CAPTAIN MORRIS, THE BARD OF THE BEEF-STEAK SOCIETY.
Reading edition
Hitherto we have mentioned but incidentally Charles Morris, the Nestor and the laureate of the Steaks; but he merits fuller record. "Alas! poor Yorick! we knew him well;" we remember his "political vest," to which he addressed a sweet lyric—"The Old Whig Poet to his Old Buff Waistcoat."[14] Nor can we forget his courteous manner and his gentlemanly pleasantry, and his unflagging cheerfulness, long after he had retired to enjoy the delights of rural life, despite the early prayer of his racy verse:—
"In town let me live then, in town let me die; For in truth I can't relish the country, not I. If one must have a villa in summer to dwell, Oh! give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall."
This "sweet shady side" has almost disappeared; and of the palace whereat he was wont to shine, not a trace remains, save the name. Charles Morris was born of good family, in 1745, and appears to have inherited a taste for lyric composition; for his father composed the popular song of Kitty Crowder. For half a century, Morris moved in the first circles of rank and gaiety: he was the "Sun of the table," at Carlton House, as well as at Norfolk House; and attaching himself politically as well as convivially to his table companions, he composed the celebrated ballads of "Billy's too young to drive us," and "Billy Pitt and the Farmer," which were clever satires upon the ascendant politics of their day. His humorous ridicule of the Tories was, however, but ill repaid by the Whigs; at least, if we may trust the Ode to the Buff Waistcoat, written in 1815. His 'Songs Political and Convivial,' many of which were sung at the Steaks' board, became very popular. In 1830, we possessed a copy of the 24th edition, with a portrait of the author, half-masked; one of the ditties was described to have been "sung by the Prince of Wales to a certain lady," to the air of "There's a difference between a Beggar and a Queen;" some of the early songs were condemned for their pruriency, and were omitted in subsequent editions. His best Anacreontic is the song Ad Poculum, for which Morris received the Gold Cup from the Harmonic Society:
"Come, thou soul-reviving cup; Try thy healing art; Stir the fancy's visions up, And warm my wasted heart. Touch with freshening tints of bliss Memory's fading dream. Give me, while thy lip I kiss, The heaven that's in thy stream. As the witching fires of wine Pierce through Time's past reign, Gleams of joy that once were mine, Glimpse back on life again. And if boding terrors rise O'er my melting mind, Hope still starts to clear my eyes, And drinks the tear behind. Then life's wintry shades new drest, Fair as summer seem; Flowers I gather from my breast, And sunshine from the stream. As the cheering goblets pass, Memory culls her store; Scatters sweets around my glass, And prompts my thirst for more. Far from toils the great and grave To proud ambition give, My little world kind Nature gave, And simply bade me live. On me she fix'd an humble art, To deck the Muse's groves, And on the nerve that twines my heart The touch of deathless love. Then, rosy god, this night let me Thy cheering magic share; Again let hope-fed Fancy see Life's picture bright and fair. Oh! steal from care my heart away, To sip thy healing spring; And let me taste that bliss to-day To-morrow may not bring."
The friendship of the Duke of Norfolk and Charles Morris extended far beyond the Steaks meetings; and 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. Charles 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 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 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!"
In 1835, however, Morris revisited the Society, who then presented him with a large silver bowl, appropriately inscribed, as a testimonial of their affectionate esteem; and the venerable bard thus addressed the brotherhood:—
"Well, I'm come, my dear friends, your kind wish to obey, And drive, by light mirth, all Life's shadows away; And turn the heart's sighs to the throbbings of joy, And a grave aged man to a merry old boy. 'Tis a bold transformation, a daring design, And not past the power of Friendship and Wine; And I trust that e'en yet this warm mixture will raise A brisk spark of light o'er the shade of my days."
Shortly after this effusion, he thus alluded to the treasured gift of the Society:—
"When my spirits are low, for relief and delight, I still place your splendid Memorial in sight; And call to my Muse, when care strives to pursue, 'Bring the Steaks to my Memory and the Bowl to my view.' When brought, at its sight all the blue devils fly, And a world of gay visions rise bright to my eye; Cold Fear shuns the cup where warm Memory flows; And Grief, shamed by Joy, hides his budget of Woes. 'Tis a pure holy fount, where for ever I find A sure double charm for the Body and Mind; For I feel while I'm cheer'd by the drop that I lift, I'm Blest by the Motive that hallows the Gift."
How nicely tempered is this chorus to our Bard's "Life's a Fable:"—
"Then roll along, my lyric song; It seasons well the table, And tells a truth to Age and Youth, That Life's a fleeting fable. Thus Mirth and Woe the brighter show From rosy wine's reflection; From first to last, this truth hath past— 'Twas made for Care's correction. Now what those think who water drink, Of these old rules of Horace, I sha'n't now show; but this I know, His rules do well for Morris. Old Horace, when he dipp'd his pen, 'Twas wine he had resort to; He chose for use Falernian juice, As I choose old Oporto; At every bout an ode came out, Yet Bacchus kept him twinkling; As well aware more fire was there, Which wanted but the sprinkling."
At Brockham, Morris "drank the pure pleasures of the rural life" long after many a gay light of his own time had flickered out, and become almost forgotten. At length, his course ebbed away, July 11, 1838, in his ninety-third year; his illness, which was only of four days, was internal inflammation. The attainment of so great an age, and the recollection of Morris's associations, show him to have presented a rare combination of mirth and prudence. He retained his gaîté de cœur to the last; so that with equal truth he remonstrated:
"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.'"