Lady Bird!  Lady Bird! don’t make a fuss—­
    You’ve mighty small matters to give;
  Your coral and jet, and ... there, there—­you can tack
    A codicil on, if you live.

  Lady Bird!  Lady Bird! fly away now
    To your house in the old willow-tree,
  Where your children, so dear, have invited the ant. 
    And a few cozy neighbours, to tea.

  Lady Bird!  Lady Bird! fly away home,
    And if not gobbled up by the way,
  Nor yoked by the fairies to Oberon’s car,
    You’re in luck—­and that’s all I’ve to say.

Ibid.

* * * * *

“THE OLD MANOR HOUSE.”

The following circumstances respecting the foundation upon which Charlotte Smith built her popular novel, “The Old Manor House,” may probably prove interesting to the public.  Near Woodcot, where Mrs. Smith resided at the time she commenced her novel, was a very old house and domain called Brookwood, in which resided some Misses Venables, elderly maiden ladies, whom our authoress visited; and her acquaintance with them and their abode, gave her the idea of her romance.  They kept an old housekeeper,—­ one whom we may presume was quite in keeping with the house,—­whose niece or daughter was per favour allowed to reside with her at Brookwood—­ this girl, I need scarcely say, was the Monimia of the novel, nor was her Orlando a feigned character, although a highly-ornamented one; in truth, alas! for the shadowy beauty of romance, alas! for the spell of gorgeous poesy, he was not more made for a hero than was Dulcinea del Toboso for a heroine, being the young butcher of the village!!  “Often and often,” said the intelligent friend who favoured me with the account, “has he supplied our family with meat when we resided at Brookwood, and the beautiful Monimia, his wife, is only slightly disfigured by an interesting squint.”  The same friend who had frequently rambled over the house, part of which is now pulled down, spoke of it thus:  “It was what I term an ancient Vandyked building, in toto an old manor-house; the exterior had a castellated appearance, nor had the interior much less, with its dim vasty apartments, sliding panels for the secretion of treasure, and secret passages; in one of the chambers is a closet, wherein part of the boarding of the floor is made to slide, and when moved, reveals a kind of vault, the descent down which is by a long narrow flight of steps; use is made of this, I think, in ‘The Old Manor House,’ but some friends of mine who went down discovered nothing but a gloomy kind of den, not capable of containing more than six persons standing, and nearly filled with oyster-shells.  Do you recollect,” continued my friend, “in which of Charlotte Smith’s novels it is that she describes an eccentric old gentleman manuring his ground with wigs? because the fact is, it really was done by such a one at Brookwood.”—­New London Literary Gazette.