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A NARRATIVE OF AN EXPLORATORY VISIT TO EACH OF THE CONSULAR CITIES OF CHINA, AND TO THE ISLANDS OF HONG KONG AND CHUSAN. By the Rev. George Smith, M.A., of Magdalen Hall, Oxford, and late Missionary in China. With numerous engravings. New-York: Harper & Brothers.

China and Mexico bid fair to divide the public attention. We have books about them both, written by explorers, and full of the very things that strike a stranger. For our own part, we like first impressions; they are more racy, and make a livelier book than the slower thoughts of after years. The Rev. author was sent out by a Missionary Society, but with liberal instructions, including the exploration of so much of the country as might be accessible, and information on whatever might afford an insight into the institutions and character of the Chinese. The result is a really valuable book.

RAINBOWS FOR CHILDREN. Edited by L. Maria Child. NewYork: C. S. Francis & Co., 252 Broadway.

O golden days of youth-when crystal palaces, and boats that sail of themselves, and lions and eagles that talk and feel humanly, and beneficent fairies who use their golden wands only to produce wonders of happiness,—are all believable; when indeed the only thing in which we cannot believe is impossibility! How hard it would be to feel that we had parted with you, if it were not that years bring, or may bring, something even better, in your place!

These sweet little fairy stories have, beyond mere present delight, the further intent to lay the foundation of that something better, on which we must depend for the sunshine of life after fairy-days are gone. They are full of a sweet spirit; of a delicately-hinted good purpose; of Christian sentiments, and cheerful wisdom. They are told with much elegance, and in the purest Saxon English. We may say, at a venture, that there is not a difficult word in the book.

Mrs. Child's spiriting has been done not only gently, but effectually. We can see her everywhere. She says she wishes she had written the stories; we say they are just such as she could write. The reader will agree with us when we tell him what she says in the preface:

"In Fiamma, or the Vase of Golden Water, eyesight is restored at home by first carrying a web of light all round the world. In the Crystal Palace, whoever hopefully plants flowers, or tenderly feeds birds, helps some other soul, who through tangled woods, is seeking for the palace. Little Gertrude finds no joy while she roams about merely to amuse herself; but when she keeps diligently at work, the spinning-wheel becomes musical; and when she persuades all the people to do their share of the spinning, there remain no poor women shut up in dark huts, and sentenced to perpetual toil. Thus does the spirit of hopeful progress diffuse itself through all departments of literature, and even the fairy-wand points to a happier state of society."

This is Mrs. Child's own best vein.

The embellishments of the volume are uncommonly tasteful and well executed. Twenty-eight original sketches, engraved on wood by one of our best artists in that line, add whatever can be added to the suggestiveness of the stories themselves.

heart, are sought out to be illustrated by all that art can contribute in the way of graceful and suggestive pictures, rich binding, and exquisite typography. Bryant, Halleck, Longfellow, and now Willis, have been selected for this honor; and the selection has been made by the public, not by the publishers. The latter only follow unmistakable indications of preference, and lend their means and taste to the carrying out of the idea. The people of this country have always loved Willis's poetry, and in its present elegant dress it will doubtless find its way into half the parlors in the land. The author tells us in his preface, that his own taste would have prompted the rejection of some of the pieces in the present very complete collection, but for their hold on popular favor; but we must take leave to tell him that he would have made a very great mistake had he omitted any. Authors are by no means necessarily the best judges of their own works. Indeed, we are not sure if, when the real worth and meaning of poetry is fully understood, the most uncultivated judges will not be preferred to the fastidious. Why is it that the poetical vigor of a people invariably declines as the general rules deduced from their poetry are brought to greater perfection? It is easy to be too critical upon that which is addressed to the imagination and the passions. How could we relish the most delicious music, if somebody were at our side discoursing all the while most learnedly upon thorough bass and counterpoint? A highly-critical judgment is just such a tedious friend at one's elbow-forgetting the soul in the body; melting away the pearl in most distasteful vinegar-clipping the wings of all angels-pouring the cold light of common day upon illusions in which our life is bound up. We could preach long, for we feel warmly on this theme; but our limits oblige us to content ourselves with welcoming Mr. Willis in his new and glorious havings, and entreating him always to prefer Molière's counsellor to any other, unless it be a bright little child-not far to seek, in his case, happily.

THE ROSE. ITS HISTORY, POETRY, CULTURE, AND CLASSIFICATION. BY S. B. Parsons. New-York: Wiley & Putnam.

We regret that this beautiful and really-valuable volume did not arrive while we had room for a notice worthy of its claims to public favor. All that romance, poetry and science have endowed the rose with-all that philosophers have found, and lovers fancied, and ladies felt about this garner of sweet associations, is here set forth, and worthily; while on two shining pages, the beauty herself appears, fairly mirrored, in her most magnificent aspect, and seeming only to ask the plucking. We love the book.

OLD WINE IN NEW BOTTLES: OR, SPARE HOURS OF A STUDENT IN PARIS. By Augustus Kinsley Gardner, M.D New-York: C. S. Francis & Co. Boston: J. H. Francis. Dr. Gardner has made a very sprightly and amusing book out of his Paris experiences. Some objection may be made by the fastidious to portions of his recollections, as being more frank than squeamish. But though he is not 'insolently nice, he is unexceptionably moral, as far as we have been able to penetrate, and tells us many true things about the city of all the earth for variety and gaiety.

THOMSON'S SEASONS. With seventy-seven Illustrations,

drawn by members of the London Etching Club, and

This elegant edition of Thomson is a fac-simile of the English one, even to the rich blue of the cover, the material for which was imported. It has altogether the appearance of an English book-paper, print and general execution being admirable. The plates were first drawn on wood, and printed from copper blocks, formed by the electrotype process, which has been found of great advantage in printing, besides the great one of preserving the original blocks and renewing the electrotypes; thus forming perpetual security against inferior designs.

Of the beauties of Thomson's Seasons it is too late to speak. Those who have never read them, cannot enjoy the landscapes of his country, and cannot be said to be

acquainted with its literature. This is a most favoralle opportunity to remedy such a defect.

SINDBAD THE SAILOR AND ALI BABA AND THE FORTY ROD

BERS.

ALADDIN, OR THE WONDERFUL LAMP. New-York: C. S. Francis & Co.

A critical notice of these two books would be preposterous; but how they do recall other days, when we bent in transport over their fascinating pages! We suppose young people now a-days have the same feeling of conveyance;' they are carried through the scenes of magic and marvel! Well, here they are in time for Christmas, renewed and produced in a modern form, yet retaining all their original charms, with the advantage of handsome print, new embellishments, and fanciful binding.

JANUARY.--Taking time by the forelock is not the best way of getting a good look at his face. Writing prospectively of January-a whole month in advance-we can hardly be expected to show "the age and body of the time, its form and pressure." In the olden time, it might have been safe to make experience the basis of prophecy; now, we cannot even guess what will be the new wonder of another day. A month ahead! Why, before January is here, with its snows and furs and holiday parties, a star may y be discovered that will eclipse even Miss -; a balloon invented that will soar from the Battery to Union Square every ten minutes, making Mrs. bite her lips with vexation, as she sits in her new carriage, which was to surpass every thing; Professor Agassiz, in his researches among the animalculæ, may show up the natural history of the Exclusive, with such minuteness, that no individual of the species, male or female, shall hereafter pretend to the possession of heart or brains.

In default of any of these wonders of science, we take advantage of the signs of the times to venture a few predictions. In 1849, the enormous disproportion of wealth between man and inan, and class and class, shall be bridged over in the only effectual way-by the voluntary generosity and kindness of the rich; people shall no longer have any poor relations; poor seamstresses shall obtain comfortable incomes, through a general resolution among their employers to give them a due proportion of the profits which spring from their labor; and in general, those who do the 10ork shall have their full share of the goods of life.

In the intercourse of society, the great object of conversation shall be the expression of real sentiments, and the enjoyment of real sympathy; the motive of social gatherings,

the cultivation of kind, liberal and genial feelings, and not the exhibition of fine clothes and furniture; the choice of companions depend more upon worth, cultivation and accomplishment, than upon a calculation of dollars and cents.

Books shall be read for instruction and amusement; music heard for the delight and exaltation of the soul-But we are warned that our vaticinations are spreading over too much paper, and we must save the rest of our happy dreams for next month

CORRESPONDENTS.-Among our correspondents are doubtless many people of comparative, if not absolute leisure; young people, perhaps, who have not yet assumed the serious burdens of life, or older ones, who have laid them aside. These do not scruple to press for 'immediate' replies to the most trifling communications; to expect instant attention to their contributions; sending an article on Saturday, perhaps, and desiring, "if convenient," a decided answer on Monday morning. We should like to give all such ultra mundane correspondents one peep at our sanctum, pigeon holes and all, provided we could offer at the same time a correct view of the interior of the head editorial and its remnant of brain. We should plume ourselves on performing an act of kindness to the whole fraternity, since all editors have the mortifying experience of requisitions which they find it impossible to meet, and reproaches which they are reluctant to repel. For the present, we must content ourselves with promising to make up our delinquencies as speedily as possible, and beginning the new year with a diligent reading-up, which shall result in a whole crop of letters, explanatory. apologetic or critical, to our distant friends

thence extend, league upon league of meadow, and pasture, and grain-field, and clustered woodland, smiling in all the witchery of those long-reaching black shadows-vistas of soft, rosy light-dappled spaces and flashing gleams, which that splendid painter, Nature, scatters in the sweet hour of sunset so profusely from her palette. Looking more intently, the eye at length searches out and detects the minute and delicate touches in the lovely picture. The dotting homesteads, set like 'birds' nests amidst their trees-the crouching barns the scattered hay-stacks-the grouped cattle--the myriad lines of fences crossing each other--the gray roads with black dots of travellers, striping hill and valley-the green laues -the differing colors of the corn, and grass, and wheat-fields the turns and reaches of the flashing brooks-in short, all that makes up a landscape of exquisite rural beauty. Often have I stood, drinking in this glorious scene, until my heart went down upon its knees to God, in melting gratitude for so much loveliness, spread out for us-the poor, frail creatures of His hands.

You pass on at length, move down a hill, rise another summit, then descend the western breast of the mountain; and in a short time, the second view bursts upon you. Glimpses are given every little while, over the tops of the trees, of the valley far below. Still the woods covering this side of old Shawangunk, curtain any wide prospect; and you see little, (excepting the above glimpses,) but the great rough trunks and scalloped leaves of the white oaks, and the shaggy branches, studded with immense brown cones, of the spruces and hemlocks that flank the way. These, however, are interspersed with yawning chasms, into the sides of which the slanting trees strike their long claws, as if to keep themselves from pitching headlong below, and down which the eye follows the flash of the water-fall into some deep, dark dell, that looks as if striving to hide itself in the very bowels of the mountain, like a guilty thought in the depths of the human bosom. At length you come to a sudden curve of the road, and suddenly the prospect opens. Mamakating Hollow is stretched out below, with the "Barrens" rising opposite. The Bashe's Rill glitters almost at your feet, along its green meadows, with generally an angler or two after the fine pickerel of its waters, and a graceful elm and yellow willow making a standing bow over it. Far to the north and south extends the Hollow, in its green and golden hues of cultivated beauty; with the red houses of Wintsboro' in the middle distance, its single spire pointing a slender finger to heaven-the turnpike, a white streak laid athwart, straight as the path of the homeward bee; the canal, like a band of steel, running parallel with the Hollow; the long roof of the passing boat, crawling just over

the edge, with the tugging horse and ragged driver before it-the former attached by its spider thread of rope to the sluggish craft; and from different parts of the dark growth of the "Barrens," the smoke of the charcoal burners curling within the soft azure of the cloudless sky. Hark! hark! the merry echoes-merry echoes echoes-echoes, leap out boldly to the winding of the passing boatman's horn. Now they bound along the mountain—twang-a-rara, twang-arara; thence they pass in undulations-lura, lura, through the Hollow; faint and fainter-leera, leera; then they gather, bursting louder twang-arara; speeding fainter-leera, leera, in the distance, till they rise and fall, how sweetly! oh, how sweetly! faintly, sweetly! till they melt and die, how sweetly! oh, how sweetly, on the ear.

Speaking of descending the mountain, reminds me of a fearful ride I had once in a stage-coach, down this very road. It was in December-a bright, lovely day, but cold as Nova Zembla; or, what is colder-a miser's heart. The clear glittering air brought all things out in sharp and beautiful relief; pleasant enough to look at with the glasses of the coach down; the moment, howver, you put your head out-whew! where was your nose! It had rained the night before, and the road was one sheet of ice. We ascended very well; the noble horses in a cloud of white vapor, and the wheels creaking as if they peeled off strips of ice as they went. The first descent was also made well enough, as it is short and not steep. After another tugging up, we stood for a moment to let the horses breathe, and the driver shoe the wheel. At the risk of losing my nose, I raised the glass and looked out. Down plunged the icy road from within ten feet of the leaders' fore-legs, flashing back the rays of the cloudless sun, and appearing as if it would be the easiest thing in the world to slide down over it into-anywhere. There were six passengers of us; an old, fat woman, her husband, with a nose like the shell of a boiled lobster; a backwoods dandy, with his pantaloons strapped so preposterously tight, that it was a wonder he could keep his legs down; a stolid assemblyman from Sullivan county, with a face of solemn wisdom, that seemed as if he thought the whole world was anxious for him "to express his views "-only he would n't; a drunken, hiccoughing vagabond, that the autocrat of the reins had picked up and thrust upon us, and your humble servant. Ascending, the talk in the coach was somewhat as follows:-myself and red-nose, being listeners-general to the whole.

"My old man, what sets beside me here, sez to me, Bessy, (he always from the very first goen off called me Bessy,) Bessy, sez he, this ere child of ourn will die, as sarten as ken be. Nothen ken