chop them together with oil and vinegar, and eat them. After dinner, the Duke was ceremoniously ushered to the chair, and invested with an orange-coloured ribbon, to which a small silver gridiron* was appended. In the chair he comported himself with urbanity and good humour. Usually, the President was the target, at which all the jests and witticisms were fired, but moderately; for though a characteristic equality reigned at the Steaks, the influences of rank and station were felt there, and courtesy stole insensibly upon those who at other times were merciless assailants on the chair. The Duke's conversation abounded with anecdote, terseness of phrase, and evidence of extensive reading, which were rarely impaired by the sturdy port wine of the Society. Charles Morris, the Bard of the Club, sang one or two of his own songs, the quintessence of convivial mirth and fancy; and at nine o'clock the Duke quitted the chair. The friendship of the Duke of Norfolk and Charles Morris extended far beyond the Steaks' meetings. The author of the Clubs of London tells us by what means the Duke's regard took a more permanent form. It appears that John Kemble had sat very late at one of the night potations at Norfolk House. Morris had just retired, and a very small party remained in the dining-room, when His Grace of Norfolk began to deplore, somewhat pathetically, the smallness of the stipend upon which poor Charles was obliged to support his family; observing, that it was a discredit to the age, that a man who had so long gladdened the lives of so many titled and opulent associates, should be left to struggle with the difficulties of an inadequate income at a time of life when he had no reasonable hope of augmenting it. Kemble listened with great attention to the Duke's jeremiade; but after a slight pause, his feelings getting the better of his deference, he broke out thus, in a tone of peculiar emphasis:-" And does your Grace sincerely lament the destitute condition of your friend, with whom you have passed so many agreeable hours? Your Grace has described that condition most feelingly. But is it possible that the greatest peer of the realm, luxuriating amidst the prodigalities of fortune, should lament the distress which he does not relieve? The empty * At the sale of the curiosities belonging to Mr. Harley, the comedian, at Gower-street, in November, 1858, a silver gridiron, worn by a member of the Steaks, was sold for £1 3s. phrase of benevolence—the mere breath and vapour of generous sentiment, become no man; they certainly are unworthy of your Grace. Providence, my Lord Duke, has placed you in a station where the wish to do good and the doing it are the same thing. An annuity from your overflowing coffers, or a small nook of land, clipped from your unbounded domains, would scarcely be felt by your Grace; but you would be repaid, my Lord, with usury; with tears of grateful joy, with prayers warm from a bosom which your bounty would have rendered happy." Such was the substance of Kemble's harangue. Jack Bannister used to relate the incident, by ingeniously putting the speech into blank verse, or rather the species of prose into which Kemble's phraseology naturally fell when he was highly animated. But, however expressed, it produced its effect. The Duke said nothing at the time, but stared with some astonishment at so unexpected a picture, but not a month elapsed before Charles Morris was invested with a beautiful retreat at Brockham, in Surrey, upon the bank of the river Mole, and at the foot of the noble range of which Box Hill forms the most picturesque point. Brother Walter Arnold has written The Life and Death of the Sublime Society, which chronicles its acts and deeds with considerable humour. It was proposed movere jocum by calling the members by the titles and names of distinguished personages. Thus, "the Duke of Sussex reproached Alderman Wood for the tough steak he had sent last Saturday. Wood retorted on his Royal Brother by protesting against the misfitting stays he had sent his wife. Brother Burdett told Whitbread his last cask of beer was sour," &c. No member was allowed to make a note of what was being said. William Jerdan, a visitor, was one night detected taking a note of a brilliant repartee which had been made. The president pointed to the lines over the chimney-piece : "Ne fides inter animos, Sit, qui dicta foras eleminat." "I "Jerdan," he said, "do you understand those words?"understand one of them," was the reply with a pun, “sit, and I mean to do it." Brother Arnold foreshadows the last of the Steaks in these words: "Inevitably the last hour of the Society sounded, and with Brother Stevenson the Society died." Saturday was always the day for dining, and two o'clock was at first the hour, but the hour was changed as fashion changed, till eight o'clock became the time for meeting. In the old days, the members broke up to go to the theatres, which opened at five o'clock. Moore, in his Diary, notes: "Linley describes Colman at the Beef-Steak Club as quite drunk, making extraordinary noise while Captain Morris was singing, which disconcerted the latter (who, strange to say, is a very grave, steady person) considerably." Moore (in 1818) thought it was as gay a matter to dine alone as with the Steakers, especially if the Captain and Brougham were not present. On one occasion, Moore changed his intention of banqueting with the Society. He dined by himself (no bad company) at the George, and, as he says in his diary, "had no great loss of it." The reduction (in 1849) of the entrance-fee from £26 5s. to ten guineas was a symptom of decadence. The members themselves began to make little account of their fellowship privileges. For nearly thirty years Brother Whitbread was known to dine with the Society but once. The attendance at last averaged two a-day, but there were days when everything was ready and no guests at all appeared. There were flickers of the old brilliancy before the flame expired. It may be interesting to add that Captain Morris's ancient and rightful office at the Steaks was to make the punch, and it was amusing to see him at his laboratory at the sideboard, stocked with the various products that entered into the composition of that nectarious mixture; then, smacking an elementary glass or two, and giving a significant nod, the fiat of its excellence; and what could exceed the ecstasy with which he filled the glasses that thronged about the bowl; joying over its mantling beauties, and distributing the fascinating draught "That flames and dances in its crystal bound?” Morris's face was, at a late age, resplendent with cheerfulness. "Die when you will, Charles," said Curran to him, 'you will die in your youth." 66 The Songs, Political, Amatory, and Convivial, of Captain Charles Morris were collected and reprinted in two handsome volumes, entitled Lyra Urbanica, published by Mr. Richard Bentley, in 1840; embellished with a fine portrait of Morris, engraved by Greatbach, from the original picture in the possession of the family. This is now a scarce book. The Songs have since been reprinted in Club Life of London, vol. i., 1866; and again reprinted (J. C. Hotten), 1873. At Brockham, Morris passed the evening of life amidst some of the most delightful scenery which our island affords. He was fond of walking exercise, and many a time and oft have we seen this Nestor of Song in the full enjoyment of such aid to the preservation of health and longevity. At length his course ebbed away, July 8, 1838, in his 93rd year; his illness, which was only of four days, was internal inflammation. His long course presented a rare combination of cheerfulness and prudence; so that he remonstrated with equal truth "When life charms my heart, must I kindly be told, His remains rest at Betchworth, in which parish the hamlet of Brockham is situated; his grave is near the east end of the church, in the burial-ground; it is simply marked by a head and foot-stone, the former being inscribed "Sacred to the memory of Charles Morris, Esq., of London, and Brockham Lodge, in this parish; who died the 11th day of July, 1838, aged 93 years." He outlived all his boon companions, so that probably not one of those who would have poured a flagon upon his head was left to place a memorial upon his grave. Morris was staid in his general deportment, yet he could unbend with great simplicity and feeling. We well remember him in his patriarchal blue and buff (blue coat and buff waistcoat). Coming one day into the post-office, at Dorking, there chanced to be deposited a pianoforte; when the old bard, having looked around him to see there were no strangers present, played and sang with much spirit the air of "The girl I left behind me ;" yet he was then past his eightieth year. To return to the Lyrics : My sun his daily course renews His setting shows more tamely still, Oh! but to hear a milk-maid blithe ; Or early mower whet his scythe, My grass is of that sort, alas! That makes no hay--called sparrow-grass By folks of vulgar tongue! Oh, but to smell the woodbine sweet! For meadow-beds I get a whiff How tenderly Rousseau reviewed That marks the "Bell and Crown." Where are ye birds that blithely wing |