"When Life charms my heart, must I kindly be told, I'm too gay and too happy for one that's so old?" The venerable Bard's remains rest near the east end of his parish church of Betchworth, in the burial-ground: the grave is simply marked by a head and foot-stone, with an inscription of three or four lines: he who had sung the praises of so many choice spirits, has not here a stanza to his own memory: such is, to some extent, the natural _sequitur_ with men who outlive their companions. Morris was staid and grave in his general deportment. Moore, in his _Diary_, has this odd note: "Linley describes Colman at the Beefsteak Club 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." Yet, Morris could unbend, with great simplicity and feeling. We have often met him, in his patriarchal "blue and buff" (blue coat and buff waistcoat), in his walks about the lovely country in which he resided. Coming, one day, into the bookseller's shop, at Dorking, there chanced to be deposited a pianoforte; when the old Bard having looked around him, to see there were no strangers present, sat down to the instrument, and played and sang with much spirit the air of "The girl I left behind me:" yet he was then past his eightieth year. 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 enter into the composition of that nectareous 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 around the bowl; joying over its mantling beauties, and distributing the fascinating draught "That flames and dances in its crystal bound"? "Well has our laureate earned his wreath," (says the author of _The Clubs of London_, who was often a participator in these delights). "At that table his best songs have been sung; for that table his best songs were written. His allegiance has been undivided. Neither hail, nor shower, nor snowstorm have kept him away: no engagement, no invitation seduced him from it. I have seen him there, 'outwatching the bear,' in his seventy-eighth year; for as yet nature had given no signal of decay in frame or faculty; but you saw him in a green and vigorous old age, tripping mirthfully along the downhill of existence, without languor, or gout, or any of the privileges exacted by time for the mournful privilege of living. His face is still resplendent with cheerfulness. 'Die when you will, Charles,' said Curran to him, 'you will die in your youth.'" FOOTNOTES: [14] See Century of Anecdote, vol. i. p. 321. BEEF-STEAK CLUBS.