MEMOIRS OF JOSEPH GRIMALDI.

WHO ever saw Jox GRIMALDI without recognizing him as the embodied genius of Pantomime? Other clowns have fur excelled

him in feats of agility, and shocking strangeness of postures, dependent upon natural strength or lithesomness of limb perfected by early and incessant practice : but Jos's performance was an intellectual conception ; and for originality, consistent truth, humour, and spirit, be stood as distinct and distant from all other clowns as the Culiban of SHAKSPE ARE from the monsters of all other men. The broad grin which dimpled his features when he threw off his disguise, was not a grimace got tip for the audience. but the joyous feeling of existence from a full-grown, half- idiotic rogue, suddenly bursting into vigorous manhood. That type.defying sound, a scat of " ya-a-a-up," with which he first gave tongue, was not from his lips a mere conventional stage cry, but an outburst indicative of his exuberant animal life and of his peculiar nature. His thefts, and his edible exploits, did not seem to be tricks of vocation, but things to which he was pro-

pelled by instinctive propensities—the innatus amor habendi of VIRGIL'S bees. There was a life in his limbs, especially in his "hop, step, and jump," or rather in his stepping stride, beyond

that of all other men we ever saw, whether dancers, leapers, or tumblers. And to crown the whole, whatever lie did, the spirit— the intellectual spirit of the pantomime clown—shone through it. This panegyric may, at first, seem strange to those of the present generation who, having never seen GRIMALDI, have drawn their notions of clowns from the existing race ; but how else do they suppose that be gained his reputation with their fathers? Jox's popularity was not confined to the galleries or pit ; he was an equal favourite with the boxes. His clown, and his efforts in serious pantomime, drew men of judgment and of genius to the theatre when the sock and buskin failed. Majesty itself—though, • in a critical question, kings and queens are not perhaps the highest authority—after sitting unmoved through the play, became "Laughter holding both his sides" when JOE appeared in his glory. And we have heard that GEORGE the Third was so delighted with some peculiar feat of gormandizing, that when the curtain fell, GRIMALDI was summoned by "express desire" to the Royal presence, "to fight the battle o'er again." Nor was his fame confined to the stage: his company was, in the phrase of the day, " sought after" by men who, if not so fasti- dious as the same class at present, would assuredly never have patronized what is understood by a mere clown. The late King, when Duke of CLARENCE, was condescending to Jos. BYRON, am ngst other men of mark, treated him with much kindness and familiarity, and presented him with a handsome snuffbox; and bis benefits, the then thermometer of theatrical regard, proved

the estimation in which he was held by a bumper-house and bandsotne presents. It is clear enough that he was not, as CUES. TkRFIELD has it, "invited for himself," but for his comic songs and his powers of drollery; but this, mulatis mutandis, may be predicated of any man who mixes in a society other than that of his equals—of HORACE and VIRGIL supporting AUGUSTUS, as of GRIMALDI between " BYRON and another Lord.' It seems, too, from the Memoirs before us, that JOE was treated with a kind of descending familiarity; but GRIMALDI took care that it should

never become an insolent one. Yielding due respect to others, be was himself' respected; and, leaving the mime on the boards,

be made his company understand that, except in friendly joke, it must remain there. Early habits of submission to managers, and to a father grotesquely severe, might accustom him to submit to things that others might deem strong ; and his native simplicity of character rendered him the easy dupe of "quizzers ;" but as soon as he perceived the scope of an offensive aim, he wanted neither tact nor spirit to repel it, and assert the " rights of' man," whether in conventional matters or morals.

To pass from the man to the actor again, the reader must not suppose, though we applied the word genius to GRIMALDI, that be attained his excellence without laborious cultivation. As is said of HOMER, he had all the " necessary learning of his time." He was a mechanist, so far as related to pantomime tricks; a dancer, both practical and theoretical, as regards what are called the " figure dances" of pantomime ; and lie possessed the capa- bilities of a ballet-master. He was also no mean critic, an excel- lent judge of theatrical effect, and a very good playwright in his " walk : " coupled with all which, he had great readiness and promptitude in action. Hence, he was highly useful in the get- ting-up of London pantomimes ; invaluable to a country manager

on his occasional starring excursions. If, as often happened, the piece and the properties were both of the barest, he would in the course of the day improve the working of the old tricks, or throw in a few of his own, which lie always carried with him on these occasions; he would drill, and organize if they wanted it, a band of subordinate groups for ludicrous effect ; and enrich the mere

asses

purposeless skipping about of the country, with what is tees,* cally called " the business " of the piece. From the business-like way in which he set about these things, as indicated in thews lumes before us, it would seem that laughter is excited by tricks of practice, and that even in mirth there is something mechanical. Such qualifications were only acquired by long and early exec else. Like the other great mimic genius of the century, " KEAN, Jos GRIMALDI was trained from infancy to his calling; appearing on Drury Lane boards (November 1781) when but oat year and eleven months old. The piece was the pantomimed Robinson Crusoe ; his father playing Crusoe and Joint the " lath Clown." His debfit was highly successful, and the next year he was engaged at Sadler's Wells; commencing his theatrical labours ere lie was three years old, by performing at two theatres in one night—a practice which he continued almost to the close of his theatrical life.

But with this parallel ends the resemblance between the tea. gedian and the clown. Whilst KEAN led the life of a stroller and a blackguard, GRIMALDI was exemplary in all the social and domestic relations. His father, who though severe and eccentric, was economical and regardful of his family, died in 1788, leaving behind him upwards of 15,000/. This was all lost, through the fraud and insolvency of the acting executor; and from his tenth year Joe was the principal support of his mother. Keatt's ex- hibitions of grief were drunken, dramatic, and soon over, Gat. MALDI married young, and lost his wife shortly after; at first his reason was shaken ; for two months he was incapable of exer- lion ; and he lingered over her memory to the last years of his life. Everybody knows KEAN 'S modes of relaxation, if they do not know his haunts. GRIMALDI'S amusements were mechanical experiments, playing on the violin, breeding pigeons, and pedes- trian country excursions into Kent and Sorry to form collections of insects. The tragedian's ebriety was notorious : it is said that JOE was never seen intoxicated. How KEAN stood in money matters after the immense sums he squandered, we do not knot. The• moderation of GRIMALDI'S character confined his actual ex- penditure below his real gains; but his simplicity facilitated int. position, and he generally lost the surplus through the arts of the designing, or his own good-nature. But this laxity was con- fined to himself. When, having indulged in the luxury of gig and a country-house, with some slight assistance from hi second wife's love of finery, he found matters getting behind- hand, lie at once put himself in the hands of Mr. Ham:Sof Hatton Garden, removed to London, sold off every thing- that could be considered superfluous, and in eight months bad paid every- body.

As an actor, the most successful period of GRIMALDI'S career was from his twentieth to his thirtieth, or perhaps his thirty-fifth year (1800-1815); the most profitable, from his thirtieth to his fortieth, when the starring system began to get in fashion, and circumstances, which at first looked like ill-fortune, incited him to follow it. About forty, however, his health began to fail ; and in the spring of 1823, gave way so entirely, that he was compelled, with an aching heart, to retire from his profession. His disease was a premature old age—a sort of paralysis of decrepitude, which deprived him of the use of his limbs; and was brought on by hi severe labour night after night at two houses, and sometimes in three or four pieces, all requiring great bodily as well as some mental exertion. This was doubtless lamentable; but we can scarcely join in Mr. Drexgres's moralizing upon the subject. GRIMALDI was the hero of the stage for upwards of forty years; he had forestalled youth in infancy, manhood in youth, and reaped as long and as great a harvest of fame as the comedian who appears at twenty and withdraws when he has left sixty years behind him. The moral is, that nature but gives us so much of life, and that the end is proportioned to the beginning.

With Jos's retirement from the stage the stern realities of life began. How he got rid of all the motley he made latterly, (some- times 1,2001. to 1,5001. in a few months,) does not very clearly ap- pear; but it is certain that his income was not sufficient to support him, moderate as he was. After encroaching considerably on his principal, the apprehension of want began to stare hint in the face. By the spontaneous exertions of Miss KELLY, two farewell benefits were got up for him, one at Sadler's Wells, the other at Drury Lane; the people at Covent Garden acting shabbily, and CHARLES Kgasexx shufihingly to boot. The produce, though considerable, was insufficient; and he was compelled to apply to the Drury Lane Theatrical Fund. The morning after his letter was sent, the Secretary called upon him to say that the Com- mittee had awarded him an annuity of 1001. a year, and that be was deputed to pay him the first quarter in advance. But pecuniary anxieties, bodily pain, and confinement to his chamber, were not his only troubles. Domestic afflictions fell heavily upon GRIMALDI. His son, whom he had educated with great care—who he fancied was to equal if not to excel his father in histrionic fame, and who at all events possessed ability sufficient to have procured him six or seven hundred a yeas— turned out ungrateful and dissipated to the last degree ; after a career of the lowest profligacy, in a fit of madness brought on by drunkenness. The news overwhelmed the father and hastened the death of the mother. The loss of his wife following that of his son, threw GRIMALDI into a stupor of grief; from which, however, he gradually recovered ; his health, strange to say, improved; and he wanted not such relief as life could yield him. The brother of his first wife, in compliance with the dying injunctions of his sister, never forsook him; his old theatrical companions frequently called to cheer his solitude ; and be was nightly carried to a public-house parlour, where he spent bisecenings amongst some sedate boon companions, and was then carried back to bed. He also employed his vacant hours by writ- ing his biography ; and anticipated a brighter fame from its publi- g

cation than any he had yet achieved I But, while waiting for this

acwaing glory, the gods gave him, according to the Grecian apologue, the greatest gift they an bestow upon mortals : he was found dead in his bed, on the 31st day of May 1837. It is from this autobiography that the volumes before us are chiefly written. Mr. Dicgarrs, indeed, states that be has done little

more than edite the manuscript, so as to make it more readable . but it is obvious that some of the most interesting parts towards the close must have been additions, and probably the

curious account of old GRIMALDI senior, with incidental

passages in other places. Whatever has been done, however, has been done with great skill ; and the result is a .work of much amusement and interest, blended with an insight into a subject

one never thinks of—the rationale of pantomimic art, as well as glimpses of London and suburban life at the beginning of the pre- sent century. Some of the incidents—as the adventure with

LUCAS, a petty tyrant in office—are common in subject ; and a few of the stories, however ludicrous, have a kind of " Minor " cast about them. In endowing GRIMALDI'S original flatness in dialogue with something of life; Mr. Dicgerss too has rather

given a repetition of Pickwick's spirit, than altogether caught the character of the time ; and a few passages are rather wire-

drawn. Every page, however, is very readable; and a fine spirit of humanity pervades the whole. The mime and the actor (for GRIMALDI was an actor of considerable merit, though it was shaded by his excellence as clown) are distinctly brought forward, but kept subordinate to the man.

Avoiding many passages of " infinite jest and merriment," as requiting more room for their development than we can well afford, we will stick to matters more directly akin to the biogra- phy of the subject; and begin with a few peculiarities of GRI- wanes father—the identical person who, to be safe during the riots of London, chalked on his door "No Religion," instead of "No Popery."

He appears to have been a very singular and eccentric men. 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. Be 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 coining of spring and summer gradually developed its beauties' he had it at once deco• rated with au immense quantity of artificial floweis, and the branches of all the trees beat beneath the weight of the moat luxuriant foliage, and the must abut.. data crops of fruit, all, it is needless to say, artificial also.

A singular trait in this inclividual's character, was a vague and profound dread of the 14th day of the month. At its approach be was always nervous,

and anxious : directly it had passed he was another man again, and invariably exclaimed, in his broken English, "Alt, now I ant sate firr merrier month ! " If this circumstance were uneccompanied by any singular coincidence, it would be scarcely worth mentioning ; but it is rein:likable that he actually died on the 14th day of March; and that he was burn, christened, and married, un the

14th of the month. • • • •

These are not the only odd characteristics of the man. He was a most mor- bidly sensitive and melancholy being, and entertained a horror of death almost indescribable. He was in the habit of wandering about churchyards and bury- ing-places, for hours together ; and would speculate on the diseases of which the persons whose remains occupied the graves he walked among. had died ; are their deathbeds, 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 busted him both through life and at its close. Such an effect had this fear spon 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 ma hardly he 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 panto. mimes 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.

JOE'S TRAINING.

We have already remarked that the father of Grimaldi was an eccentric man : he appears ' ars to have been peculiarly eccentric, and rather unpleasantly so, in the

eorrection of his son. The child being bred up to play all kinds of fantastic tricks, was as much a clown, a monkey, or any thing 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 ae 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 adminis- tered the same punishment—a sound thrashing ; terminating in his being lifted ep 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 pea On one of these occasions of paternal discipline, a curious cir- cumstance occurred.

As it was the matter could not be compromised without Isis 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 be- ing, 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 nut noticed the circumstance until the little object came on the stage, when a general roar of laughter directed his attention to his grotesque counte- pa_ ce. Becotniog more violent than before, he fell upon him at once, and beat Las severely, and the child roared vociferously. This was all taken by the audience a.ce a most capital joke; shouts of laughter and peals of applause shook the l bo use; 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 !

FORTUNATE ESCAPE.

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 ap- pearance on any singe. lie played a monkey, and bad 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 moil are into the very arms of an old gen. tleman who was sitting gazing at the stage with iutense interest.

Every one who remembers GRIMALDI, remembers his powers of face. He frequently made use of them off the stage ; always wills effect, and sometimes, as in the following instance, with ad- vantage as a substitute for the tongue.

The castle (Berkeley Castle) was full of company. Several noblemen were there, as well as distinguished commoners: among the former was Lord Byron, whom 1w had tiequently seen, and who always patronized his beuefifs at Covent Garden, but with whom lie bad never conversed. Colonel Berkeley introduced him to such of the company us he was unacquainted with ; and, iu common with the rest, to Lord Byron, who instantly advanced towards him, and, mak- ing several low bows, expressed in very hyperbolical terms his " great and un- bounded satisfaction in becoming acquainted with a man of such rare and pro- found talents" &e. &e.

Perceiving that Isis Lordship was disposed to be facetious at his expense, Gri- maldi felt half inclined to reply in a similar strain ; but, reflecting that he might give offence by doing so, abstained ; resolving, however, not to go en- tirely mirevenged fur the joke which he was evidently playing him. He re- turned all the bows and corig6s threefold : and, as soon us the ceremonious in- troduction was over, made a face et Colonel Berkeley expressive of mingled gratification and all+picion, which threw those around into a roar of laughter ; while Byron, who did not see it, looked round for the cause of the merriment in a manner which redoubled it at once.

The labours he underwent in playing were very great; not only from the frequent changes. of dress—sometimes eight or ten in a piece, and the physical exertions, or more truly endurances, often requisite in particular parts, but from his playing constantly at two theatres. We will bring a few exatnples together of the

LAI1OURS OF PLAYING.

Grimaldi's part in this production (Harlequin Amulet) was a singularly arduous and wearying one: lie bad to perform lunch, and to change afterwards to Clown. He was so exceedingly successful iu the first-mentioned past, that Mr. Sheridan wished him to preserve the character throughout,—a suggestion whirl he was compelled resolutely to oppose. His reason for doing so will not be considered extraordinary, when we inform the present generation, that his personal decorations consisted of a large and heavy lump on his chest, and a ditto ditto on his back, a high sugar-loaf cap, a lung-nosed mask, and heavy wooden shoes; the weight of the white di ess, and of the humps, nose, and shoes especially, being exceedingly great. Having to exercise all his strength in this costume, and to perform a vast quantity of what in professional language is tel turd " comic business," lie was compelled by fatigue, at the end of the sixth scene, to a,mme the Clown's and so relieve himself from the ins; eviousfy endured. muse weight which he had • • • The Train!, Vied %v.'s produce,' at Sidi:4'n Wells this

sea.-09, in which lie first cuarted and afterwarls the Clown. During

the MR of this p inijcoimit•. 11i perfill wool flue newallible feat 411 idaying three very heavy parts (two Of them Clowas) at three different theatres on tat same night. s • • At the Slurry, he played with Bologna in the pantomime. The moment it seas over, he jumped into a chaise and four that was waiting at the door, and started for Smiler s %%elle. 13alogna accompanied him to see the issue of the proceeding ; and, by dishing through the streets at a most extraordinary paces they reached Sluller's Wells just art else commencement of the over Lure for the pantomime. Hurrying to repaint his face, (which had been very much be- daubed by the rain whieli poured upon it as he looked out of the ehaise-window entreating the poet.boys to drive a little faster') and thrusting himself into the dress of the Talking Bird, he was ready at the Metallic when the call-bay told bins he was wanted. There still remained Covent Garden, and towards the close of the pantomime he grew very anxious, looking constantly towards the sides of the stage to ace if Bologna were still there; for as he was the Perouss of the night, and was wanted a full half hour before him, he felt something like security so long as he remained. At length the pantomime was over ; Sad once inure taking their seats in the risme dialog., they drove at the nine furious pace to Covent Garden, and were ready dressed and in the peen-room before the

first bars of the overture had been played. This change of dress assisted greatly in recovering him from his fatigue; and he went through the child part as well as the first, feeling no greater exhaustion at the close of the performances

than was U91131 with him on an ordinary night. The only refreshment which he took during the whole evening was one glass of warm ale and a biscuit. He

plumed himself very much on this teat; fur, although he bad played Clown at two theatres for ta enty.eight nights successively, lie considered it something out of the common way, and triumphed in it greatly.

We will terminate our extracts from this most amusing work,. from almost the closing scene of Jog's pantomimic life.

APPEARANCE: AND REALITY.

Iu this piece, (the Orphan of Pern,) which came out on the 2341 of March letla, Grimaldi played a prominent character ; but even during the earlier nights of its very successful representation lie could scarcely struggle through his part. His frame was weak and debilitated, his joints stiff, and his muscles relaxed ; every effort he nialle was followed by cramps and spasms of the most agonizing nature. Men were obliged to be kept waiting at the side-scenes, who caught him in their arms when lie staggered from the stage, and supported Mina while others chafed his limbs, which was obliged to be incessantly done until he was called for the next scene, or he could nut have appeared again. Every tune he came off his einews were gathered up into huge knots by the cramps that followed his exertions, which could only be reduced by violent rubbing, and even that frequently failed to produce the desired effect. The spectators, who were convulsed with laughter while lie was on the stage, little thought that while their applause was resounding through the house, he was suffering the most excruci- ating and horrible palter. But so it was until the twenty-fourth night of the piece, when he bad no alert native, in consequence of Ilia lumina sufferings, but to throw up the part.

On the preceding night, although every possible remedy was tried, he could scarcely drag himself through the piece; and on this occasion it was only with the most extreme difficulty and by glint of extraordinary physical exertion and agony that he could conclude the performance, when be was carried to his dress- ing-room exhausted and powerless. Here, when his bodily anguish had in some measure subsided, he began to re- 16:t painfully and seriously on his sad sondition. And when he remembered bow long this illne.s had been hovering about hint, how gradually it had crept over his frame and subdued his energies, with what obstinacy it had baffled the skill of the most eminent medical professors, and how utterly his powers had wasted away beneath it, he came to the painful conviction that his professional existence was over. Suffering from this terrible certainty a degree of mental anguish to which all his bodily sufferings were as nothing, he coveted his face with his hands and wept like a child. The next morning he sent word to the theatre that be was disabled by illness from performing.

The volumes are illustrated by a portrait, representing a some- what coarse, but frank, vigorous, and sensible physiognomy ; and a dozen humorous illustrations by GEORGE CRUIRSHANK, which add a zest to the anecdotes. They have the clearness, vivacity, and gusto that distinguish this artist's graphic narratives, if not the concentrated comicality of his more original inventions. The incidents seem actually occurring—the persons are all life and movement : and the scenes have the stamp of truth upon them; the theatre is all crowd, light, and laughter; and out-of-doors all is fresh and airy.