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were regaling themselves upon his bounty-the bounty of one whose character for benevolence was widely known-kindled my indignation to such a pitch that I was tempted to seize the miserable rascals by the throat, and take summary vengeance upon their shrivelled carcasses. Restraining, however, my indignation, I stepped back into the parlor and informed my friend of all that had happened. My amazement was greater than before, when he simply observed, without changing an expression of his good-natured countenance, Poor fellows! let them be happy once in their lives; they meant no harm! I was at a loss to understand my friend's remark. He perceived my surprise, and without any ceremony seated himself in a comfortable position, and thus addressed

me:

'I perceive, my dear friend, that you do not understand the conduct of the beggars, and my reply to your relation of what you saw and heard. If you will take the trouble to reflect upon the different passions which compose the human heart, you will find that fault-finding is one of the strongest and most ungovernable. No rank in life, however polished by the refinement of education and the influence of religion, is free from its sway. A beggar, in this respect, is on a level with the proudest monarch, whose life is one long gala-day of fault-finding. To select examples from all the callings of life to illustrate my position, would be useless, and would weary your patience. I will, however, give you one illustration from a class of men which is supposed by many, perhaps most persons, to be the most independent and the most free from vexation and complaint. I refer to husbandmen. In selecting an example from this useful and all-important branch of mankind, I am guided by the highest respect for those who compose the class. As this class is supposed to be the most independent, the most powerful illustration can be drawn from it.

Though the farmer is eulogized and envied, he is the greatest grumbler upon the face of the globe. With him it is always too hot' or too cold,'' too wet' or 'too dry.' If he have plentiful crops he finds fault because prices are proportionably reduced; and if his crops fall short, and prices become in consequence enormous, he curses the soil for yielding so little, while he can command so much for his produce. He would reduce the winds and rains of heaven to his own sway; and, when they seem to come at his bidding, he finds fault with himself for his ignorance in wishing for that and for this, when he had not the wisdom to know what he really needed. If this passion be so strong in those persons whose life seems all sunshine, how powerfully must it operate with those whose lot in life is full of doubts and perplexities? The beggar finds fault with his pallet of straw, and the millionaire with his couch of down. The lawyer finds fault with the intricacies of his profession, while he is reaping his thousands from its pursuit; and the client curses the lawyer, who is saving him from trouble.

'Shakspeare was a believer in my theory. When he said, 'The course of true love never did run smooth,' he expressed my views

in a different and better manner. If lovers do not find fault with each other, it is proof positive that they are not well-matched. The experience of the whole world of Cupid abundantly testifies to the truth of this position. A person who does not find fault is an anomaly, and naturalists would be obliged to rank such an one under an altogether new head in the scale of being.

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The practice of fault-finding is not confined to real objects, but it is powerfully active in imaginary cases. One of the strongest proofs of this which occurs to my recollection at this moment, is to be found in the play of 'The Hunchback,' by Sheridan Knowles. Let no one say that it is a play, and therefore the example is not from real life. The play itself, so deservedly popular, from its intrinsic merit, is a picture of real life; and the scene to which I allude is very common in fashionable life. I refer to the conduct of Julia. You of course recollect the play, and the inimitable personation of that character by Mrs. Kean, late Ellen Tree. Fathom, in his truly quaint and facetious way, relates the conduct of Julia toward the seamstress. After exhausting all real objects of complaint which might furnish food for her love of fault-finding, she finds fault with things which have no existence, except in her own visionary and giddy brain. I regard the relation of Fathom as one of the most powerful arguments in support of my theory. Julia represents a class. Her language is the daily tone of very many; a tone which rings harshly in the ears of that creative, all-important band, called seamstresses. The beggars who found fault with me and mine are no more at fault than any one who ever drew the breath of life. They were guided by a passion, deeply rooted in their hearts; a passion which poverty and misfortune perhaps have hardened, and which no kindness can ennoble. I hope you will see that anger against fault-finders is useless and uncharitable.'

I listened to my friend's remarks with the greatest interest. He had seen the world, not only through the medium of books, but he had studied it practically. He had travelled much, and mingled freely with all classes of men. After expressing to him my gratitude for his views, so freely given, I took my leave, a wiser man than when I crossed his threshold. I have thought again and again upon the subject, and have come to the settled conviction that faultfinding is a natural and a prescriptive right.

I am firmly persuaded that the reviews, which now form so prominent a part of the literature of the day, took their rise from, and are sustained by, this inordinate and insatiable love of fault-finding. To be sure, they sometimes praise; but praise is the exception, which confirms the rule. If they never found fault they would soon find their level among the things that were.

It may be asked,Is there no remedy for this passion?' The only remedy is early culture and bright example. It may be doubted with perfect propriety and great wisdom whether it would be well for the world if there were no such thing as fault-finding. If the passion were torn away from the human heart, we might look in vain for a substitute to soothe our wounded vanity, our unsuccessful

ambition, and our humbled pride. A right which is natural, and so indispensably necessary to our happiness, should not be looked upon as a blemish in a person's character. It should be regarded as incident to humanity, and treated with respect and consideration. If I thought no one would find fault with my views, thus freely advanced, I should at once betray my conviction of the unsoundness of my theory. The CREATOR implanted fault-finding in the heart of man for a wise and benificent purpose. Let every one exercise this natural right in a graceful and dignified manner, and life will wear a brighter hue.

F. B. 3.

FAREWELL TO AVON.

BY W. H. c. HOSMER.

DEAR Avon, my home, looking down on a vale,
By its river of sweet waters beautiful made;
Sad music is wandering by on the gale,

And dim lie the scenes of my childhood in shade:
Above is the roof that protected my head

From the tempest without, when an innocent child;
Beneath me, old floors that rang out with my tread,
When beat my young pulses in exstacy wild.
Around me are objects that greeted my sight
When Hope gave the future a chaplet of light;
And visions of long ago wake from their rest
At the summons of grief, in my over-full breast.

The desolate moment of parting is near,

And care on my forehead sits mantled in gloom;
I feel like some maid bending over the bier

Whereon lies her chosen-one, dressed for the tomb;
Exchanged for a draught from dear Memory's cup,
Away will be pushed the bright goblet of mirth,
When nightly assemble, the past to call up,

The love-throng of home round the wood-lighted hearth.
I shall miss, when the gale of adversity blows,
That being who guarded my cradle repose;
When Ocean is baring his breast to the storm,
In visions her kiss on my cheek will be warm.'

On the morrow I part with my reverend sire,

And vacant my place in his hall will be soon;

Full early the spirit of song on my lyre

Will sleep, for the chords have been long out of tune.

The rich airy dreams of poetical days

Like vapor of morning have faded away;

On thy loveliness, Avon, the stranger will gaze,

When moulders thy bard in his grave far away:

It is meet, it is meet that my last lay be sung

In the sanctified place where my harp was first strung;

Home! where companions and relatives dwell,

(What ails my hot brow ?)-fare-thee-well! fare-thee-well!

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AGAIN was the Mary C refitted and reladen for an outward-bound trip. The pilot was on board; the owner's last orders were given; some of the hands were aloft, ready to loose away; others on deck prepared to sheet-home and run up the sails. The skipper's trumpet was raised to his lips: All ready?'

'Ay, ay, Sir!' responded the crew, from aloft and below.

'Let fall! sheet home! hoist away of all! Cast off the wharffasts-starboard your helm! Lay down from aloft and clear up the decks!'

Then down the glassy river swiftly and smoothly sped the outward-bound before the strong breath of a nor'-wester. Reedy-Island, Red-Bank, Chester, Wilmington and Newcastle, seemed to be moving rapidly up stream, faster even than the black clouds fled athwart the sky; and Time had notched but a few hours on his log-chip, before the schooner rolled like a thing delighted, in her ocean cradle, like a bird nested on a branch, swinging idly in the breeze. As soon as she was clear of the Capes, her course was laid to the south'ard and eastward for the Cape de Verds, in order to strike the 'trades.' With a flowing sheet and bending spars the schooner bounded over

the rough Atlantic, as if she knew that from the sleet and snow and icy gales of her northern home she was speeding to a land of evergreens and flowers, of bright sunshine and refreshing zephyrs.

But while she sails over her foam-path, let me introduce the reader to our passengers. It is a bright afternoon, and some of them are on deck. Observe that fat, red-faced, blue-eyed man, with a snub-nose, leaning against the companion-hatch, looking as if he wanted to bite. That is Mr. William Marley, an Englishman, travelling to see 'sum'at of the world.' He has made the tower of the States,' been to Niagara, etc., but has left America completely disgusted with the 'hawk'ard manners of the natives,' and their hateful' equality.' His wife and nine children, from one year in age upward, are down below, sea-sick. There let them lay!' as Byron says. Mr. Marley is now bound to South America, to see after some stock which he holds in a gold mine; for he is rich, very; having acquired a fortune in soap-making. He is very aristocratic, has a coat of arms, and damns all parvenus.

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Now, reader, cast your eye back to the taffrail, upon that young man who stands with his arm upon the quarter-davit, looking toward the western horizon as if he had left something behind that his heart fondly clings to. Mark his appearance; his high pale brow, wreathed above by dark brown waving hair. His cheek too is pale and very thin; and that eye, its color like the ocean he gazes upon, is full of sad expressiveness. He seems to have marked upon his visage

THE furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears,
Which ebbing leave a sterile track behind,
O'er which all heavily the journeying years

Plod the last sands of life, where not a flower appears.'

We feel interested in him. His eye is still toward the land, and his bosom heaves so frequent sighs, that our sympathy is deeply enlisted in his behalf. Yet we cannot tell you who he is, nor whence he came. He has avoided conversation, and turned from every one who has sought to know him. He came on board just before the schooner sailed, asked the price of passage, paid it without a word; and that is all we know of him. He is The Stranger. One would suppose him to be twenty-four or twenty-five years of age; but looks are deceitful. Trouble writes heavier age-marks than Time. But there is a new arrival on deck; see, they come up from the cabin, a father and his daughter. The first, a fine-looking gentleman, past life's noon and pretty well into its autumn; the latter, a girl of eighteen or twenty summer's bloom, and—'a beauty!' Not one of your bold dashing beauties, super-abounding in physical and lacking in soulful life; but a soft, pensive, dreamy creature, with form light and graceful; eyes large, full, languid, and features of the oriental cast. Reader, know Mr. AMADINNA of Florida, and his daughter JANE. Mr. AMADINNA is a native of America, but a descendant from the adventurous nation who first unfurled the flag of discovery upon the coast of the 'Flower-land.' He is bound to Rio, to receive some property bequeathed to him by a dying relative. His daughter Jane has accompanied the old gentleman, to take care

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