morality, in the finest passages of our best writers. Those fond of light reading will rejoice over romance, and poesy, and chivalry in the attractive and appropriately named Piece Book,' while the songster and the humorist will each find food of the choicest description according to his particular fancy.

We recommend them all as the neatest, cheapest, and most delightful books of the kind we have seen.

CLASSIC TALES, by the author of 'American Popular Lessons.' New-York; Peabody & Co.

The most striking adventures of the old mythology are very happily told by this attractive juvenile writer, in this neat little volume. The illustrations are truly classic in design, and are very elegantly executed. We know few books more calculated to be useful in seminaries.

THE CONTRAST, a Novel, by Earl of Mulgrave. 2 vols. 12mo. Philadelphia; Carey, Lea & Blanchard.

The Governor of Jamaica seems to have had no ambitious design of emulating so many modern novelists, by making his work an ingenious satire upon society, or description of particular life. His object seems to have been the simple construction of an agreeable tale, founded on the ordinary relations of society, and the usual impulses of nature. He has succeeded. 'The Contrast' is an interesting and affecting story, in which, without any aim at pretension, there are many characters drawn with great beauty and even admirable truth. George, Lucy, Mrs. Darnell, with her its just like all the rest,' are all sketched with spirit, and wrought with much feeling and fidelity. Lord Castleton, and the Lady Gayland are both conceptions of a superior order, well sustained, and replete with truth. The scene in the opera house between them-her fall while riding, and the progress of a love both dread, but are unable to resist, are among the finest pictures of the modern novel.

VILLAGE BELLES, a Novel. 2 vols. 12 mo. New-York; Harpers.

To say that this was merely a good novel would not be doing justice to its peculiar merits. It is a spirited and refreshing picture of rural life, executed with a Teniers-like fidelity, and a Cuyp-like beauty.

There is much in it of that touching simplicity which charms the world in the Vicar of Wakefield. The characters have the same resemblance to life, the same exquisite truth to nature; and the Vicar's daughters in their Sunday finery are equalled by Rosina's expedition for the new ribbon ere she saw Huntley again. The introduction of the romantic painter has given birth to many scenes of great beauty. His warm enthusiastic disposition contrasts finely with the quiet and secluded, yet deeply interesting Hannah, and the progress of his affection is managed with delicacy-finely executed, and masterly. For this character however, the author has created an interest which authors should be very careful of destroying, and we can scarcely be reconciled with pleasure to see his generous and noble qualities supplanted by Russel, about whom no

body cares. The novel is well worth a perusal, it is better than nineteen twentieths of those usually published.

THE TOKEN AND ATLANTIC SOUVENIR. A Christmas and New Year's present. Edited by S. G. Goodrich. Boston; Charles Bowen.

A work like this, having especially for its object the advancement of the arts in our country, is deemed entitled to, and would generally receive critical lenity when it appeals, as it ought to do, to the indiscriminating generosity of national feeling. But when it is arrogantly held up as an example of perfection, and announced to be as fine as fifteen thousand dollars can make it, (credat judeus Apella,) it must stand or fall by its own merits alone. In the present volume of the Token, these claims entitle it to but a very slender consideration, in fact less than any of its predecessors. The majority of the engravings are not equal to those now commonly issued by our respectable publishers. The subjects are not only all copies, but copies of stale prints, familiar to the public for the last two or three years. The very binding has an air of slovenly elegance about it, which may be called any thing but taste, and the embossed design, like the engravings-a piracy. The contributions with many signal exceptions are however better. Some popular writers are enrolled upon the list. That we may not be charged with want of attention to this volume we make room for the following charming little allegory by Miss Gould. The only prose poem she has written.

THE ANGEL OF THE LEAVES.

'Alas! alas!' said the sorrowing tree, my beautiful robe is gone! It has been torn from me. Its faded pieces whirl upon the wind; they rustle beneath the squirrel's foot, as he searches for his nut. They float upon the passing stream, and on the quivering lake. Wo is me! for my fair green vesture is gone. It was the gift of the angel of the leaves! I have lost it, and my glory has vanished; my beauty has disappeared. My summer hours have passed away. My bright and comely garment, alas! it is rent in a thousand parts. Who will leave me such another? Piece by piece, it has been stripped from me. Scarcely did I sigh for the loss of one, ere another wandered off on air. The sound of music cheers me no more. The birds that sang in my bosom were dismayed at my desolation. They have flown away with their songs.

'I stood in my pride. The sun brightened my robe with his smile. The zephyrs breathed softly through its glassy folds; the clouds strewed pearls among them. My shadow was wide upon the earth. My arms spread far on the gentle air; my head was lifted high; my forehead was fair to the heavens. But now, how changed! Sadness is upon me; my head is shorn, my arms are stripped; I cannot throw a shadow on the ground. Beauty has departed; gladness is gone out of my bosom; the blood has retired from my heart, it has sunk into the earth. I am thirsty, I am cold. My naked limbs shiver in the chilly air. The keen blast comes pitiless among them. The winter is coming; I am destitute. Sorrow is my portion. Morning must wear me away. How shall I account to the angel who clothed me, for the loss of his beautiful gift?'

The angel had been listening. In soothing accents he answered the lamentation.

'My beloved tree,' said he, 'be comforted! I am by thee still, though every leaf has forsaken thee. The voice of gladness is hushed among thy boughs, but let my whisper console thee. Thy sorrow is but for a season. Trust in me; keep my promise in thy heart. Be patient and full of hope. Let the words I leave with thee, abide and cheer thee through the coming winter. Then I will return and clothe thee anew.

'The storm will drive over thee, the snow will sift through thy naked limbs. But these will be light and passing afflictions. The ice will weigh heavily on thy helpless arms; but it shall soon dissolve in tears. It shall pass into the ground and be drunken by the roots. Then it will creep up in secret beneath thy bark. It will spread into the branches it has oppressed, and help me to adorn them. For I shall be here to use it.

'Thy blood has now only retired for safety. The frost would chill and destroy it. It has gone into thy mother's bosom for her to keep it warm. Earth will not rob her offspring. She is a careful parent. She knows the wants of all her children, and forgets not to provide for the least of them.

'The sap that has for a while gone down, will make thy roots strike deeper and spread wider. It will then return to nourish thy heart. It will be renewed and strengthened. Then, if thou shalt have remembered and trusted in my promise, I will fulfil it. Buds shall shoot forth on every side of thy boughs. I will unfold for thee another robe. I will paint it and fit it in every part. It shall be a comely raiment. Thou shalt forget thy present sorrow. Sadness shall be swallowed up in joy. Now, my beloved tree, fare thee well for a season.' The angel was gone. The muttering winter drew near. The wild blast whistled for the storm. The storm came and howled around the tree. But the word of the angel was hidden in her heart; it soothed her amid the threatenings of the tempest. The ice cakes rattled upon her limbs; they loaded and weighed them down. My slender branches,' said she, 'let not this burden overcome you. Break not beneath this heavy affliction; break not, but bend, till you can spring back to your places. Let not a twig of you be lost! Hope must prop you up for a while, and the angel will reward your patience. You will move upon a softer air. Grace shall be again in your motion, and beauty hanging around you!'

The scowling face of winter began to lose its features. The raging storm grew faint, and breathed its last. The restless clouds fretted themselves to atoms; they scattered upon the sky, and were brushed away. The sun threw down a bundle of golden arrows. They fell upon the tree; the ice cakes glittered as they came. Every one was shattered by a shaft, and unlocked itself upon the limb. They were melted and gone.

The reign of spring had come. Her blessed ministers were abroad in the earth; they hovered in the air; they blended their beautiful tints, and cast a new created glory on the face of the heavens.

The tree was rewarded for her trust. The angel was true to the object of his love. He returned; he bestowed on her another robe. It was bright, glossy and unsullied. The dust of summer had never lit upon it; the scorching heat had not faded it; the moth had not profaned it. The tree stood again in loveliness; she was dressed in more than her former beauty. She was very fair; joy smiled around her on every side. The birds flew back to her bosom. They sang on every branch a hymn to the Angel of the Leaves.

FINE ARTS. Danby's Opening of the Sixth Seal.

In silence and alone should we gaze upon this admirable painting, until the mind, expanding with its devotion and freeing itself from the enthralment of other thoughts, rises to the colossal elevation of the object of its contemplation, and imbibes the spirit of the genius that gave it being.

When we first heard of this extraordinary effort, we were inclined to have but little faith in the possibility of its success, and esteemed the ambition of the Painter too daring for his power; but far otherwise did we think, when, lost in absorbing admiration, our very being was given to the influence of its effect.

The chaos of first nature was before us. A convulsed World was bursting into dissolution. Cities were melting from existence, and their masters seeking shelter from the wreck. Flames, disenthralled from their volcanic prison, towered in fierce majesty to Heaven;--the clouds, like shrinking cowards, up-gathered from the blaze; while, cinctured with the splendor of etherial brilliancy, triumphant o'er the ruin of the world and the worldly, serene above the terrific conflagration of earth—the Cross—a beacon to the good, a terror to the evil, hung supported by its glory.

The eye is first attracted to a body of flame, that glows intensely lurid, in the centre of the canvass, and communicates its blood red tinge, in an admirable proportion of shade, to the volume of clouds, which wall the untrou bled Heaven within them, this is vividly contrasted with the dazzling gleam of the pale lightning, to which the Painter has given such an energetic brilliancy, that we are confounded with its likeness to reality. Rent rocks are hurled into the air, mountains are spouting from their cavernous depths, an ocean of fire, the bowels of the earth are tossed from its womb, storm is let loose, and chaotic fury revels amid the wreck.

The Painter has succeeded, perhaps beyond his hopes, in the admirable coloring of the foreground, upon which is reflected the unnatural light of the lurid flame, mingled with the pale yellow glow of the lightning. The slave triumphing in the liberty of a moment, though destruction be in the next, with the severed manacles on his hands as they are upraised to heaven in the joyfulness of his disenthralled spirit, while at his feet crouches the sceptreless king, humbled by the intensity of his terror, with the trophy of power falling from his head, is a conception which, however we regard it, could only have been the offspring of a Poet's mind, while its delineation must be confessed as among the noblest efforts of a Painter's hand. The warrior becomes a coward, and the miser regardless of his gold. The weapon of the former, and the coin of the latter, are alike unavailing, for man wars not with Heaven, nor is Destiny to be bribed.

The Anatomist, however minute be his inspection, can find no flaw in the proportions of the figures, and the accurate expression of startling agony in the countenances of the sufferers speaks volumes for the artist's observation; though while we look at this magnificent painting, every capability of observing an error becomes almost lost in the absorbing influence of its beauty. We can only feel that the Painter, in a few square feet of canvass, has miniatured the majesty of nature in the convulsion of her works, and that the preacher might be silent, for morality was advocated.

EDITOR'S TABLE.

We had given up the idea of writing Editor's Tables. There is too much of state in it for our Republican notions. It is like a monarch holding a levée, in which he graciously smiles out a host of disappointed and grumbling candidates for office; and we unfortunately do not possess the faculty attributed to George the IV., of bowing with such equivocal grace, that every one in the presence chamber might think the royal courtesy was intended for himself. Moreover, we wish to encourage literary aspirants, rather than to repress them; we had rather our numerous contributers would sun themselves in the warmth of expectation, than be frightened out of the pleasant fields of literature, by a frown at the very commencement of their career. Accordingly we will do nothing more in this our manifest editorial,' than record our thanks, our very good and especially gracious thanks, to all the gentle A's, O's, X. Y. Z❜ds, P's, Alexis'es, Amelia's, Phillis'es, &c., &c., who have honored us with their lucubrations during the last month, and we hereby inform the respective authors of the various packages on our table in every diversity of form, from the titan folio, to the tiny note, and in every shade of paper, from greasy 'whitey brown,' to scented rose color, that we of the KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE have perused their several favors, and bear many treasured in our memory against the emergency of a future day, while many others have been quietly and utterly forgotten. Let none be offended by what might seem an unkind or ungenerous omission. Let none be elated by what might appear an injudicious partiality. The world of letters is like the world of life-contributers must accustom themselves to things as they come.

We have taken our stand-many to reproach, many to commend -we are thankful to the latter. What availeth the wrath of the former? Our destiny is like others' in this world. Merit or success will provoke malignancy and ill-will, and excite bitterness of feeling towards us-what matters it? Who has not seen a stately coach proceeding as fast as four fleet horses can gallop with it, often assailed towards its hinder wheel by some ignominious cur, yelp, yelping as the proud vehicle rolls majestically along? Such is the KNICKERBOCKER. Such in effect, such in power, its assailants. Supported by a generous patronage, cheered by a liberal public, and strong in the consciousness of eminent success, we will proceed on our way rejoicing, the most fearless, the most daring, the most resolute in the field.

John H. Turney's Stereotype and Print.