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 will 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. For though the Duke (the night was pretty far gone, and several bottles had been emptied) said nothing at the time, but stared with some astonishment at so unexpected a lecture; 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. The Duke went to his rest in 1815. Morris continued to be the laureate of the Steaks until the year 1831, when he thus bade adieu to the Society in his eighty-sixth year:-- "Adieu to the world! where I gratefully own, Few men more delight or more comfort have known: To an age far beyond mortal lot have I trod The path of pure health, that best blessing of God; And so mildly devout Nature temper'd my frame, Holy patience still sooth'd when Adversity came; Thus with mind ever cheerful, and tongue never tired, I sung the gay strains these sweet blessings inspired; And by blending light mirth with a moral-mix'd stave, Won the smile of the gay and the nod of the grave. But at length the dull languor of mortal decay Throws a weight on its spirit too light for its clay; And the fancy, subdued, as the body's opprest, Resigns the faint flights that scarce wake in the breast. A painful memento that man's not to play A game of light folly through Life's sober day; A just admonition, though view'd with regret, Still blessedly offer'd, though thanklessly met. Too long, I perhaps, like the many who stray, Have upheld the gay themes of the Bacchanal's day; But at length Time has brought, what it ever will bring, A shade that excites more to sigh than to sing. In this close of Life's chapter, ye high-favour'd few, Take my Muse's last tribute--this painful adieu! Take my wish, that your bright social circle on earth For ever may flourish in concord and mirth; For the long years of joy I have shared at your board, Take the thanks of my heart--where they long have been stored; And remember, when Time tolls my last passing knell, The 'old bard' dropp'd a tear, and then bade ye--Farewell!"