Aged twenty-four, admitted the 11th July 1822. This unfortunate genius
was a stage-struck votary of Thespis, disappointed in all his hopes
of astonishing the world by his histrionic powers, notwithstanding
his indefatigable endeavours to obtain an engagement at any of the
theatres. His propensities for the stage were cotemporary with the
first dawnings of his puerile taste; but, unfortunately, the estimation
of his talents in the eyes of others bore no proportion to his notions
of himself. His chosen line of acting was that of heroes in tragedy:
Alexander the Great, Coriolanus, Brutus, and the like. But, to judge
from his pitch of person and talents, Tom Thumb the Great would have
been better adapted to his performance, for he is about four feet and
a half high, and formed all of a lump, like a butter-firkin. He had
made several attempts to mount the London stage, but with singular
ill fortune: and the present is his fourth attack of insanity, all
incurred by his ardour in his favourite pursuit. He was first admitted
on the 6th of August 1818, and discharged quite well on the 31st
December following. He returned on the 25th of September 1819, and was
discharged again on the 6th of July 1820. He was re-admitted, for the
third time, on the 24th of March, and discharged on the 1st of November
in the same year; and he again became a sojourner on the 11th of July
1822.
All his former attacks had been more or less calm, but always high;
constantly spouting dramatic speeches, or his head occupied by some
wild speculation, as well as by a fulness of blood, which was always
the leading physical symptom of his disorder. But on his returning the
last time, his malady assumed a quite different character; for he was
quite low and despondent, in terror of all who approached him, and
apprehensive of being burned, or drowned, or cut up piece-meal to make
soup. He would cry out murder, at the appearance of his own shadow! He
imagined every person who walked quickly towards him, was coming to
destroy him. When conversing with the keepers, he would hastily ask,
“have you got a knife in your pocket?” and every knife or other weapon
he saw or heard of, he considered as intended to destroy him.
At one time he imagined himself in hell, and all who surrounded him
demons. Old Lloyd, one of the patients, he imagined to be Beelzebub
himself, the prince of devils; Henry Taunton and others he imagined
to be minor devils, and attendants on his Satanic majesty. A cat
in the place was, at one time, a frightful object of apprehension
and terror to him: he said her eyes were fire, and he could plainly
see her intention to devour him. He would never venture into the
keeper’s room if poor puss was present. In October 1822 he became much
better, and all his apprehensions, which he perfectly remembered,
were quite dispelled, but his ardour for theatricals by no means
abated. He expects to be speedily discharged, and purposes to renew
his application for a stage engagement on some of the London boards.
He details many of his adventures, and the kind of encouragement
he received from several of the managers in pursuit of his object:
he began with Covent Garden, and ended with Rathbone-place. His
leading object is to put down Kean. He would play none but first-rate
characters, and has not the least doubt of speedily becoming more
celebrated than any of the Cookes, Kembles, Keans, or even Garrick
himself.
Previously to his second attack being known to his friends, he waited
one day on Mr. M’Cready, in Berners-street, gave a specimen of his
talents, and received, as he imagined, very flattering promises. He
afterwards applied to Mr. Charles Kemble, who treated him with the
most gentlemanly politeness, and after hearing him sing and repeat a
few parts, promised him a rehearsal at his theatre; but his friends
dissuaded him from the attempt at that time. He next applied to Sir
George Smart, the musician, who took him into the orchestra to see
Don Giovanni: where he remained very quiet, until the dancing scene
commenced, when he could no longer restrain his ardour but jumped up,
and would have joined the ballet on the stage but for Sir George, who
withheld him.
He next appeared at the Surrey Theatre. “They appeared there,” he said,
“to relish his performance very well;” but some scapegrace fellows led
him to a public-house, blacked his face with grease and soot, daubed
his coat with paint, and then turned him into the street to exhibit in
the part of Othello.
The next attempt was at the Coburg, and there they painted and blacked
him all over, and told him to call again next day. A shopkeeper’s wife,
near the Coburg, took compassion on his distress and disappointment;
took him to her house and had him washed, and the paint was taken off
by his father when he got home.
But all this did not dispirit his ambition. He next applied at the
Regency Theatre for a first-rate engagement. They brought him on the
stage, as he wished, and while he was enacting with all his energy a
scene in Alexander the Great, a trap-door in the stage unfortunately
opened, and down dropped the poor hero into the lower regions. But this
was not all: for before he was half reconciled to the change of scene,
down dropt upon him three full buckets of cold water. The ill-starred
William Peter was then, by some invisible guide, escorted to the street
by a short cut, and left to explore his way to the New Road, dripping
wet at all points, like a sheep newly washed.
Disgusted with these adventures, and determined to trust no more to
the politeness or liberality of the London managers, he resolved
to appeal for his merits to the candid and untried judgment of the
public at large: and he one day made his _débût_ in Rathbone-place;
scene, the open street; time, noon-day; in the celebrated character of
the Third Richard, before a crowded and impartial audience of boys,
coster-mongers, Irish women, and such other miscellaneous company as
happened to be in attendance; and bursts of pleasantry and applause
crowned his performance in every passage. But merit the most consummate
cannot please all minds, or at all times receive its due meed of
approbation. The parish officers had not taste enough to be pleased;
and while Richard, “his eye in a fine frenzy rolling,” had reached the
very climax of his exertion, was offering “his kingdom for a horse!”
and was about to retire well-pleased with his success, “he was seized
by the strong hand of power,” and conveyed to that enchanted castle the
parish watch-house, for raising a disturbance.
He then talked of relinquishing the stage, and cultivating quietness in
retirement; but his imagination took the new bent that led to his last
confinement here.