HONOR TO WHOM HONOR IS DUE.

WE have always regarded stealing the fruits of a man's brain the meanest kind of theft. It is not only mean but also wicked; for the scriptures command us to give honor to those to whom honor belongs. Accordingly we are thankful to Mr. Plumly for setting us right, and we cheerfully set our readers right on the same subject. We were led wrong by others. We saw the exceeding beauty of the poem which we selected, and consequently gave it in The Guardian. We now give the letter and poem as corrected, and are sure they will both be read with interest. The beauties of the poem will strike any reader at once; but they lie not all on the surface Like a true friend "they bear acquaintance." EDITOR GUARDIAN.

PHILADELPHIA, March 10, 1856. DEAR SIR: In the February number of The Guardian appeared a poem with the title, "Lines by Milton in his old age," by which, I perceive, you have been led into the prevailing error respecting the authorship of these lines. They were written by Mrs. Elizabeth Lloyd Howell-then Miss Lloyd, of this city-about five years ago, and published here. Their extraordinary beauty and fitness attracted much attention to them, and subsequently they were re-published in England, without credit, as is usual with English periodicals, especially if the matter be American; and in frequent republishing them they were announced as having been found among the "first of Milton's posthumous works."

The Home Journal, and various papers here, copied them with the above statement from the English journals, and the trip over the sea had thus given to the poem the name and fame of Milton.

I wrote to Mr. Morris of the Home Journal, who at once corrected the error, adding "that one who could write so as to be taken for Milton on his own soil, should be satisfied with the world's criticism.”

Mrs. Howell is a Quakeress, a native of this city-who writes too little -of high abilities and ample culture, just now stricken by great sorrow in the loss by death of her husband.

Feeling quite assurred that you would prefer to be right as to the authorship, I have taken the liberty to write you, and to send the copy corrected. Very respectfully,

B. RUSH PLUMLY.

Rev. H. HARBAUGH, Editor of The Guardian, Lancaster.

LINES ON MILTON IN HIS OLD AGE.

I am old and blind!

Men point at me as smitten by God's frown;
Afflicted, and deserted of my kind,

Yet I am not cast down.

I am weak, yet strong;

I murmur not that I no longer see;

Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,
Father Supreme, to thee!

THE DEAD BIRD.

FROM the great universe of living things, one little life has ceased. By the wayside, just ere the light of morning woke the whole grove to singing, my bird fell from its accustomed perch upon the lofty tree, and, with a gentle fluttering of its wing, and a gush that thrilled all its frame, closed its weary eyes and moved not again. And the shock that passed through it I felt also in myself, for it was very dear to me.

I stood by the dusty wayside silent, that I might find a consolation in the world.

And many passed by us, the dead bird and its silent watcher, as the light of morning broke, but they saw it not, nor aught, it seemed to me, that I must ever see.

Suddenly one stood by us, other than the rest, his eyes were great blue eyes swimming in light-over his pale forehead masses of brown hair hung waving his cheek flushed as he looked upon it, and I listened as utterance came to his lips-I heard only musical endings and blendings, words without consolation; when he ceased speaking, he went on with the others, yet a little aloof.

Then came, I saw not whence, a little child, like him in its light blue eyes, like him in their delicate expressings-the sunlight lay upon its forehead like a glory, golden hair fell adown its snowy arms like wings; the child took up the tiny bird and looked on it but a moment, its hands trembled, great tears stood in its eyes, it was lost in grief. But then, even when its grief was deepest—a grief that seemed kindred with my own a purple and golden-winged butterfly flitted over us: the bird dropped suddenly from the child's hand, and with a wild cry of delight and long prolonged very echoings of joy, pursuer and pursued were gone amid the flowery meads, I saw not whither.

Then with slow steps and eyes reverently looking toward the morning heaven, a grave meek man came near, and gazed on the bird-I heard words measured and slow-"the sparrow falleth not without his notice-blessed be God," then holding alway a cruciform symbol, he stood looking upward through the passing clouds.

Came again from out the multitude one having in his hand cunningly devised instruments and stood beside the former, taking up the bird, while I looked mournfully upon it, but might say no word; he cut about its eyes, dissevered its wings and laid bare each vein and muscle; then looking in saw to his seeing every font of life, and scornfully unto the former uttered his words-"so moveth this, and that-and so the creature lives-thus, this and that decays, it ceases to exist cease then thy dreams of God thou superstitious man;" then to him the other made reply, and they wrangling passed away together and were lost to sight -but their wrangling words, I did not cease to hear.

Others filled their places, some wild and crazed, some cold and careless-laughter and weeping, aimless and measureless.

Then another came, unlike all the rest, distorted with excess of human glory-a forehead loomed out over all the face-the eyes were introverted-passing by he stooped and grasped the bird as it had been stone or bird or any other thing, and solemnly said words "This is God,"

then letting fall the bird as carelessly as he had raised it, went his way. Then I would hear no more, wearied with hearing only-I threw myself upon the ground and laid there long-centuries long.

And the great crowd passed on, and the bright wings of the bird were soiled in the dust, and its form was destroyed altogether and lost to sight under the feet of the ever gathering multitude. Then I listened, seeing it was no more that some sweet song of the bird might come to my ear from afar. I heard naught but wailing and wild laughter, harshly intermingled with the ever fading sounds of joy-voices of the living and dying without end-till I grew wearied even unto death, shrieking into the cold earth, "what I have loved is lost to me forever," and again, lost to myself, in sorrow crying ever into the echoless earth, "the glory of a living thing has ceased to be."

GOOD ADVICE TO YOUNG LADIES.

TRUST not to uncertain riches, but prepare yourself for every emergency in life. Learn to work, and not be dependent upon servants to make your bread; sweep your floors and darn your own stockings. Above all things, do not esteem too lightly those honorable young men who sustain themselves and their aged parents, by the work of their own hands, while you care for and receive into your company those lazy popinjays who never lift a finger to help themselves, as long as they can keep body and soul together and get sufficient to live in fashion. If you are wise you will look at this subject as we do, and when you are old enough to become wives, you will prefer the honest mechanic with not a cent to commence life, to the fashionable loafer with a capital of ten thousand dollars. Whenever we hear remarked, "such a young lady has married a fortune," we always tremble for her prosperity. Riches left to children by wealthy parents often become a curse instead of a blessing. Young women, remember this, and instead of sounding the purses of your lovers and examining the cut of their coat, look into their habits and their hearts. Mark if they have trades and can depend upon themselves see if they have that which will lead them to look above a butterfly existence. Talk not of the beautiful white skin and the soft delicate hand-the splendid form and fine appearance of young gentleLet not these foolish considerations occupy your thoughts.

men.

JOYS OF YOUTH-HOW FLEETING.

WHISP'RING, heard by wakeful maids,
To whom the night star guides us,
Stolen walks through moonlit shades,
With those we love beside us;

Hearts beating at meeting,
Tears starting, at parting,

Oh! sweet youth, how soon it fades,
Sweet joys of youth, how fleeting.

4

NOTES ON LITERATURE.

GLIMPSES OF THE TRUTH AS IT IS IN JESus. By Rev. Octavian Winslow, D. D. Philadelphia: Lindsay & Blakiston. 1856. pp. 273.

We have here eight interesting chapters, the substance of which was originally delivered in sermons by the author on a visit to Scotland. Their publication was earnestly solicited by many pious persons who heard them. The reader will find in this volume much fresh and devout thought, expressed with much force and unction. The subjects are evidently chosen with a view to direct practical results, and we are not surprised that those who heard the discourses delivered had a desire to read them.

WHO ARE THE BLESSED? Or, Meditations on the Beatitudes. Philadelphia: Lindsay & Blakiston. 1856. pp. 197.

This book comes to us without a name. The author who has modestly remained incognito, might safely have owned this production before the public. These Meditations, as the author informs us in the preface, were at first presented to the people of his charge from the pulpit, "and he now commits them to the world, with the hope and prayer, that they may not only revive pleasant and profitable reflections in the mind of those who have heard them before, but that they may be instrumental in doing some good in the hands of others." The book shows earnest research and thought, and is animated by a sound christian spirit. Both these works are gotten up in Lindsay & Blakiston's usual good style.

NEW RELIGIOUS NEWSPAPERS.-We have lately been greeted by "The Moravian," a spirited weekly sheet published under the auspices of the Unitas Fratrum, and is issued from Philadelphia; also by "The Missionary," devoted to the interests of the Lutheran church, lately enlarged and now issued weekly, instead of monthly as before, at Pittsburg. Both these papers have an important mission before them.

A LITERARY CURIOSITY.-The Smithsonian Institution at Washington has just succeeded in obtaining for its library a rare and valuable book, printed in Low Dutch, and published in Regensberg in 1772. It contains specimens of paper from almost every species of fibrous material, and even animal substances, and has accounts of the experiments made in their manufacture. The following materials were employed, and specimens are given in the book: wasps' nests, sawdust, shavings, moss, sea-weed, hop and grape vines, mulberries, aloes, leaves, nettles, seeds, ground moss, straw, cabbage-stems, asbestos, wool, grass, thistle stems, seed wool of thistles, turf or peat, silk plant, fir wood, Indian corn, pineapples, potatoes, shingles, beans, poplar wood, beech wood, willow, sugar-cane, leaves of horse-chestnuts, tulips, linden, &c., &c. This book is well worth inspection by those interested in paper-making, as well as the scientific investigator.

MARTIN LUTHER'S LABORS.-From 1517 to 1526, the first ten years of the Reformation, the number of his publications was 300: from 1527 to 1535, the second decade, the number was 232, and from 1537 to 1546, the year of his death, the number was 183. His first book was published in November, 1517, and he died in February, 1546-an interval of 29 years and four months. In this time he published 715 volumes—an average of more than 25 a year.

AUTOGRAPHS.-James T. Fields, the Boston publisher and author, has presented to the Mercantile Library Association of that city a series of autograph letters of all the Presidents of the United States, handsomely framed in the order of their seniority in office. Among them is a letter by John Adams, dated Philadelphia, April 8th, 1777, addressed to his son, John Quincy Adams, who was then nine years of age.