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Updated: June 28, 2025
"He wrote in the same magazine two lives of Liston and Munden, which the public took for serious, and which exhibit an extraordinary jumble of imaginary facts and truth of by-painting. Munden he made born at "Stoke Pogis"; the very sound of which was like the actor speaking and digging his words." Hark'ee, Mr. A word in your ear.
They who remember Munden, a staid-dressing man in later years, may smile at his early observance of the glass of fashion. About this time Munden appears to have first imbibed a taste for the stage, and with it an admiration of the genius of Garrick; indeed, he had seen more of Garrick's acting than had any of his contemporaries in 1820, Quick and Bannister excepted.
Brash's successor, was at the other side of the room, and I became conscious that Mrs. Munden was waiting to see my eyes seek her. I guessed the meaning of the wait; what was one, this time, to say? Oh first and foremost assuredly that it was immensely droll, for this time at least there was no mistake.
The small case for so small a case had made a great stride even before my little party separated, and in fact within the next ten minutes. In that space of time two things had happened one of which was that I made the acquaintance of Mrs. Brash; and the other that Mrs. Munden reached me, cleaving the crowd, with one of her usual pieces of news.
Munden enacted the part of an old man credulous beyond ordinary credulity; and when he came upon the stage there was in him an almost sublime look of wonder, passing over the scene and people around him, and settling apparently somewhere beyond the moon. What he believed in, improbable as it was to mere terrestrial visions, you at once conceived to be quite possible, to be true.
You've more stuff in you than I thought. All right: go ahead. Come and dine with me to-morrow, to meet a man who may be useful. 'To-morrow I can't. I dine at Lady Pollard's. 'Who is she? 'Didn't you know Pollard of Trinity? the only son of his mother, and she a widow. 'Next day, then. 'Can't. I dine with some people at Bedford Park. Munden lifted his eyebrows.
But in the grand grotesque of farce, Munden stands out as single and unaccompanied as Hogarth. Hogarth, strange to tell, had no followers. The school of Munden began, and must end with himself.
In dress she was untidy; her hair exhibited a futile attempt at elaborate arrangement; she had dirty hands. Disposed to talk, she lingered as long as possible, but Harvey Munden had no leanings to this kind of colloquy; when the girl took herself off, he drew a breath of satisfaction, and smiled the smile of an intellectual man who has outlived youthful follies.
In Lamb's words, it was "a lying life of Liston," uncontaminated by a particle of truth. Munden, he says, had faces innumerable; Liston had only one; "but what a face!" he adds, admitting it to be beyond all vain description.
'I have started for London, ran the hurriedly written lines. 'Don't be uneasy; all I mean to do is to stop the danger of a degrading publicity; the fear of that is too much for me. I have an idea, and you shall hear how I get on in a few days. The nature of that promising idea Munden never learnt.
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