'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 Trust in me; let my whisper console thee. Thy sorrow is but for a season. 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 KNICKER BOCKER. 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.

WHAT causes the moral and intellectual difference of character in our species? What is the object and the result of education? On these two queries we propose to make some brief remarks in the following essay.

I. What causes the difference of moral and intellectual character? The disciples of a popular and growing school affirm, that education is the single and entire instrument of this difference; a dogma which gains favor at universities and popular seminaries, because it adds estimated value and consequence to what these institutions can impart. At the head of this school we find one of our ripest scholars, a gentleman to whom literature is largely indebted, and whose standing in the American republic of letters attaches much influence to his dicta; and whose errors, touching this dogma, if we shall find them such, are so much the more likely to have an injurious effect.

In an address lately delivered before the leading literary society at Yale, and afterwards redelivered before a similar literary society at Harvard, we are told, (for we have not seen the printed address) the fundamental position was, that the moral and intellectual difference in our species is owing wholly to education. We pass the acknowledged eloquence and splendor of the address, only regretting, that they had not been employed to embellish and illustrate truth, instead of error. The fundamental position is all that belongs to the questions in hand. In our admiration of this gentleman, we would not allow ourselves to animadvert even on this dogma, if it were a mere harmless position, a popular flourish, ad captandum, unintelligible, inefficient, and without bearing, like the dicta of schoolmen and theologians. But this is a doctrine which comes home to our business and bosoms, and touches our most vital interests. It seems to be favorable to education, by attributing to it an omnipotence of mastery over the mind. But every error, however flattering, however plausible, will be found to be injurious, just in proportion to the importance of the doctrines on which it bears.

Nothing is useful, nothing beautiful upon this, or upon any other subjects, but the truth.

With that gentleman we agree, that no price can be put on the importance of education; that it ought to be first and last, and midst, and without end,' in all our designs for the amelioration of our race. It is the more important, therefore, that we should have just ideas of its efficacy and object. Let us place the lever that is to move the moral and intellectual world on the right fulcrum. Let us not misapply and misdirect this power, so beneficent in its right use, so terrible in its misdirection. To plant the germs in a wrong soil is not to sow on the barren wave, nor the sterile sands. It is to rear a rank luxuriance, worse than useless. Whatever is done in conformity to the laws of nature is useful, or at least innocent. Whatever is done against those laws, whatever semblance it may have, is positively noxious.

Is it true then, that the difference of character is owing wholly to education? In the import of the term we include its most extensive meaning-to wit: the whole influences, that surround the subject from birth to death. Even philosopher Owen, the very doctor of circumstances, allowed more honor to the Creator than this doctrine. His theory was, that moral and intellectual character was formed out of two elements-Temperament and Circumstances, in other words education. He allowed very much to temperament, though he affirmed, that education was the chief instrument in forming character.

That education is the sole instrument in forming character, we deny in toto, as false in theory and practice, injurious in its effects, tending to misapply and misdirect its efforts, and as directly militating with the laws of nature, and the physiology of our species. In so doing, we would wish to exalt education, by pointing out what it can, and what it cannot accomplish, and the direction in which it will be useful or worse than useless.

If this dogma can be traced to any source, we suppose it must be to the doctrine, that the mind is a passive receptacle of external impressions, a blanca charta, on which the efforts of education are written, as character are impressed upon paper. No matter who put forth this doctrine. Truth is more omnipotent than Locke, great as he was. The whole doctrine, along with the quiddities about innate ideas, instincts, the passiveness of the mind in receiving knowledge, the soul residing in the commune sensorium, a term merely invented to cover utter ignorance, and much idle assumption of the same kind, was founded in the grossest misapprehension. of the nature and powers of the mind, and ought long since to have been consigned, with the lumber of the schoolmen to the moles and the bats. The flippant and weakminded will ask, Who are you, thus to estimate the teaching of the metaphysicians? Our anta