A great supporter of the Beefsteak Society was the old Duke of Norfolk, and when he dined there he would be ceremoniously ushered to the chair after dinner, and invested with an orange-coloured ribbon, to which a silver medal, in the form of a gridiron, was suspended. In the chair he comported himself with great urbanity and good-humour. Above all things, this Duke of Norfolk loved long sittings, during which he would consume prodigious quantities of wine, which seemed to affect him but very little. Occasionally, however, towards the close of the evening, the Duke, without exhibiting any symptom of inebriety, became immovable in his chair, as if deprived of all muscular volition. When at his own house he had an especial method of obviating the inconveniences of such a state, and would ask someone to ring the bell three times. This was the signal for bringing in a kind of easy litter, consisting of four equidistant belts, fastened together by a transverse one, which four domestics placed under him, and thus removed his enormous bulk, with a gentle swinging motion, up to his apartment. Upon these occasions the Duke would say nothing, but the whole thing was managed with great system and in perfect silence. Another prominent member was Charles Morris, who greatly enlivened the dinners by his wit, high spirits, and singing. When he was in town nothing kept him away, even when he was nearly eighty years of age. “Die when you will, Charles,” said Curran, “you’ll die in your youth.” And his words were verified, for his spirits remained unquenched till within a few days of his death. Morris wrote many songs which he would sing himself. The following is a specimen of his talents in that direction: “Let them rail who think fit, at my ways or my wit; I reply to the foes of good living: ‘Heaven bade me be gay—to enjoy’s to obey, And mirth is my prayer of thanksgiving.’ When the crabbed with spleen would o’ershadow life’s scene, I light up a spark to dispel it; And if snarlers exclaim, ‘What’s this laughing fool’s name?’ Next verse of my ballad will tell it. “I’m a brat of old Horace—the song-scribbling Morris, More noted for rhyme than for reason; One who roars and carouses, makes noise in all houses, And takes all good things in their season. To this classic of joy, I became when a boy A pupil most ardent and willing; And through life as a man, I’ve stuck fast to this plan, And passed it in flirting and filling.” In his eighty-sixth year Morris bade adieu to the Sublime Society in verse, but four years later, in 1835, he revisited it, and the members then presented him with a large silver bowl, appropriately inscribed, as a testimonial of their affectionate esteem. As was his habit, Morris did not fail to allude to the gift in verse: