“Liston, farewell! for once the Comic Muse
Looks vex’d and dismal, griev’d with thee to part;
And heaves true sighs from her reluctant heart,
While virgin tears her clouded eyes suffuse,
By sorrows forc’d, despite of struggling art.
Her mask avails not now. Her faltering voice
Betrays the o’er-mastering passion in her soul;
For she must lose the servant of her choice,
Who made her chariot merrily to roll,
When he the Coachman played; and not less great
As the mock Marquis help’d her mimic state
Absurdly grave; or at his tricks again
As gay-hair’d Figaro swell’d her menial train,
Pompous and plausible, serene and sly,
With witty impudence, and humour dry.
Expert at all trades, too, with last or block
Alike to comb or cobble wig or sock;
This he exactly fitted to her toe,
In walk, or jig, or gallopade to go;
And that so quaintly, whimsically curl’d,
It grew the merry wonder of the world.
Ney, just to keep the top or sole together,
He’d patch the Sock ev’n with the Buskin’s leather,
That she might follow in her sister’s path
With pewter poison-pot, and dirk of lath;
While he stalk’d on in Dollabella’s train,
A lord, of whom the Court might well be vain.
Our tears, O Liston! must with hers be blended
To see, too soon, thy comic labours ended.
And haply, oft when other servants bear
Some mawkish viand of our bill of fare,
Oft shall we turn dissatisfied, and wish
For Liston’s sauce, to help th’ insipid dish;
Whose very look and air were quite enough
To win our favour for the cook’s worst stuff.
Or, if the dish be good, provoked to see
Some clumsy serving-man instead of thee.
How shall we think, regretful of thy merit,
Who served up all with such bewitching spirit,
As made the best seem better, and the cook
To thee beholden, more than to his book,
However puff’d by papers, or by rumour:—
Thou great Original in comic humour!”31st May, 1837.
Nor was this the only tribute Liston received; numerous were the attempts made to induce him to alter his decision, but he was inflexible, and it remained irrevocable. One of several letters I have seen I include here, notwithstanding its writer is living; but he cannot regret to see a letter given to the world showing such ability and excellent feeling. It is as follows:—
T. R. C. G., Dec. 18, 1839.
My Dear Mr. Liston,—My mother has told me of one or two half-laughing conversations she has had with you, on the subject of your delighting the public with a few performances. Jest sometimes leads to earnest, and, on the principle of never throwing away a good chance, I venture to send you this to say, that should such a joyful occurrence be within the verge of possibility at any time, you may consider yourself King of Covent Garden; act when you please, what you please, and as long as you please; stop when you please, take what money you please, and be sure that, do whatever you please, you cannot fail to please. More than this I cannot say, except that you shall be allowed to sweeten your own tea, and, when you are too late for rehearsal, beat the prompter. In plain English, and in sober earnest, if you will make up your mind to gratify us by playing a few of your old parts, everything that mortals can do to make you comfortable and happy shall be done, and we shall be most proud in being the caterers of a national treat.
I will not bore you more—only say the word, and we are “at your feet.”
Ever yours, with kind regards to Mrs. Liston, very truly and very faithfully,
C. J. Mathews.
Liston wrote a copy of his answer on the fly-leaf of this letter as follows:—
My Dear Mr. Mathews,—Notwithstanding the skill you exhibit in endeavouring to arouse my dormant vanity, be assured, once for all, it cannot prevail to overcome the unalterable determination I came to when I quitted the stage, never to reappear professionally before the public. Not only should I consider my reassuming the cap and bells, at my advanced age, a moral indecorum; my decaying strength also would render the experiment too hazardous, and I have no doubt were Mr. Wakley the coroner to have to preside at an inquest on my remains, he would—as he did the other day, in the case of a poor old woman who drank herself to death—suggest to the jury the propriety of returning a verdict of Felo-de-se.
Accept, however, my very grateful thanks for your liberal proposal, as well as for the terms in which the offer has been conveyed; they bring back a pleasing remembrance of the position we stood in to each other a few years back, to which, though for a time interrupted, I trust we are once again happily restored.
Mrs. Liston joins me in sincere hopes for the continual prosperity of you and yours, and believe me (once again my dear Charles),
Your friend and well wisher,
J. Liston.
This correspondence, so interesting and so creditable to both parties, shows Liston to have had a kind heart and joyous disposition, and that such can exist with the highest notions of moral responsibility. Liston’s private life was retired and becoming, the love of literature, acquired early, never left him; few persons were greater students than he, and his knowledge of the Scriptures is said to have been very extensive.
The illness which terminated his life first attacked him four years previously, in the form of apoplexy. The last attack came on suddenly, on March 16th, 1846, and he never spoke again. He lingered till the ensuing Sunday, when he died in the arms of his wife. That same day, and almost that same hour (half-past ten), thirty-nine years previously, and on a Sunday too, she had sworn “to love and to cherish till death should them part,” and thus literally she fulfilled her vow.
He lies at Kensal Green; over his grave rises a column, bearing the following inscription:—
“Sacred to the Memory of John Liston, who died March 22nd, 1846, aged 73. He lived many years an ornament to his profession, and died much respected and regretted.”
Mrs. Liston survived her husband eight years. Born about 1780, she became a pupil of Kelly, and made her first London appearance in 1800. She was always a favourite with the public, the very appropriate part of Queen Dolabella, in “Tom Thumb,” being generally considered her best. She died at No. 28, Brompton Square, whither she removed from Knightsbridge, September 19th, 1854.