, he had no reason to suppose that the young lady entertained for him any other sentiments than those with which she might be naturally disposed to regard the son of a friend whom she had known so long. These considerations rendered him as unhappy as the most passionate lover could desire to be—he ate little, drank little, slept less, lost his spirits; and, in short, exhibited a great variety of symptoms sufficiently dangerous in any case, but particularly so in one, where the patient had mainly to depend upon the preservation of his powers of fun and comicality for a distant chance of the fulfilment of his hopes.

CHAPTER III.

1794 to 1797.

Grimaldi falls in love—His success—He meets with an accident, which brings the Reader acquainted with that invaluable specific, "Grimaldi's Embrocation"—He rises gradually in his Profession—The Pentonville Gang of Burglars.

It is scarcely to be supposed that such a sudden and complete change in the merry genius of the theatre could escape the observation of those around him, far less of his mother, who, as he had been her constant and affectionate companion, observed him with anxious solicitude. Various hints and soundings, and indirect inquiries, were the consequence, but they were far from eliciting the truth; he was ill, fatigued by constant exertion in difficult parts, and that was all that his friends could gather from him.

There was another circumstance which puzzled the lady mother more than all. This was, that he never visited the dressing-room, whither he had been accustomed regularly to resort; and that he either took tea before he went to the theatre, or not at all. The truth was, that he was quite unable to endure the facetiousness of the ladies in the presence of Miss Hughes; the more so, because he fancied that his annoyance seemed to afford that young lady considerable amusement; and rather than find this the case, he determined to relinquish the pleasure of her society.

So matters stood for some weeks, when one night, having occasion during the performances to repair to the wardrobe for some articles of dress, he hastily entered, and instead of discovering his old friend, Mrs. Lewis, found himself confronted and alone with Mr. Hughes's daughter.

In these cases, if the lady exhibit emotion, the gentleman gains courage; but Miss Hughes exhibited no emotion, merely saying,

"Why, Joe, I have not seen you for a fortnight; where have you been hiding! How is it that I never see you at tea now?"

The tone of kindness in which this was said, somewhat re-assured the lover, so he made an effort to speak, and got as far as, "I'm not well."

"Not well!" said the young lady. And she said it so kindly that all poor Joe's emotion returned; and being really ill and weak, and very sensitive withal, he made an effort or two to look cheerful, and burst into tears.

The young lady looked at him for a moment or two quite surprised, and then said, in a tone of earnest commiseration, "I see that you are not well, and that you are very much changed: what is the matter with you? Pray tell me."

At this inquiry, the young man, who seems to have inherited all the sensitiveness of his father's character without its worst points, threw himself into a chair, and cried like a child, vainly endeavouring to stammer out a few words, which were wholly unintelligible. Miss Hughes gently endeavoured to soothe him, and at that moment, Mrs. Lewis, suddenly entering the room, surprised them in this very sentimental situation; upon which Grimaldi, thinking he must have made himself very ridiculous, jumped up and ran away.

Mrs. Lewis being older in years, and in such matters too, than either Miss Hughes or her devoted admirer, kept her own counsel, thought over what she had seen, and discreetly presented herself before Grimaldi next day, when, after a sleepless night, he was sauntering moodily about the garden, aggravating all the doubts, and diminishing all the hopes that involved themselves with the object nearest his heart.

"Dear me, Joe!" exclaimed the old lady, "how wretched you do look! Why, what is the matter?"

He tried an excuse or two, but reposing great trust in the sagacity and sincerity of his questioner, and sadly wanting a confidante, he first solemnly bound her to secrecy, and then told his tale. Mrs. Lewis at once took upon herself the office of a go-between; undertook to sound Miss Hughes without delay; and counselled Grimaldi to prepare a letter containing a full statement of his feelings, which, if the conversation between herself and Miss Hughes on that very evening were propitious, should be delivered on the following.

Accordingly, he devoted all his leisure time that day to the composition of various epistles, and the spoiling of many sheets of paper, with the view to setting down his feelings in the very best and appropriate terms he could possibly employ. One complete letter was finished at last, although even that was not half powerful enough; and going to the theatre, and carefully avoiding the old dressing-room, he went through his part with greater éclat than before. Having hastily changed his dress, he hurried to Mrs. Lewis's room, where that good lady at once detailed all the circumstances that had occurred since the morning, which she thought conclusive, but which the lover feared were not.

It seems that Mrs. Lewis had embraced the first opportunity of being left alone with Miss Hughes to return to the old subject of Joe's looking very ill; to which Miss Hughes replied, that he certainly did, and said it, too, according to the matured opinion of Mrs. Lewis, as if she had been longing to introduce the subject without exactly knowing how.

"What can be the matter with him?" said Miss Hughes.

"I have found it out, Miss," said Mrs. Lewis; "Joe is in love."

"In love!" said Miss Hughes.

"Over head and ears," replied Mrs. Lewis; "I never saw any poor dear young man in such a state."

"Who is the lady?" asked Miss Hughes, inspecting some object that lay near her with every appearance of unconcern.

"That's a secret," said Mrs. Lewis; "I know her name; she does not know he is in love with her yet; but I am going to give her a letter to-morrow night, telling her all about it."

"I should like to know her name," said Miss Hughes.

"Why," returned Mrs. Lewis, "you see I promised Joe not to tell; but as you are so very anxious to know, I can let you into the secret without breaking my word: you shall see the direction of the letter."

Miss Hughes was quite delighted with the idea, and left the room, after making an appointment for the ensuing evening for that purpose.

Such was Mrs. Lewis's tale in brief; after hearing which, Grimaldi, who, not being so well acquainted with the subject, was not so sanguine, went home to bed, but not to sleep: his thoughts wavering between his friend's communication, and the love-letter, of which he could not help thinking that he could still polish up a sentence or two with considerable advantage.

The next morning was one of great agitation, and when Mrs. Lewis posted off to the theatre with the important epistle in her pocket, the lover fell into such a tremor of anxiety and suspense, that he was quite unconscious how the day passed: he could stay away from the theatre no longer than five o'clock, at which time he hurried down to ascertain the fate of his letter.

"I have not been able to give it yet," said Mrs. Lewis, softly, "but do you just go to the dressing-room; she is there:—only look at her, and guess whether she cares for you or not."

He went, and saw Miss Hughes looking very pale, with traces of tears on her face. Six o'clock soon came, and the young lady, hurrying to the room of the confidante, eagerly inquired whether she had got Joe's letter.

"I have," said Mrs. Lewis, looking very sly.

"Oh! pray let me see it," said Miss Hughes: "I am so anxious to know who the lady is, and so desirous that Joe should be happy."

"Why, upon my word," said Mrs. Lewis, "I think I should be doing wrong if I showed it to you, unless Joe said I might."

"Wrong!" echoed the young lady; "oh! if you only knew how much I have suffered since last night!" Here she paused for some moments, and added, with some violence of tone and manner, that if that suspense lasted much longer, she should go mad.

"Hey-day! Miss Maria," exclaimed Mrs. Lewis,—"mad! Why, surely you cannot have been so imprudent as to have formed an attachment to Joe yourself? But you shall see the letter, as you wish it; there is only one thing you must promise, and that is, to plead Joe's cause with the lady herself."

Miss Hughes hesitated, faltered, and at length said, she would try.

At this point of the discourse, Mrs. Lewis produced the laboured composition, and placed it in her hand.

Miss Hughes raised the letter, glanced at the direction, saw her own name written as plainly as the nervous fingers of its agitated writer would permit, let it fall to the ground, and sunk into the arms of Mrs. Lewis.

While this scene was acting in a private room, Grimaldi was acting upon the public stage; and conscious that his hopes depended upon his exertions, he did not suffer his anxieties, great as they were, to interfere with his performance. Towards the conclusion of the first piece he heard somebody enter Mr. Hughes's box—and there sat the object of all his anxiety.

"She has got the letter," thought the trembling actor; "she must have decided by this time."

He would have given all he possessed to have known what had passed,—when the business of the stage calling him to the front, exactly facing the box in which she sat, their eyes met, and she nodded and smiled. This was not the first time that Miss Hughes had nodded and smiled to Joseph Grimaldi, but it threw him into a state of confusion and agitation which at once deprived him of all consciousness of what he was about. He never heard that he did not finish the scene in which he was engaged at the moment, and he always supposed, in consequence, that he did so: but how, or in what manner, he never could imagine, not having the slightest recollection of anything that passed.

It is singular enough that throughout the whole of Grimaldi's existence, which was a chequered one enough, even at those years when other children are kept in the cradle or the nursery, there always seemed some odd connexion between his good and bad fortune; no great pleasure appeared to come to him unaccompanied by some accident or mischance: he mentions the fact more than once, and lays great stress upon it.

On this very night, a heavy platform, on which ten men were standing, broke down, and fell upon him as he stood underneath; a severe contusion of the shoulder was the consequence, and he was carried home immediately. Remedies were applied without loss of time, but he suffered intense pain all night; it gradually abated towards morning, in consequence of the inestimable virtues of a certain embrocation, which he always kept ready in case of such accidents, and which was prepared from a recipe left him by his father, which, having performed a great many cures, he afterwards gave to one Mr. Chamberlaine, a surgeon of Clerkenwell, who christened it, in acknowledgment, "Grimaldi's Embrocation," and used it in his general practice some years with perfect success. Before he was carried from the theatre, however, he had had the presence of mind to beg Mrs. Lewis to be called to him, and to request her to communicate the nature of the accident to Miss Hughes (who had quitted the box before it occurred) as cautiously as she could. This, Mrs. Lewis, who appears to have been admirably qualified for the task in which she was engaged, and to possess quite a diplomatic relish for negotiation, undertook and performed.

There is no need to lengthen this part of his history, which, however interesting, and most honourably so, to the old man himself, who in the last days of his life looked back with undiminished interest and affection to the early time when he first became acquainted with the excellence of a lady, to whom he was tenderly attached, and whose affection he never forgot or trifled with, would possess but few attractions for the general reader. The main result is quickly told: he was lying on a sofa next day, with his arm in a sling, when Miss Hughes visited him, and did not affect to disguise her solicitude for his recovery; and, in short, by returning his affection, made him the happiest man, or rather boy (for he was not yet quite sixteen), in the world.

There was only one thing that damped his joy, and this was, Miss Hughes's firm and steadfast refusal to continue any correspondence or communication with him unknown to her parents. Nor is it unnatural that this announcement should have occasioned him some uneasiness, when their relative situations in life are taken into consideration; Mr. Hughes being a man of considerable property, and Grimaldi entirely dependent on his own exertions for support.

He made use of every persuasion in his power to induce the young lady to alter her determination; he failed to effect anything beyond the compromise, that for the present she would only mention their attachment to her mother, upon whose kindness and secrecy she was certain she could rely. This was done, and Mrs. Hughes, finding that her daughter's happiness depended on her decision, offered no opposition, merely remarking that their extreme youth forbade all idea of marriage at that time. Three years elapsed before Mr. Hughes was made acquainted with the secret.

After this, his time passed away happily enough; he saw Miss Hughes every evening in his mother's presence, and every Sunday she spent with them. All this time his reputation was rapidly increasing; almost every new part he played rendered him a greater favourite than before, and altogether his lot in life was a cheerful and contented one.

At this period, the only inhabitants of the house in Penton-place were Grimaldi and his mother, and Mrs. Lewis, of whom honourable mention has been so often made in the present chapter, together with her husband; there was no servant in the house; a girl that had lived with them some time having gone into the country to see her friends, and no other having been engaged in her absence.

One night in the middle of August, a "night rehearsal" was called at Sadler's Wells. For the information of those who are unacquainted with theatrical matters, it may be well to state that a "night rehearsal" takes place after the other performances of the evening are over, and the public have left the house. Being an inconvenient and fatiguing ceremony, it is never resorted to, but when some very heavy piece (that is, one on a very extensive scale) is to be produced on a short notice. In this instance a new piece was to be played on the following Monday, of which the performers knew very little, and there being no time to lose, a "night rehearsal" was called, the natural consequence of which would be the detention of the company at the theatre until four o'clock in the morning at least. Mr. Lewis, having notice of the rehearsal in common with the other performers, locked up their dwelling-house, being the last person who left it; brought the street-door key with him, and handed it over to Mr. Grimaldi.

But after the performances were over, which was shortly after eleven o'clock, when the curtain was raised, and the performers, assembling on the stage, prepared to commence the rehearsal, the stage-manager addressed the company in the following unexpected and very agreeable terms:—

"Ladies and Gentlemen, as the new drama will not be produced, as was originally intended, on Monday next, but is deferred until that night week, we shall not be compelled to trouble you with a rehearsal to-night."

This notification occasioned a very quick dispersion of the performers, who, very unexpectedly released from an onerous attendance, hurried home. Grimaldi, having something to do at the theatre which would occupy him about ten minutes, sent his mother and his friend Mrs. Lewis forward to prepare supper, and followed them shortly afterwards, accompanied by Mr. Lewis and two other performers attached to the theatre.

When the females reached home they found to their great surprise that the garden gate was open.

"Dear me!" said Mrs. Grimaldi,[19] "how careless this is of Mr. Lewis!"

[19] Mrs. Brooker.

It was, undoubtedly; for at that time a most notorious gang of thieves infested that suburb of London;—it was a suburb then. Several of the boldest had been hung, and others transported, but these punishments had no effect upon their more lucky companions, who committed their depredations with, if possible, increased hardihood and daring.

They were not a little surprised, after crossing the garden, to find that not only was the garden-gate open, but that the street-door was unlocked; and pushing it gently open, they observed the reflection of a light at the end of the passage, upon which of course they both cried "Thieves!" and screamed for help. A man who was employed at Sadler's Wells happened to be passing at the time, and tendered his assistance.

"Do you wait here with Mrs. Lewis a minute," said Grimaldi's mother, "and I will go into the house; don't mind me unless you hear me scream; then come to my assistance." So saying, she courageously entered the passage, descended the stairs, entered the kitchen, hastily struck a light, and on lighting a candle and looking round, discovered that the place had been plundered of almost everything it contained.

She was running up stairs to communicate their loss, when Grimaldi and his friends arrived. Hearing what had occurred, they entered the house in a body, and proceeded to search it, narrowly, thinking it probable that some of the thieves, surprised upon the premises, might be still lurking there. In they rushed, the party augmented by the arrival of two watchmen,—chosen, as the majority of that fine body of men invariably were, with a specific view to their old age and infirmities,—and began their inspection: the women screaming and crying, and the men all shouting together.

The house was in a state of great disorder and confusion, but no thieves were to be seen; the cupboards were forced, the drawers had been broken open, and every article they contained had been removed, with the solitary exception of a small net shawl, which had been worked by Miss Hughes, and given by her to her chosen mother-in-law.

Leaving the others to search the house, and the females to bewail their loss, which was really a very severe one, Grimaldi beckoned a Mr. King, one of the persons who had accompanied him home from the theatre, and suggested in a whisper that they should search the garden together.

King readily complied, and he having armed himself with a heavy stick, and Grimaldi with an old broadsword which he had hastily snatched from its peg on the first alarm, they crept cautiously into the back garden, which was separated from those of the houses on either side by a wall from three to four feet high, and from a very extensive piece of pasture-land beyond it at the bottom, by another wall two or three feet higher.

It was a dark night, and they groped about the garden for some time, but found nobody. Grimaldi sprang upon the higher wall, and looking over the lower one, descried a man in the act of jumping from the wall of the next garden. Upon seeing another figure the robber paused, and taking it for that of his comrade in the darkness of the night, cried softly, "Hush! hush! is that you?"

"Yes!" replied Grimaldi, getting as near him as he could. Seeing that the man, recognising the voice as a strange one, was about to jump down, he dealt him a heavy blow with the broadsword. He yelled out loudly, and stopping for an instant, as if in extreme pain, dropped to the ground, limped off a few paces, and was lost in the darkness.

Grimaldi shouted to his friend to follow him through the back gate, but seeing, from his station on the wall, that he and the thief took directly opposite courses, he leapt into the field, and set off at full speed. He was stopped in the very outset of his career, by tumbling over a cow, which was lying on the ground, in which involuntary pantomimic feat he would most probably have cut his own head off with the weapon he carried, if his theatrical practice as a fencer had not taught him to carry edge tools with caution.

The companion having taken a little run by himself, soon returned out of breath, to say he had seen nobody, and they re-entered the house, where by the light of the candle it was seen that the sword was covered with blood.

The constable of the night had arrived by this time; and a couple of watchmen bearing large lanterns, to show the thieves they were coming, issued forth into the field, in hopes of taking the offenders alive or dead—they would have preferred the latter;—and of recovering any of the stolen property that might be scattered about. The direction which the wounded man had taken having been pointed out, they began to explore, by very slow degrees.

Bustling about, striving to raise the spirits of the party, and beginning to stow away in their proper places such articles as the thieves had condescended to leave, one of the first things Grimaldi chanced to light upon was Miss Hughes's shawl.

"Maria's gift, at all events," he said, taking it up and giving it a slight wave in his hand; when out fell a lozenge-box upon the floor, much more heavily than a lozenge-box with any ordinary lozenges inside would do.

Upon this the mother clapped her hands, and set up a louder scream than she had given vent to when she found the house robbed.