FREDERICK LOCKER was born at Greenwich | Hospital (of which his father, Edward Hawe Locker, was a civil commissioner) in 1824. His early writings received little encouragement, and his manuscripts were flung about by magazine editors with that blindness to the merits of a new writer which is so common that it may almost be taken as the best proof of real merit. In a letter to a friend, after mentioning these repeated rejections of his verses, he says: "Thackeray believed in me, and used to say, 'Never mind, Locker; our verse may be small beer, but at any rate it is the right tap.' This encouraged

me, and I wrote on; and when 'Macmillan' refused 'My Neighbor Rose,' I sent it to the 'Cornhill;' and when 'Fraser' declined 'A Nice Correspondent,' I sent it to St. Paul's.' I could get no one to accept My Grandmother.'" In 1857 Locker published a collection of his poems, under the title "London Lyrics," which has been increased in subsequent issues, and has passed through seven editions in England and been republished in Boston, Mass. In 1867 he edited "Lyra Elegantiarum," a collection of vers de société, in which species of composition he is himself second to none save possibly Praed.

A NICE CORRESPONDENT!

THE glow and the glory are plighted
To darkness, for evening is come;
The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted,
The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb.
I'm alone at my casement, for Pappy

Is summoned to dinner to Kew:
I'm alone, my dear Fred, but I'm happy-
I'm thinking of you.

I wish you were here. Were I duller
Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear;
I am drest in your favorite color-
Dear Fred, how I wish you were here!
I am wearing my lazuli necklace,

The necklace you fastened askew!
Was there ever so rude or so reckless
A darling as you?

I want you to come and pass sentence
On two or three books with a plot;

Of course you know "Janet's Repentance?"
I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott,

The story of Edgar and Lucy,

How thrilling, romantic, and true! The Master (his bride was a goosey!) Reminds me of you.

To-day, in my ride, I've been crowning
The beacon; its magic still lures,

For up there you discoursed about Browning,
That stupid old Browning of yours.

His vogue and his verse are alarming,
I'm anxious to give him his due;
But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming

A poet as you.

Alas for the world, and its dearly

Bought triumph and fugitive bliss! Sometimes I half wish I were merely A plain or a penniless miss; But, perhaps one is blest with a measure Of pelf, and I'm not sorry, too, That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure, My dearest, to you.

Your whim is frolic and fashion,

Your taste is for letters and art,
This rhyme is the commonplace passion
That glows in a fond woman's heart.

Lay it by in a dainty deposit

For relics, we all have a few!

Love, some day they 'll print it, because it Was written to you.