taking a hot and violent part in political movements of which some of them have not learned to understand the real bearing." Now, nicely adjusted as are the political parties of our country, often equally divided upon measures of primary importance to its welfare, it is easy to be perceived that this foreign population may become the residuary of power, the arbiter of principles that are to affect for weal or woe the destiny of millions. Parties to be successful, must flatter the prejudices and appeal to the sympathies of this "balance of power" party, corrupt appliances must be used, means must be resorted to, which become neither the honesty of party, the dignity of citizens, nor the prosperity of the state. Experience, which is the oracle of truth, teaches us, that ambitious leaders are too often induced to disregard the dictates of patriotism and religion, and it is natural enough therefore that we should be apprehensive of danger when we see bad men and corrupt politicians attempting to influence the opinions and control the conduct of a class, which from a previous life of long political servitude, is too often unfit to enjoy the blessings of freedom.

It is well enough that these truths should be proclaimed, in order that the danger may be counteracted or averted. It is not for the insane purpose of arraying the native against the foreigner, of stimulating national prejudices and violence, and encouraging outbreaks against the laws, that we speak; nor is it to deprecate the natural consequences of a healthful emigration either upon the laws, the morals, or the physical condition of the land. We deprecate rather the existence of a party, whose narrow and perverted patriotism has given a false coloring to the facts, by attempting to magnify the dangers and conceal the benefits of foreign emigration. The consequences of such a course are seen in the phrenzy of the mob, and its monuments are the charred walls of the catholic church. The system though fraught with dangers, it cannot be concealed, has its benefits and is in accordance with the settled policy of our government, and the genius of its institutions. That period has not yet past, "when from foreign shores, we can welcome here the noblest and purest, and most intelligent of citizens; men, who clearly perceive the nature and readily imbibe the spirit of our institutions; men, who are Americans before they touch our shores, who adorn alike the walks of public and private life, and leave behind them an influence conservative of law and religion, as the heritage of their adopted country." They come from the rigors of a home despotism, attracted hither by the prospect of the enjoyment of that benevolent sympathy and general intelligence, and political independence, which they can enjoy no where else under the heavens, and which, while Russia and the other despotisms of the east have been taking the most liberal but unsuccessful means to divert this broadened channel from its course, are still sending their thousands, uninvited to our shores. Let it be our boast then, as it is our distinguished privilege, that while we cannot in a day, extend the democratic principle through

out the world, our lands are broad enough to receive all its willing votaries, to blend them in the common mass, and thus "to infuse the same spirit of pure religion, the same large intelligence, and the same freedom from political subserviency." It has been said that emigration prevents us from forming ourselves into a uniform body actuated by a uniform spirit, that "there is indeed a predomi nant, but not a powerful national spirit sufficiently pervading the body of the nation, to give us a oneness of feeling, that shall withstand not so much the pressure from without as the explosive force within, "that every muscle must be strained and every right influence invoked to give our countrymen, the natural consolidation of a pure, a benevolent, a religious spirit, instead of the factious unity of a paper constitution.'

But I apprehend the dangers resulting from this want of nationality are over estimated, that there is more to be feared from that very consolidation, through which the central government may become powerful enough to compel the states into unity of action, by controlling the passions of men and localities, and attempting to obviate the clashing of those interests which Providence has made distinct and opposite, and the accident of position will cause to remain so. It is the opinion of an acute political writer, and I am inclined to think, a sound one, "that the cohesion of the miscellaneous inhabitants of the states depends on this very looseness of organization." In fact there is a great element of perpetuity in a multiplicity of conflicting interests. If for instance, the cotton interests of the south, and the manufacturing interests of the north were arrayed singly against each other, how long, think you, would the planter tolerate tariffs, or the manufacturer submit to free trade? But throw into the scale the farming interests of the west, the commercial and mercantile interests of the middle and Atlantic states, and here are new elements for whose welfare the wisdom of our statesmen must conform their polity. Thus in proportion as you multiply these causes, compromise becomes easy; and while in particular instances, each may be dissatisfied, experience will tell them all, that the union is vastly better for their permanent welfare than its disruption could possibly be for any local or temporary gratification whatever.

But, what care we, for nationality now? We can afford to wait, till the preliminary steps shall have been taken in the grand march of civilization, and moral conquest which is before us, till the resident and native population shall have become so vast as not to be affected morally or politically by the tide that is now setting in upon us from the shores of western Europe. Then and not till then, may we expect to see the costly fabric of a government erected, harmonious in all its parts, and beautiful in its completeness.

But it is false to suppose that the present influence of emigration occasions this want of nationality. We are already composed of a people as separate and distinct as foreign emigration could

possibly make us. The Puritans, who, in the reign of Charles First, "divided their inheritance" one portion remaining at home to form the English constitution, and the other settling upon the bleak shores of New England to lay the basis of the American government, the freest monarchy and the best republic of modern times, are as distinct and national at this moment as are the descendants of Abraham. The broad Atlantic rolls between them, but it can not eradicate the characteristic principles of their nature. So the Germans of the Alleghany vallies, and the chivalrous sons of the Carolinas, and the wild energetic children of the west, are they not each as distinct and national, as the emigrant is from either?

But whatever may be the dangers, or how great soever the benefits of foreign emigration, it were needless for politicians to attempt to control it. It is destiny. It is part of the silent processes and moral agencies around us, by which Providence is co-operating with men in the attainment of a common end. That end is righteousness, and liberty is its handmaid, and though the advocates of the one may not be the followers of the other, they are both hastening the advent of that millenial day, when the Prince of Peace shall reign universally in the hearts of men, and despotism shall be remembered as a thing that was. It is thus, that the ambitious projects of men and princes, though they may be too often commenced for unholy purposes, unite ultimately with the manifest designs of heaven. Famine and pestilence, and wars, are agents in these designs. They are uniting the nations out of motives of policy, of enlarged philanthropy, and by unforeseen and accidental means; and what, hitherto, the civil rulers and the philanthropists of the world, and the missionaries of the cross have failed to do, these dread agents are silently, but surely accomplishing. Famine and pestilence have made men feel their common humanity, have drawn closer the bonds of brotherhood around them; have excited sympathies and imposed obligations, which neither gratitude nor wounded pride can allow them to forget. The benignant form of Christianity, as if to atone for the unmitigated curse of war, follows close upon the ravages of the sword, and amid the ruined altars of a false religion, and the desolated homes of a prostrate people, the standard of the true faith is erected, with the inscription, as it appeared to Constantine in the heavens, "Conquer by this!"

Albany, January 1848.

D. S.

THE WINTER ROSEBUD.

BY LILY GRAHAM.

It is a tiny rosebud,

Fit for a fairy queen,
In green-house or in garden,
The loveliest ever seen;
The gentle heart that gave it,
In a distant land doth dwell,
'Tis for her sake I love it,

And for its own as well.

It grew not in a garden,

Nor 'neath the forest eaves,
The light leaves curtain'd round it,

Are pale transparent leaves;
The wild winds of December,
Are on their wintry way,
Yet a fairer never opened,
On a golden summer day!

It is a tiny rosebud,

Wrapp'd in a pale-green shroud,
It never felt the shower,

Nor 'neath the tempest bowed;
Raised in a sunny window,

Where gloomy walls look down,
It sprang to life and beauty,
Amid the dreary town.

What care I for rich jewels,

Or seas where pearls have birth?
I would not give my rosebud,

For the costliest gem on earth;
Though it be a little nursling,
A wee and tender thing,
Yet a sweeter never blossomed,
In the gardens of a king!

Soon will its tiny leaflets,
Unfolding one by one,
In all their fragile beauty,
Lie blushing in the sun;
From frost and blight and mildew,

From every noisome thing,
Good fairies guard my rosebud,
Until its blossoming!

Albany, Christmas Eve, 1847.

THE TRUE STORY OF MY LIFE.

By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. Translated by Mary Howitt. Boston: James Munroe & Company, 1847.

What luxury can bring so rare a pleasure as a beautifully written book. It is a mine of joy. It not only contains new and beautiful thoughts itself, but suggests many others to us, and thus elevates us in the scale of intelligence by making us conscious of our own capacities. And though these thoughts may never be uttered, they enter into our being and we impress them upon the world by our lives. Who has told as it deserves the praises of a beautiful book? Who has lauded as he should the merit of its author? We hardly dare do it. We are afraid of being called extravagant. Extravagant about a book! in this age of propriety and decorum that would not do. In it we may find an oblivion for hunger and cold, for sickness, sorrow, loneliness, neglect, or any of the ills of life. We may laugh, weep, aye pray over it, and in the sincerity and fervency of those prayers receive strength for the days which are to come. It may enter with us into our secret chamber-the watches of the night may find us bending over itits burning words may be graven upon our very soul, and yet if we met the writer of that book, we would touch his hand with cold civility, we would not dare to embrace him and weep upon his breast our gratitude and praise. And he will die, and never know his influence upon the eternal destiny of another.

And thus in this world our warmest impulses are repressed. And why? Because sin is in the world and ere those words of gratitude could pass from our lips to the ear of another, they would be tainted by its breath, and he for whom it was intended, would repel it as fulsome flattery. Thus while love and sympathy are all around him, the author often accuses the world of coldness, and he thinks that he is right. He must look to the future life for the true revealings of the heart of man. And after all the railings which are cast upon it, the world though slow in rendering in its verdict, is just at last. He who panders to the prejudices of a clique, may become its pet, and in that he has his reward, while he who speaks the truth boldly, relying upon God for strength, though he may be persecuted and neglected, and be compelled to walk through the "way which is desert," will eventually have justice, even from the world; and though he may not see it in the flesh, the truths which he utters will shine onward and add a lustre to the crown of glory which he wears above.

But how few authors can look forward to such a future, how few