Chapter II: Introduction

The father of Frederick Locker Lampson (or Frederick Locker, according to the name by which he is generally known) was Edward Hawke Locker, at one time Commissioner of Greenwich Hospital. He is described in the "Dictionary of National Biography" as "a man of varied talents and accomplishments, Fellow of the Royal Society, an excellent artist in water-colour, a charming conversationalist, an esteemed friend of Southey and Scott." Frederick, the author of "London Lyrics," "was born," Mr Augustine Birrell, his son-in-law, writes in _Scribner's Magazine_ (January 1896), "in Greenwich Hospital in 1821. After divers adventures in various not over well selected schools, and a brief experience of the City and of Somerset House, he became a clerk in the Admiralty, serving under Lord Haddington, Sir James Graham, and Sir Charles Wood. He was twice married--first, to Lady Charlotte Bruce, a daughter of Lord Elgin (of the Marbles); and secondly, to the only daughter of Sir Curtis Lampson, Bart., of Rowfant in Sussex."

The present volume is Locker's earliest literary venture; produced, however, at the comparatively mature age of thirty-six. "In 1857," he says in "My Confidences," "I published a thin volume--certain sparrow-flights of song, called 'London Lyrics.'" Subsequently, about 1860, Thackeray, who was then editor of the _Cornhill Magazine_, invited Locker to contribute; and poems published there and elsewhere were collected and reprinted from time to time, the original title being always retained. Ten editions, besides some selections privately printed, appeared before the poet's death. In almost all something new was added, in all something old was taken away; so that only eight of the twenty-five pieces composing the early "thin volume" survive in the issue of 1893, and some of these are much altered. It is hoped that readers of Locker's later and more highly finished work will consider a republication of his "Primitiae" justified by the interest which attaches to all beginnings.

So many people even now confuse minor poetry with bad poetry that it is almost invidious to call a poet minor. Yet there is no doubt that minor poetry can be good in its way, just as major poetry can be good in _its_ way. "If he [Locker] was a minor poet he was at least [why 'at least'?] a master of the instrument he touched, which cannot," writes Mr Coulson Kernahan in the _Nineteenth Century_ for October 1895, "be said of all who would be accounted _major_." Locker was not of those, in his own opinion, who would be accounted major. "My aim," he says, "was humble. I used the ordinary metres and rhymes, the simplest language and ideas, I hope, flavoured with an individuality. I strove . . . not to be flat, and above all, not to be tedious." It is not necessary to prove by argument and illustration that Locker is a minor poet, nor that he belongs to that honourable company of writers of what we now call "light verse"--the masters of which are, after all, among the immortals--Horace and Herrick. His place in that company is not so easy to define. Probably he stands half way between the serious singers--who succeed by virtue of grace and artistic finish, yet lack the touch of passion, the indefinable something that makes greatness--and the bards whose primary object, like Calverley's, is to make the reader laugh. "He elected," says Mr Coulson Kernahan, "to don the cap and bells when he might have worn the singing robes of the poet": a description of one who chose to be a jester when he might have been serious, and hardly applicable to Locker, who is never a professed "funny man." Mr Kernahan is far more just when he claims for "London Lyrics" a kind of sober gentleness which moves neither to laugh nor to weep: "his sad scenes may touch us to tender melancholy, but never to tears; his gay ones to smile, but seldom to laughter." Locker's Muse is not the Muse of high spirits. He does not start with the intention of jesting. He is the gentle and serious spectator of things which are not the most serious in life--with a sense of the humorous which is not repressible, and which enters into all his reflections, but which he never allows wholly to master him.

It is really impossible to classify poets on any satisfactory principle. Every good poet is a class by himself. But if the attempt must be made, one may say that the author of "London Lyrics" belongs to that school of which the other chief representatives, in English or American literature, have been Praed, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and Mr Austin Dobson. It has always been the fashion to class him with the first named of the trio as a writer of "occasional verse" or "vers de societe." These titles, like other parts of the nomenclature of the poetic art, are not satisfying. Why "smoothly written verse, where a boudoir decorum is or ought always to be preserved: where sentiment never surges into passion, and where humour never overflows into boisterous merriment" should be conventionally called "society verse," or "occasional verse," is not very clear. To write "society verse" is to be the laureate of the cultured, leisured, pleasure-loving upper classes; but some poets satisfy the above requirements--Locker himself included--yet certainly do not write exclusively of or for "Society." Then again, what is "occasional"? Many serious poems are inspired by the transient occasion. But we are not, presumably, to class "Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints" among occasional pieces, nor is Wordsworth's sonnet on London at dawn to be called occasional; yet the source of it, the fact that the poet happened to be upon Westminster Bridge in the early morning, was transient, not (apparently) inherent in the nature of things. However, these names must be accepted as we find them. Here is Locker's own law: "Occasional verse," he says, "should be short, graceful, refined, and fanciful, not seldom distinguished by chastened sentiment, and often playful. The tone should not be pitched high: it should be terse and idiomatic, and rather in the conversational key; the rhythm should be crisp and sparkling, and the rhyme frequent and never forced, while the entire poem should be marked by tasteful moderation, high finish, and completeness: for, however trivial the subject-matter may be, indeed, rather in proportion to its triviality, subordination to the rules of composition, and perfection of execution, are of the utmost importance." Among the enviable versifiers who can satisfy these requirements Praed and Locker both hold a high place. Praed, indeed, is the chief among writers of "vers de societe," for not only does his manner conform to the laws laid down by high authorities, but his theme is generally "Society" with a capital S. "Praed," says Locker in "My Confidences," "is the very best of his school: indeed, he has a unique position; for in his narrower vein of whimsical wit, vernacular banter, and antithetical rhetoric, which may correctly be called _vers de societe_ in its most perfected form, and its exactest sense, he has never been equalled." These phrases hit off Praed very well--if one does not exactly see what "Society" has to do with antithetical rhetoric.

These two poets, so often classed together, are not really very much alike. Both are certainly "in lighter vein"; but they differ apparently in temperament, and certainly in method. No one would deny to Praed the gift of humour. But the period in which he wrote was one which admired primarily wit; and while it would be too much to say that his heart is not in his theme--that he stands detached from it--still, his sympathies are indubitably subordinated to the effort, the successful effort, to bring off a neat point, to make a pun in the right place, to be striking, antithetical, epigrammatic. His verses have the finish, in their way, of Pope's couplet and Ovid's pentameter. His best known and most praised work appeals, primarily, to the taste and the ear: always, perhaps, to the head rather than to the heart. There is something of "hard brilliance" in Praed: he writes for effect, he is epideictic. Of course, this is one object of writers of "society verses":

"Sole secret to jingle and scan,"

as an unduly severe critic says somewhere. One need hardly say that this is not Praed's sole secret: but technique is certainly his strong point.

"Where are my friends? I am alone:
No playmate shares my beaker:
Some lie beneath the churchyard stone
And some--before the Speaker:
And some compose a tragedy,
And some compose a rondo:
And some draw sword for Liberty,
And some draw pleas for John Doe.

Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes
Without the fear of sessions:
Charles Medlar loathed false quantities
As much as false professions:
Now Mill keeps order in the land,
A magistrate pedantic:
And Medlar's feet repose unscanned
Beneath the wide Atlantic."

This is the art which does not conceal itself. One may not be able to do the trick; but it is possible to see how the trick is done.

"No one," says Locker, when speaking of occasional or society verse, "has fully succeeded who did not possess a certain gift of irony." That is profoundly true. A would-be writer of light verse who has not an ironical habit of mind had better change his purpose and write an epic. Locker has his full share of the necessary gift. Half gay, half melancholy, always ironical--dissembling most of pain and some of pleasure--he is in certain ways the appropriate spokesman of a society like our own, which is really most natural when most dissembling, or dismissing with a smile, its deeper emotions. There is nothing about Locker which is not natural. As he is, so (apparently) does he speak: far more candidly and with more of self-revelation than Praed, more candidly than Mr Austin Dobson, who is apt to veil his personality behind a mask of elegant antiquarianism. But Locker is more artless and naive (which qualities are in him not the least inconsistent with irony) than any modern writer, except, perhaps, R. L. Stevenson now and then; and with the latter _naivete_ itself is sometimes an artifice. Mr Brander Matthews rightly lays stress on this aspect of Locker's poetry; "individuality and directness of expression"--that is the true note of "London Lyrics." He is far more genuine and spontaneous than Praed. It is difficult and perhaps invidious to compare the two as "humorists." It may be that Locker's vein of humour is larger and truer than the earlier poet's. Praed belongs, as has been said, to a period of other men and other manners. Probably he is the wittier of the two; yet this might be contradicted. Locker's humour has the reflective vein, with a suggestion of pathos, of the great writers who flourished in the early and middle Victorian era. We are perhaps a little out of tune now with the sentiment of the middle of the nineteenth century and perhaps, too, with Praed's "antithetical rhetoric"; but Locker's humour can never be quite out of fashion. Readers will always smile (not laugh) at "The Housemaid" or "The Pilgrims of Pall Mall" or the lines "To my Grandmother"--

"With her bridal-wreath, bouquet,
Lace farthingale, and gay
_Falbala_,--
If Romney's touch be true,
What a lucky dog were you,
Grandpapa!

. . . . .

What funny fancy slips
From atween these cherry lips?
Whisper me,
Fair Sorceress in paint,
What canon says I mayn't
Marry thee?"

But perhaps, for a nutshell's content of whimsical Lockerian humour, the gem which will occur to most is the delightful reminiscence of infancy:

"I recollect a nurse call'd Ann,
Who carried me about the grass,
And one fine day a fine young man
Came up, and kiss'd the pretty Lass:
She did not make the least objection!
Thinks I. 'Aha!
When I can talk I'll tell Mamma.'
--And that's my earliest recollection."

(Locker's "mottoes," of which this is one, often contain his most characteristic lines.) Praed could no more have written that, or the lines "To my Grandmother," than Locker could have written "The Vicar." Both poets have other strings. Praed's more serious vein could win a contemporary reputation: but he would not have been remembered for this alone, after eighty years. In "At Her Window," which Mr Coulson Kernahan rightly calls "one of the most beautiful love-songs of the century," Locker is no longer ironical, but rises to the heights of real passion:

"Beating Heart! we come again
Where my Love reposes:
This is Mabel's window-pane:
These are Mabel's roses.

. . . . .

Mabel will be deck'd anon,
Zoned in bride's apparel;
Happy zone! Oh hark to yon
Passion-shaken carol!
Sing thy song, thou tranced thrush,
Pipe thy best, thy clearest;--
Hush, her lattice moves, O hush--
_Dearest Mabel_!--_dearest_" . . .

"I once tried," says Locker in "My Confidences," "to write like Praed." The effort was not wholly successful: Locker is weakest where his manner is most Praedian; and the poet, either realising this, or moulded by the temper of his time, appears to have altered most of the obviously imitative passages. Thus in "Tempora Mutantur" the last stanza runs, in 1857:

"What brought this wanderer here, and why
Was Pamela away?
It might be she had found her grave
Or he had found her gay";

but the antithetical pun is excised in the 1893 edition, where the lines are:

"The pilgrim sees an empty chair
Where Pamela once sat:
It may be she had found her grave,
It might be worse than that."

So in "Bramble-Rise"

"My bank of early violets
Is now a bank of savings"

("you mark the paronomasia, play 'pon words"?) does not continue to please the taste of the pun-despising _fin-de-siecle_ public or of Locker himself: the corresponding stanza in the poem as published in 1893 is purified of such tricks. These alterations are characteristic of Locker's literary method. He was keenly critical of himself--"never," says Mr Birrell, "could mistake good verses for bad"--and was therefore always changing and polishing his work, adding here, pruning there. Thus only eight poems from the 1857 volume form part of the "London Lyrics" of 1893, and only five of these--"Bramble-Rise," "Piccadilly," "The Pilgrims of Pall Mall," "Circumstance," "The Widow's Mite"--have maintained their footing throughout in all intervening editions: the three others are, as it were, "rusticated" from the very severely edited selection of 1881. The variety of forms under which his verses appear at different periods will probably make the poet's works a happy hunting-ground for the future commentator, who will no doubt assign this "lay" (as he will probably call it) to Locker, that to Lampson, that again to the Lockeridae or the Lampsonschule. The method is familiar. No one, probably, ever was so careful of the "limae labor." "He took," we are told, "great pains with his verses," always aiming at a more perfect finish, with no loss of that naturalness which, as has been said, characterises all his work. According to the saying quoted by Matthew Arnold of Joubert, he "s'inquietait de perfection." Perfection, to him, implied an appearance of spontaneity: what _looked_ laboured or artificial must be elaborated till it _looked_ spontaneous--as it was in thought if not altogether in development. His critical sense seems to have grown keener with his interest in the making of verses: "he was a great student of verse," Mr Birrell says, and a student especially of that kind of verse of which he was himself one of the masters. In 1867 he published the well-known collection "Lyra Elegantiarum," assisted by Mr Kernahan: the preface, written by Locker, contains some excellent rules for "light verse," from which the selections are made. This anthology ranges over the whole field of English poetry, and, like everything else of Locker's, it shows the man. "Its charm," writes the editor's collaborator, "is entirely of the editor's individuality"--at least, from his favourites in literature, one may make a very fair guess at some part of his character. So, too, "Patchwork"--a kind of scrap-book, a collection of miscellaneous anecdotes, mostly humorous, but not as a rule broadly or farcically funny--illustrates his delicate and subtle perception of the laughable.

Locker married Lady Charlotte Bruce in 1850, and soon after left the service of Government. Thenceforward he appears to have led a very placid life, happy in his family, seeing much of his large circle of friends, devoted to poetry and book-collecting. "Lyra Elegantiarum" was published in 1867, "Patchwork" in 1879. In 1886 Locker published a catalogue of what he called the "Rowfant Library"--his collection of rare and valuable books (mostly the poetry of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries) and autographs--of which Mr Andrew Lang has sung:

"The Rowfant books, how fair they shew,
The Quarto quaint, the Aldine tall,
Print, autograph, portfolio!
Back from the outer air they call
The athletes from the Tennis ball,
This Rhymer from his rod and hooks,
Would I could sing them, one and all,
The Rowfant books!"

Locker's first wife died in 1872. In 1874 he married Miss Lampson, adding her family name to his own. The rest of his life was spent for the most part at Rowfant: he died there, 30th May 1895. His autobiography, "My Confidences," was published posthumously in 1896.

THE CASTLE IN THE AIR

"I would build a cloudy house,
For my thoughts to live in,
When for earth too fancy loose,
And too low for heaven!

Hush! I talk my dream alone:
I build it bright to see;
I build it on the moon-lit cloud,
To which I look with thee!"

Mrs E. B. BROWNING.

You shake your curls, and ask me why
I don't build castles in the sky;
You smile, and you are thinking too,
He's nothing else on earth to do.
It needs, my dear, romantic ware
To raise such fabrics in the air--
Ethereal bricks, and rainbow beams,
The gossamer of Fancy's dreams:
And much the architect may lack
Who labours in the zodiac
To rear what I, from chime to chime,
Attempted once upon a time.

My Castle was a glad retreat,
Adorn'd with bloom and scented briars,--
A Cupid's model country-seat,
With all that such a seat requires.
A rustic thatch, a purple mountain,
A sweet, mysterious, haunted fountain,
A terraced lawn, a summer lake,
By sun or moonbeam ever burnish'd;
And then my cot, by some mistake,
Unlike most cots was neatly furnish'd.

A trelliss'd porch, a mirror'd hall,
A Hebe, laughing from the wall,
Frail vases from remote Cathay,--
While, under arms and armour wreath'd
In trophied guise, the marble breath'd--
A peering fawn, a startled fay.

And cabinets with gems inlaid,
The legacy of parted years,
Full curtains of festoon'd brocade,
And Venice lent her chandeliers.
Quaint carvings dark, and, pillow'd light,
Meet couches for the Sybarite;
Embroider'd carpets, soft as down,
The last new novel fresh from town.
On silken cushion, rich with braid,
A shaggy pet from Skye was laid,
And, drowsy eyed, would dosing swing
A parrot in his golden ring.

All these I saw one happy day,
And more than now I care to name;
Here, lately shut, that workbox lay,
There stood your own embroidery frame.
And over this piano bent
A Form, from some pure region sent.

Her dusky tresses lustrous shone,
In massy clusters, like your own;
And, as her fingers pressed the keys,
How strangely they resembled these.

Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair,
Adorn'd my Castle in the Air;
And Life, without the least foundation,
Became a charming occupation.
We viewed, with much serene disdain,
The smoke and scandal of Cockaigne,
Its dupes and dancers, knaves and nuns,
Possess'd by blues, or bored by duns.
With souls released from earthly tether,
We gazed upon the moon together.
Our sympathy, from night to noon,
Rose crescent with that crescent moon,
We lived and loved in cloudless climes,
And died (in rhymes) a thousand times.

Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair,
Adorn'd my Castle in the Air,
Now, tell me, could you dwell content
In such a baseless tenement?
Or could so delicate a flower
Exist in such a breezy bower?
Because, if you _would_ settle in it,
'Twere built, for love, in half a minute.

What's love? you ask;--why, love at best
Is only a delightful jest;--
As sad for one, as bad for three,
So _I_ suggest you jest with me.

You shake your head, and wonder why
A denizen of dear May-Fair
Should ever condescend to try
And build her Castle in the Air.

I've music, books, and all, you say,
To make the gravest lady gay;
I'm told my essays show research,
My sketches have endow'd a church.
I've partners, who have witty parts;
I've lovers, who have broken hearts;
Quite undisturbed by nerves or blues,
My doctor gives me--all the news.
Poor Polly would not care to fly;
And Wasp, you know, was born in Skye.

To realise your tete-a-tete
Might jeopardise a giddy pate;
And _quel ennui_! if, pride apart,
I lost my head, or you your heart.
I'm more than sorry, I'm afraid
My Castle is already made.

And is this all we gain by fancies
For noon-day dreams, and waking trances,--
Such dreams as brought poor souls mishap,
When Baby-Time was fond of pap:
And still will cheat with feigning joys,
While women smile, and men are boys?

The blooming rose conceals an asp,
And bliss coquetting flies the grasp:
And, waking up, snap goes the slight
Poor cord that held my foolish kite,--
Your slave, you may not care to know it,
Your humble slave will be your Poet.

Farewell!--can aught for her be will'd
Whose every wish is all fulfill'd?
Farewell!--could wishing weave a spell,
There's promise in those words "Fare well!"

I wish your wish may not be marr'd;--
Now wish yourself a better Bard!

THE CRADLE

Aye, here is your cradle! Why surely, my Jenny,
Such slender dimensions go somewhat to show
You were an exceedingly small pic-a-ninny
Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.

Your baby-days flow'd in a much-troubled channel;
I see you as then in your impotent strife,--
A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel,
Perplex'd with that newly-found fardel called life.

To hint at an infantine frailty's a scandal;
All bye-gones are bye-gones--and somebody knows
It was bliss such a baby to dance and to dandle,
Your cheeks were so velvet--so rosy your toes.

Aye, here is your cradle! and Hope, a bright spirit,
With Love now is watching beside it, I know;
They guard o'er the nest you yourself did inherit
Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.

It is Hope gilds the future, Love welcomes it smiling;
Thus wags this old world, therefore stay not to ask,--
"My future bids fair, is my future beguiling?"
If mask'd, still it pleases, then raise not its mask.

Is life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing?
He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust;
For at most 'tis a footstep from cradle to coffin,--
From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust.

Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny!
I see you, except for that infantine woe,
Scarce changed since you were but a small pic-a-ninny,--
Your cheek is still velvet--pray what is your toe?

Aye, here is your cradle! much, much to my liking,
Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped;
But, hark! as I'm talking there's six o'clock striking,
It is time JENNY'S BABY should be in its bed!

O TEMPORA MUTANTUR!

"O cruel Time! O tyrant Time!
Whose winter all the streams of rhyme,
The flowing waves of Love sublime,
In bitter passage freezes.
I only see the scrambling goat,
The lotos on the water float,
While an old shepherd with an oat
Pipes to the autumn breezes."

MR M. COLLINS.

Yes! here, once more, a traveller,
I find the Angel Inn,
Where landlord, maids, and serving-men,
Receive me with a grin:
They surely can't remember _me_,
My hair is grey and scanter;
I'm chang'd, so chang'd since I was here--
"O tempora mutantur!"

The Angel's not much alter'd since
That sunny month of June,
Which brought me here with Pamela
To spend our honey-moon!
I recollect it down to e'en
The shape of this decanter.
We've since been both much put about--
"O tempora mutantur!"

Aye, there's the clock, and looking-glass
Reflecting me again;
She vow'd her Love was very fair--
I see I'm very plain.
And there's that daub of Prince Leboo,
'Twas Pamela's fond banter
To fancy it resembled me--
"O tempora mutantur!"

The curtains have been dyed; but there,
Unbroken, is the same,
The very same cracked pane of glass
On which I scratch'd her name.
Yes! there's her tiny flourish still,
It used to so enchant her
To link two happy names in one--
"O tempora mutantur!"

* * * * *

What brought this wand'rer here, and why
Was Pamela away?
It may be she had found her grave,
Or he had found her gay.
The fairest fade; the best of men
May meet with a supplanter;--
How natural, how trite the cry,
"O tempora mutantur!"

PICCADILLY

"Often, when I have felt a weariness or distaste at home, have I
rushed out into her crowded Strand, and fed my humour till tears have
wetted my cheek for unutterable sympathies with the multitudinous
moving picture; * * nursed amid her noise, her crowds, her beloved
smoke, what have I been doing all my life, if I have not lent out my
heart with usury to such scenes!"