truculent; Cowper’s “My Mary” is far too pathetic; Herrick’s lyrics to “Blossoms” and “Daffodils” are too elevated; “Sally in our Alley” is too homely and too entirely simple and natural; while the “Rape of the Lock,” which would otherwise be one of the finest specimens of vers de societe in any language, must be excluded on account of its length, which renders it much too important.’

I have made this long quotation because it is an excellent example of Mr. Locker’s way of talking about poets and poetry, and of his intimate, searching, and unaffected criticism.

Lyra Elegantiarum is a real, not a bookseller’s collection.  Mr. Locker was a great student of verse.  There was hardly a stanza of any English poet, unless it was Spenser, for whom he had no great affection, which he had not pondered over and clearly considered as does a lawyer his cases.  He delighted in a complete success, and grieved over any lapse from the fold of metrical virtue, over any ill-sounding rhyme or unhappy expression.  The circulation of Lyra Elegantiarum was somewhat interfered with by a ‘copyright’ question.  Mr. Locker had a great admiration for Landor’s short poems, and included no less than forty-one of them, which he chose with the utmost care.  Publishers are slow to perceive that the best chance of getting rid of their poetical wares (and Landor was not popular) is to have attention called to the artificer who produced them.  The Landorian publisher objected, and the Lyra had to be ’suppressed’—­a fine word full of hidden meanings.  The second-hand booksellers, a wily race, were quick to perceive the significance of this, and have for more than thirty years obtained inflated prices for their early copies, being able to vend them as possessing the Suppressed Verses.  There is a great deal of Locker in this collection.  To turn its pages is to renew intercourse with its editor.

In 1879 another little volume instinct with his personality came into existence and made friends for itself.  He called it Patchwork, and to have given it any other name would have severely taxed his inventiveness.  It is a collection of stories, of ana, of quotations in verse and prose, of original matter, of character-sketches, of small adventures, of table-talk, and of other things besides, if other things, indeed, there be.  If you know Patchwork by heart you are well equipped.  It is intensely original throughout, and never more original than when its matter is borrowed.  Readers of Patchwork had heard of Mr. Creevey long before Sir Herbert Maxwell once again let that politician loose upon an unlettered society.

The book had no great sale, but copies evidently fell into the hands of the more judicious of the pressmen, who kept it by their sides, and every now and again

‘Waled a portion with judicious care’