Mr. Frederick Locker, for in that name he achieved fame, was born in 1821, coming of an old and distinguished Kentish family. His father was a Civil Commissioner of Greenwich Hospital, and his grandfather was the Captain W. Locker, R. N., under whom both Lord Nelson and Lord Collingwood served. Lord Nelson attributed much of his success in battle to the maxim inculcated by his old commander, “Lay a Frenchman close, and you will beat him.” Captain Locker died Lieutenant-Governor of Greenwich Hospital. The literary career of Mr. Frederick Locker has been so uniformly successful that there is little to recount. His original poems were mostly published in the magazines, until in 1857 he issued his volume entitled “London Lyrics.” The first edition, which is now very scarce, and much sought after by collectors, had a frontispiece by George Cruikshank. This book has passed through many editions, and is now published by Kegan Paul, Trench and Co., London. In 1867, Mr. Locker published “Lyra Elegantiarum,” containing a collection of the best English _vers-de-société_, with an introduction in which he enumerated the qualifications which should be possessed by any poet who aspired to produce perfect specimens of _vers-de-société_. Mr. Locker-Lampson has also written a few humorous parodies, one of which, “Unfortunate Miss Bailey,” was given p. 47, Vol. I., _Parodies_. It only remains to be said that in the following pages the extracts from his poems are inserted by the kind permission of Mr. Locker-Lampson. One of his best known poems, “St. James’s Street,” was published in 1867. This was stolen, and spoiled in the stealing, by a piratical editor, the two versions are here given side by side:―― ST. JAMES’S STREET. St. James’s Street, of classic fame, The finest people throng it. St. James’s Street? I know the name, I think I’ve passed along it! Why, that’s where Sacharissa sigh’d When Waller read his ditty; Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died, And Alvanley was witty. A famous street! To yonder Park Young Churchill stole in class-time; Come, gaze on fifty men of mark, And then recall the past time. The _plats_ at White’s, the play at _Crock’s_, The bumpers to Miss Gunning; The _bonhomie_ of Charlie Fox, And Selwyn’s ghastly funning. The dear old street of clubs and _cribs_, As north and south it stretches, Still seems to smack of Rolliad squibs, And Gillray’s fiercer sketches; The quaint old dress, the grand old style, The _mots_, the racy stories; The wine, the dice, the wit, the bile―― The hate of Whigs and Tories. At dusk, when I am strolling there, Dim forms will rise around me;―― Lepel flits pass me in her chair, And Congreve’s airs astound me! And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young sprite, Look’d kindly when I met her; I shook my head, perhaps,――but quite Forgot to quite forget her.