There is no such being as a misanthrope. The men designated by this name, may be divided into many classes. In one class I see men of philosophic minds, revolted by our vices, or shocked by our contradictions, who censure these universal traits with a blunt frankness. Their disgust springs from the evils, which the universal follies of the age have shed upon our career. But if they really hated men, would they wield the pen of satire, in striving to correct them?

Another class consists of those unfortunate beings, who hope to find peace only in solitude. They fly a world which has pierced their heart with cruel wounds; and perhaps avow, in words, an implacable hatred towards men. But their sensibility belies their avowal; and we soothe their griefs, as soon as we ask their services.

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Finally, there are those who strive only to render themselves singular, who are really less afflicted, than whimsical; rather officious than observing. These would tire us with the avowal of their love of mankind, if they did not deem that they render themselves more piquant and original by declaring that they hate them.

We may excuse indignation towards prejudices, contradictions and vices. But how can man have merited hatred or contempt? Man is good. Such is his primitive character, which he can never entirely efface. Good, but seduced, erring and unhappy, he has claims upon our most tender interest.

I do not propose to vex the question whether man is born good? I consider him to be born without either virtue or vice. But as he advances in life, nature arranges everything around him in such a manner, as ought to render him good. A mother is the first object that offers to his view. The first words which he hears express the tenderest affection. Caresses inspire his first sentiments; and his first occupations are sports.

Too soon, it is true, very different objects surround him. As he grows into life, he is struck with such a general spectacle of injustice, as reverses his ideas, and sours his character. But, although the contagion reaches him, and the passions and prejudices degrade him, some traits of his primitive goodness will always remain in his heart.

Even those terrible enthusiasts, who thrust themselves forward in the effervescence of party, who, to give triumph to their cause, blow up the incipient flame of civil discord, and with an unshrinking hand raise the sword of proscription, these fanatics may be strangers to every[97] humane sentiment. Yet many of them are seen to love their wives and children with tenderness, and to preserve in the bosom of their family, so to speak, the germs of innocence. Robbers, the horror of society, whom the gibbet claims, honor themselves with some acts of humanity; and tyrants have their days of clemency.

During great calamities, natural sentiments develope themselves, and form a touching contrast with the scenes of horror with which they are surrounded. When a destructive conflagration is sweeping along a city, there are no distinctions, no animosities among the wretched sufferers, whom the same terror pursues. Enemies forget their hatred, and partisans their parties. The rich and poor cry out together. All love and aid each other. Misfortune has broken down the separating barriers of pride and prejudice, and they find each other good and equal.

Even upon the theatre of war, where the spectacle of destruction excites an appetite to destroy, we often discover affecting traces of humanity. At the siege of Mentz, in 1795, I remember that the advanced guards of the attack on the left, occupied an English garden, near the village of Montback. The garden was completely destro............