Mall Gazette, "Blackwood," "Cornhill," "Once a Week," Punch, the Owl, "Macmillan," ," "Good Words," "St. Paul's," and other magazines. Writing to a friend, his experience makes him say "Do not despair. At first I had great difficulty in persuading editors to have anything to say to my verses. They were unanimous in declining them; but 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 Neighbour 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.' What used particularly to discourage me was, having my verses returned as not suitable, and then to see in the very next number of the magazine a poem that gave me the impression that it was the work of some relative of the editor-perhaps his grandmamma. I think, if I wrote now, the editors would be more amiable; but it is too late, and this is what may be called the irony of destiny." This may be so: it may be hard for a poet to find he has grown tired of writing just at the time when his verses are welcome everywhere; but the author of the exquisite little volume of "London Lyrics" may safely rest on his laurels. Thackeray, seldom at fault in his literary criticisms, was quite right in this instance. The verses are anything but small beer. They are gems of the utmost polish and beauty. That they are appreciated, a fifth edition is of itself sufficient evidence. A writer in the "Contemporary Review" for July, in an article on the genius of Prior, Praed, and Locker, makes the following remarks, which we should be wrong if we refrained from quoting. Let us premise that in 1867 Messrs. Moxon published a volume, edited by Mr. Locker, called "Lyra Elegantiarum," which was a collection of the best English vers de société. To this volume the editor contributed a charmingly written introduction, in which he set out at length the various qualifications indispensable to any poet's production of unimpeachable vers de société. Upon this preface the Contemporary Reviewer comments thus: "Among the qualifications of a poet of society, the following may be insisted on as indispensable: He must before all things be a man of the world, educated up to a high level of contemporary culture, and gifted with that temper of mental health which, as Goethe says, can only be obtained by him who lives in the universal way with multitudes of men.' He must be privileged, either by right of birth or force of wit, to move in the 'upper' circle of the social sphere, and will be the fitter for his office as its prophet, the more he is acquainted with the circles below it. That he must have a definite artistic bias, a 'singing' faculty, or, as Mr. Locker phrases it, must 'be more or less of a poet'--cela va sans dire. His next essential qualification is the gift of humour. No society can ever have existed in which youth and beauty, genius and experience, freely commingled, without the atmospheric element of humour, the incessant play of mental summer lightning, produced by the gentle collision of electrical natures. A flow of light humorous talk, rippling with banter, bubbling into jets of wit and satire, is notoriously the staple of 'polite' conversation, and the brightest talkers are the most favoured guests. Lastly, and mainly for the same reason, he must be somewhat of an egotist; not only as any poet, if ever so little subjective, must be in becoming the self-conscious type of a class or race, but because the essence of polite conversation which he has to transfigure into art is never perfect unless the individuality of each participant be discernible in the amalgamated flavour of the whole." That Mr. Locker not only possesses all the essential qualifications indispensable in a poet of society of the first rank-whether we take his own estimate of what may be necessary or that of his reviewer-every cultivated reader knows. But widely as his "London Lyrics" have been read, his poetry is no more likely to please as large a circle as the productions of Cowper, Pope, or Tennyson, than the verses of Prior or Praed are likely to do so. We have spoken of Mr. Locker's verses as reflecting polish and culture in the highest degree; and, apropos of this, it is curious to note that he was almost as old a man when he began to write as Praed was when he left off writing. Though he is essentially the poet of the "upper ten thousand," to quote a hackneyed epithet, Mr. Locker's variety in his studies of life recommend him to all tastes. As an example of his method and matter in his graver mood, we quote five verses from his "Lines on a Human Skull:" "A human skull! I bought it passing cheap,Indeed 'twas dearer to its first employer;I thought mortality did well to keep Some mute memento of the Old Destroyer. Time was, some may have prized its blooming skin; Here lips were woo'd, perhaps in transport Some may have chuck'd what was a dimpled chin, What colour were the eyes when bright and And were your ringlets fair, or brown, or black, Poor little head! that long has done with aching? It may have held (to shoot some random shots) Thy brains, Eliza Fry!-or Baron Byron's; The wits of Nelly Gwynne or Doctor Watts, Two quoted bards! two philanthropic sirens! The end is near. Life lacks what once it gave, But our "melancholy jester" is, perhaps, happiest in such poems as "The Pilgrims of Pall-mall," and the ode "To my Grandmother," which he was unable to find an editor to accept; though it is difficult to see on what grounds such charming verses were declined. His volume contains many "pretty conceits"-like this one: A TERRIBLE INFANT. "I recollect a nurse, called Ann, Who carried me about the grass; When I can talk, I'll tell Mamma.' And that's my earliest recollection." This lay of the "Terrible Infant" is from the collection just published in the fifth edition of the "Lyrics," as also the following poem, addressed to GERTY'S GLOVE. "Slips of a kid-skin deftly sewn, A scent as through her garden blown, A glove but lately dofft-for look, Warm from her touch! What gave the glow? But we refer the readers of this article to the book itself, rather than make more quotations from it. There is not in it one single verse of doubtful merit-with such care has the author finished all his work. Here is a poet, unrivalled in his particular line, who has only published verses that fill a couple of hundred pages. Would that all those other poets-true and sham-would follow his example. Yet by how few lines will any one of them be remembered by an ungrateful posterity! Tennyson said, some time since, to a friend-"If I am remembered a hundred years hence by twenty lines I have written, I shall be a lucky man." Mr. Locker has written twenty poems that will be remembered a hundred years hence: as long as style in verse-making is an object of study. Of their kind, his verses are perfect. Having said this, it is unnecessary to praise his ear for rhythm, his skill in rhyme, his taste, his culture, his observation, or the genius that moves to all. MY VISIT TO AN IRISH COUNTRY DANCE. SOM OME little time ago I was invited by a rural friend of mine to attend a country ball, which was to come off in a large barn adjoining his house, situate between Divis and Lough Neagh, in the lower part of the county Antrim. Having long had a desire to see a dance of this sort, I went; and I shall now endeavour to give my readers a correct idea of one of these rustic gatherings in that part of the country, and to narrate briefly my rather strange adventures that night. On arriving at the residence of my friend, I was ushered into a long room off the kitchen-or, as the country folk have it, I was taken "up the house." Here I found a few rosy damsels, dressed very gaily, partaking of wine or whisky and biscuits, and chatting over the coming events. On my entrance, however, they ceased to eat as well as to talk, and though repeatedly pressed to "put forrit their han'," resolutely refused to refresh themselves further with the good things on the table. I observed, too, that those of them who had not finished their liquor sipped at it in a way that was anything but natural, and always glanced over to see whether I was looking or not before they ventured to drink. But in a little while they grew more confident; and half an hour afterwards, when I had shared in the hospitality of the house, we all proceeded to the barn together, the best of friends. On entering the door of that important edifice, the first thing that attracted my notice was the chandelier. It consisted of a broomstick, nailed perpendicularly in the centre of two crossed sticks, and was thus suspended from a rafter about the middle of the room. On the four ends of these crossed sticks were fastened four halfpenny candles; and this, with the addition of two more candles at the same price which adhered to the walls at either end of the house, served to adorn and light the happy scene. All around the barn were placed, for seats, long planks, which rested on barrels and sacks of corn; and at the further end something like a platform was erected, which, on inquiry, I was told was "fur the fiddlers." We seemed to be just in time; for these gentlemen, two in number, entered immediately after us, and mounting the platform, began, with an air of great consequence, to screw up their instruments and resin their bows. Every seat in the barn was already occupied. Girls and boys were sitting together in pairs, chatting, laughing, or whispering tenderly to one another; but all impatient to begin the dance. I ensconced myself in a quiet corner to watch the proceedings; and I had not long to wait. When the gentlemen of the orchestra had got through the tedious and somewhat squeaky process of tuning, they began to step over some tunes lightly-whether on their own account, or by way of a preliminary coaxer, I cannot say-but instantly up rose about a dozen pairs, and formed themselves round for the dance. "Now, boys, give us somethin' fur a good figure!" said, or rather shouted, one of the happy swains to the fiddlers. And forthwith the musicians began to make rather violent exertions in determined endeavours to give every one in the place the privilege of hearing the mellifluous harmonies of "Bessie Block." In a mo ment they were all in their places; and at a given signal from the gentleman who had commanded the violinists to begin, off they went into "hands across," "ladies' chain," "face yer partner," "shuffle and cut," &c., &c.; each one dancing as if every eye in the barn was upon him or her-the girls slipping about with all the grace they could muster, and the boys shuffling through, with their heads up, in what they evidently considered unparalleled style. This was kept up-it being an eight-part figure-for about fifteen minutes; at the end of which time the perspiration was to be observed trickling from a goodly number of noses, and most of all from the probosces of the fiddlers. At the conclusion, the boys led the girls to a seaton their knees, be it whispered-and the fiddlers having refreshed themselves with "a dhrop of somethin' sthrong," a fresh party rose and arranged themselves for another dance. This time, a tall young man of rather primitive appearance, wearing a red necktie and a collar that enveloped about half his head, spoke to the musicians thus "Billy! a say, Billy! hi, Billy!-strack us up somethin' fur an owl reel; the divil a bit o' use the other dances is." When he had thus politely made his request, he spat on his hand, and otherwise energetically prepared to "show thim a bit o' dancin'," as he himself expressed it. And "show thim a bit o' dancin'" he certainly did. In setting to his partner, he dived from one side to the other in the most ludicrous manner, no doubt intending it for graceful motion; and when it came to facing his partner, he drew himself up as erect as a maypole, and hammered the old dingy floor till he was lost, or nearly so, amid the dust he had raised. Then off he would shoot again, with the air of a man who has just performed a great action, mostly managing to come into rather violent collision with some unfortunate couple who chanced to be in his way. I may mention in his behalf, however, that the name of the "owl reel" to which they were dancing was the decidedly attractive and inspiring one of "The smokin' bowl of tay." This had doubtless something to do with the zealous manner in which he acquitted himself. "The smokin' bowl of tay" having been disposed of, a fresh set rose; and so on, until every one in the house had danced two or three times. The names they had given to |