ip I kiss,
The heaven that's in thy stream."

Of the famous Beefsteak Club, (at first limited to twenty-four members,
but increased to twenty-five, to admit the Prince of Wales,) Captain
Morris was the laureat; of this "Jovial System" he was the intellectual
centre. In the year 1831, he bade adieu to the club, in some spirited
stanzas, though penned at "an age far beyond mortal lot." In 1835, he
was permitted to revisit the club, when they presented him with a large
silver bowl, appropriately inscribed.

It would not be difficult to string together gems from the Captain's
Lyrics. In "The Toper's Apology," one of his most sparkling songs,
occurs this brilliant version of Addison's comparison of wits with
flying fish:--

"My Muse, too, when her wings are dry,
No frolic flight will take;
But round a bowl she'll dip and fly,
Like swallows round a lake.
Then, if the nymph will have her share
Before she'll bless her swain,
Why that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again."

Many years since, Captain Morris retired to a villa at Brockham,
near the foot of Box Hill, in Surrey. This property, it is said, was
presented to him by his old friend, the Duke of Norfolk. Here the
Captain "drank the pure pleasures of the rural life" long after many
a bright light of his own time had flickered out, and become almost
forgotten; even "the sweet, shady side of Pall Mall" had almost
disappeared, and with it the princely house whereat he was wont to
shine. He died July 11, 1835, in his ninety-third year, of internal
inflammation of only four days.

Morris presented a rare combination of mirth and prudence, such as human
conduct seldom offers for our imitation. He retained his _gaiete de
coeur_ to the last; so that, with equal truth and spirit, 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."

Captain Morris left his autobiography to his family; but it has not been
published.

* * * * *

LITERARY DINNERS.

Incredible as it may appear, it is sometimes stated very confidently,
that English authors and actors who give dinners, are treated with greater
indulgence by certain critics than those who do not. But, it has never
been said that any critical journal in England, with the slightest
pretensions to respectability, was in the habit of levying black mail in
this Rob Roy fashion, upon writers o