We shall not here speak of the universal deluge of Noah. Let it suffice to read the Holy Scriptures with submission. Noah's flood was an incomprehensible miracle, supernaturally worked by the justice and goodness of an ineffable Providence, whose will it was to destroy the whole guilty human race, and form a new and innocent race. If the new race was more wicked than the former, and became more criminal from age to age, from reformation to reformation, this is but another effect of the same Providence, of which it is impossible for us to fathom the depths, the inconceivable mysteries, transmitted to the nations of the west for many ages, in the Latin translation of the Septuagint. We shall never enter these awful sanctuaries: our questions will be limited to simple nature.

CHARACTER.

[From the Greek word signifying Impression, Engraving.—It is what nature has engraven in us.]

CAN we change our character? Yes-if we change our body. A man born turbulent, violent, and inflexible, may, through falling in his old age into an apoplexy, become but as a silly, weak, timid, puling child. His body is no longer the same; but so long as his nerves, his blood, and his marrow, remain in the same state, his disposition will not change, any more than the instinct of a wolf or a polecat.

The English author of the Dispensary, a poem much superior to the Italian Capitoli, and perhaps even to Boileau's Lutrin, has, as it seems to me, well observed

How matter, by the varied shape of pores,
Or ideots frames, or solemn senators.

The character is formed of our ideas and our feelings. Now, it is quite clear, that we neither give ourselves feelings nor ideas; therefore our character cannot depend on ourselves.

If it did so depend, every one would be perfect.

We cannot give ourselves tastes, nor talents: why, then, should we give ourselves qualities?

When we do not reflect, we think we are masters of all when we reflect, we find that we are masters of nothing.

If you would absolutely change a man's character, purge him with diluents till he is dead. Charles XII., in his illness on the way to Bender, was no longer the same man; he was as tractable as a child.

If I have a wry nose and cat's eyes, I can hide them behind a mask: and can I do more with the character that nature has given me?

A man born violent and passionate, presents himself before Francis I. king of France, to complain of a trespass. The countenance of the prince, the respectful behaviour of the courtiers, the very place he is in, make a powerful impression upon this man. He mechanically casts down his eyes, his rude voice is softened; he presents his petition with humility; you would think him as mild as (at that moment at least) the courtiers appear to be, amidst whom he is even disconcerted: but if Francis I. knows anything of physiognomy, he will easily discover in his eye, though downcast, glistening with a sullen fire, in the extended muscles of his face, in his fast-closed lips, that this man is not so mild as he is forced to appear. The same man follows him to Pavia, is taken prisoner along with him, and thrown into the same dungeon at Madrid. The majesty of Francis I. no longer awes him as before: he becomes familiar with the object of his reverence. One day, pulling on the king's boots, and happening to pull them on ill, the king, soured by misfortune, grows angry, on which our man of courtesy wishes his majesty at the devil, and throws his boots out at the window.

Sixtus V. was by nature petulant, obstinate, haughty, impetuous, vindictive, arrogant: this character, however, seems to have been softened by the trials of his noviciate, But see him beginning to acquire some influence in his order; he flies into a passion against a

guardian, and knocks him down. Behold him an inquisitor at Venice; he exercises his office with insolence. Behold him cardinal; he is possessed della rabbia papale: this rage triumphs over his natural propensities, he buries his person and his character in obscurity, and counterfeits humility and infirmity. He is elected pope; and the spring which policy had held back now acts with all the force of its long-restrained elasticity he is the proudest and most despotic of sovereigns.

Naturam expellas furcâ, tamen usque recurret.

Howe'er expell'd, nature will still return.

Religion and morality curb the strength of the dispo→ sition, but they cannot destroy it. The drunkard in a cloister, reduced to a quarter of a pint of cider per meal, will never more get drunk, but he will always be fond of wine.

Age weakens the character; it is as an old tree, producing only a few degenerate fruits, but always of the same nature, which is covered with knots and moss, and becomes worm-eaten, but is ever the same, whether oak or pear-tree. If we could change our character, we could give ourselves one, and become the masters of nature. Can we give ourselves anything? do not we receive everything? To strive to animate the indolent man with persevering activity, to freeze with apathy the boiling breast of the impetuous, to inspire a taste for poetry into him who has neither taste nor ear, were as futile as to attempt to give sight to one born blind. We perfect, we ameliorate, we conceal what nature has placed in us; but we place nothing there ourselves.

An agriculturist is told-you have too many fish in this pond; they will not thrive: here are too many cattle in your meadows; they will want grass, and grow lean. After this exhortation, the pikes come and eat one half this man's carps, the wolves one half of his sheep, and the rest fatten. And will you applaud his economy? This countryman is yourself: one of your passions devours the rest, and you think you have

gained a triumph. Do we not almost all resemble the old general of ninety, who, having found some young officers behaving in a rather disorderly manner with some young women, said to them in anger-" Gentlemen, is this the example I set you?"

CHARITY.

CHARITABLE AND BENEFICENT INSTITUTIONS,
ALMS-HOUSES, HOSPITALS, &c.

CICERO frequently speaks of universal charity: "charitas humani generis;" but it does not appear that the policy or the beneficence of the Romans ever induced them to establish charitable institutions, in which the indigent and the sick might be relieved at the expense of the public. There was a receptacle for strangers at the port of Ostia, called Xenodokium. St. Jerome

renders this justice to the Romans. Alms-houses seem to have been unknown in ancient Rome. A more noble usage obtained *-that of supplying the people with corn. There were in Rome three hundred and twenty-seven public granaries. This constant liberality precluded any need of alms-houses. They were strangers to necessity.

Neither was there any occasion among the Romans for foundling charities. None exposed their own children. Those of slaves were taken care of by their masters. Child-birth was not deemed disgraceful to the daughters of citizens. The poorest families, maintained by the republic, and afterwards by the emperors, saw the subsistence of their children secured.

The expression charitable establishment, "maison de charité," implies a state of indigence among modern. nations which the form of our governments has not been able to preclude.

The word hospital, which recals that of hospitality, reminds us of a virtue in high estimation among the Greeks, now no longer existing: but it also expresses a virtue far superior. There is a mighty difference be

* Modern political economists will dispute this assertion, and with justice. The distribution of corn clearly pauperised the Roman population.-T.

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tween lodging, maintaining, and providing in sickness for all afflicted applicants whatever, and entertaining at your own house two or three travellers by whom you might claim a right to be entertained in return. Hospitality after all was but an exchange. Hospitals are monuments of beneficence.

It is true that the Greeks were acquainted with charitable institutions, under the name of Xenodokia for strangers, Nosocomeia for the sick, and Ptokia for the indigent. In Diogenes Laertius, concerning Bion, we find this passage," he suffered much from the indigence of those who were charged with the care of the sick."

Hospitality among friends was called Idioxenia, and among strangers Proxenia. Hence, the person who received and entertained strangers at his house, in the name of the whole city, was called Proxenos. But this institution appears to have been exceedingly rare.

At the present day there is scarcely a city in Europe without its hospitals. The Turks have them even for: beasts; which seems to be carrying charity rather too far it would be better to forget the beasts, and think' more about men.*

This prodigious multitude of charitable establishments clearly proves a truth, deserving of all our attention-that man is not so depraved as he is stated to be, and that, notwithstanding all his absurd opinions, notwithstanding all the horrors of war, which transform him into a ferocious beast, we have reason to consider him as a creature naturally well disposed and kind, and who, like other animals, becomes vicious only in proportion as he is stung by provocation. The misfortune is, that he is provoked too often.

Modern Rome has almost as many charitable institutions as ancient Rome had triumphal arches and other monuments of conquest. The most considerable of them all is a bank, which lends money at two per cent. upon pledge, and sells the property if the borrower does not redeem it by an appointed time. This establishment is called the Archiospedale, or chief hos

It may be proper to observe, that this was written when Mr. Martin of Galway was in his cradle.