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m'en vais jeter cette pierre contre l'arbre qui est vis-a-vis de moi si je le touche, signe de salut ; si je le marque, signe de damnation."

But Jean Jacques passes for an inspired madman. What shall we say to the temperate Spinoza, whose life was not variegated by the brightness of domestic scenes, and who, being cut off from active life and from social love, necessarily encountered a void within himself. It was his favourite resource against the visits of ennui, to catch spiders and teach them to fight; and when he had so far made himself master of the nature of these animals, that he could get them as angry as game cocks, he would, all thin and feeble as he was, break out into a roar of laughter, and chuckle to see his champions engage, as if they, too, were fighting for honour.

Poor Spinoza! It may indeed be questioned, whether his whole philosophy was not a sort of pastime with him. It may be, that after all he was ingenious because he could not be quiet, and wrote his attacks on religion from a want of something to do. At any rate it has fared strangely with his works. The world had well nigh become persuaded, that Spinoza was but a name for a degraded atheism, and now we have him zealously defended, and in fact we have seen him denominated a saint.* So near are extremes: the ridiculous borders on the sublime; and the same man is denounced as a parricide of society, and again extolled as a model of sanctity.

But we have a stronger example than either of these. The very philosopher, who first declared experience to be the basis of knowledge, and found his way to truth through the safe places of observation, gives in his own character some evidences of participation in the common infirmity. He said very truly, that there is a foolish corner even in the wise man's brain. Yet, if there has ever appeared on earth, a man possessed of reason in its highest perfection, it was Aristotle. He had the gift of seeing the forms of things, undisturbed by the confusing splendour of colours; his mind, like the art of sculpture, represented objects with the most precise outlines and exact images; but the world in his mind was a colourless world. He understood and has explained the secrets of the human heart, the workings of the human passions; but he performs all these moral dissections with the coolness of an anatomist, engaged in a delicate operation. The nicety of his distinctions, and his deep insight into the nature of man, are displayed without passion, while his con

We remember perfectly well the beginning of an apostrophe to the Jewish philosopher; "Du heiliger Spinoza." Herder, too, has a good deal to say in defence of him.

stant effort after the discovery of new truth, never for one moment betrays him into mysticism, or tempts him to substitute shadows for realities. One would think, that such a philosopher was the personification of self-possession; that his unruffled mind would always dwell in the serene regions of intelligence; that his step would be on the firm ground of experience; that his progress to the sublime temple of truth and of fame, would have been ever secure and progressive; that happiness itself would have blessed him for his tranquil and dispassionate devotedness to exalted pursuits.

But perhaps the clear perception of the realities of life is not the secret source of contentment. Many a scholar has shrunk from the contest of transient interests, and sought happiness rather in the world of contemplation; and perhaps the studies of antiquity derive a part of their charm, from their affording us a place of refuge against the clamours and persecutions which belong to present rivalries. If the view of human nature, adopted by a large portion of our theologians, is a just one, the heart must recoil with horror from the true consideration of the hu- ' man world in its natural unmitigated depravity, and throw itself rather into the hopes that belong to the future, and the mercies that attach to the Supreme Intelligence, for relief against the apathy which so cold a contemplation of unmingled evil might naturally produce.

In the mouth of Pindar, life might be called a dream, and it would but pass for the effusion of poetic melancholy. But when the sagacious philosopher asserts it, that all hope is but the dream of waking man, a latent discontent broken from the concealment of an unsatisfied curiosity, a baffled pursuit; when his mind had arrived at that state, nothing but its remarkable vigour could have preserved him from settled gloom.

Again the venerable sage examined into the sources of happiness. It does not consist, he affirms, in voluptuous pleasures, for they are transient, brutalizing, and injurious to the mind; nor in public honours, for they depend on those who bestow them, and it is not felicity to be the recipient of an uncertain bounty; nor yet does happiness consist in riches, for the care of them is but a toil; and if they are expended, it is plainly a proof, that contentment is sought for in the possession of other things. In the view of the Stagyrite, happiness consists in the pursuit of knowledge, and in the practice of virtue, under the auspices of mind, and nature, and fortune. He that is intelligent, and young, and handsome, and vigorous, and rich, is alone the happy man. Did the world need the sublime wisdom, the high mental endowment of the Stagyrite, to learn, that ither the poor, nor the dull, nor the aged, nor the sick, can

share in the highest bounty of the Universal Father? When it is remembered that Aristotle was favoured above all his contemporaries in intellectual gifts, we ask the reader to draw an inference as to the state of his mind, which still demanded the beauties of personal attractions, and the lavish liberality of fortune.

When asked what is the most transient of fleeting things, the philosopher made but a harsh answer, in naming "gratitude;" but his mind must have been sadly a prey to ennui, when he could exclaim, "my friends! there are no friends."

He could not be content to sit or stand, when he gave lessons in moral science, but walked to and fro in constant restlessness; and, indeed, if tradition reports rightly, he could not wait the will of Heaven for his release from weariness, but in spite of all his sublime philosophy, and all his expansive genius, he was content to die as the fool dieth.

But ennui kills others beside philosophers. It is not without example, that men have committed suicide, because they have attained their utmost wishes. The man of business, finding himself possessed of a sufficient fortune, retires from active life; but the habit of action remains, and becomes a power of terrific force. In such cases, the sufferer sits away listless hours of intense suffering; the mind preys upon itself, and sometimes madness ensues, sometimes suicide is committed.

Saul went out to find his father's asses. With the humble employment he seems to have been reasonably pleased, and probably made search with a light heart and an honest one. But, seeking asses, he found a kingdom; and contentment fled when possession was full. In him, the reproofs of conscience and discontent with the world produced a morbid melancholy, and pain itself would have been to him a welcome refuge from ennui.

We detect the same subtle spirit at work, in the slanders in which gossips find relief. Truth is not exciting enough to those who depend on the characters and lives of their neighbours for all their amusement; and if a story is told of more than common interest, ennui is sure to have its joy in adding a few embellishments. If time did not hang heavy, what would become of scandal? Time, the common enemy, must be passed, as the phrase is, and the phrase bears its own commentary; and since the days of gladiators are passed, where can be the harm of blackening the reputation of the living? To the pusillanimous and the idle, scandal is the condiment of life; and while backbiting furnishes their entertainment abroad, domestic quarrelling fills up the leisure hours at home. It is a pretty general rule, that the médisante is a termagant in her household; and, as for our own sex, depend upon it, in nine cases out of ten, the evil

tongue belongs to a disappointed man. In the tenth case, the man is an imbécile.

Fashion, also, in its excess, is but a relief against ennui; and it is rather strong evidence of the universal prevalence of listlessness, that a change in dress at Paris, can, within a few months, be imitated in St. Louis. Yet, in the young and the fair, a milder sentiment influences conduct. In them, the latent consciousness of beauty, the charm of an existence that is opening in the fulness of its attractions, the becoming loveliness of innocence and youth, the simple cheerfulness of inexperience, lead to a modest and decorous display. Broadway, the unrivalled Broadway, is not without its loungers; yet the young and the gay are not discontented ones. They move in the strength of their own beauty, like the patriot statesman, neither shunning, nor yet courting admiration; and tripping along the brilliant street, half coveting half refusing attention,

"They feel that they are happier than they know."

From Broadway we pass to the crowded haunts of business. Is there ennui there? Do the money changers grow weary of profits? Is business so dull that bankers have nothing to do? Are doubtful notes so uncommon, that there is no latitude for shaving? Have the underwriters nothing at sea to be anxious about? Do the insurers on life omit to look after those who have taken out policies, and exhort them to temperance and exercise? These are all busy enough; too much engaged, and too little romantic to be much moved by sentimental regrets. But there are those, who plunge headlong into affairs from the restlessness of their nature, and who hurry into bold speculations, because they cannot endure to be idle. Now, business, like poetry, requires a tranquil mind. But there are those, who venture upon the career of business, under the impulse of ennui. How shall the young and haughty heirs of large fortunes rid themselves of their time, and acquit themselves in the eye of the public of their imagined responsibilities? One writes a tale for the Souvenirs, another speculates in the stocks. The former is laughed at, yet hoards an estate; the latter is food for hungry sharks. Then comes bankruptcy; sober thought repels the fiend that had been making a waste of life, or the same passion drives its possessor to become a busy body and zealot in the current excitement of the times; or absolute despair, ennui in its intensity, leads to insanity.

For the mad house, too, as well as the debtor's gaol, is in part peopled by the same blighting power, and nature recovers itself from a state of languid apathy, only by the terrific excitement of frenzy. Or a passion for suicide ensues; the mind re

vels in the contemplation of the grave, and covets the aspect of the countenance of death as the face of a familiar friend. The mind invests itself in the sombre shades of a melancholy longing after eternal rest-a longing which is sometimes connected with unqualified disbelief, and sometimes associates itself with an undefined desire of a purely spiritual existence.

We might multiply examples of the very extensive prevalence of that unhappy languor of which we are treating. Let us aim rather at observing the limit of its power.

It was a foolish philosophy, which believed in ennui as an evidence and a means of human perfectibility. The only exertions which it is capable of producing, are of a subordinate character. It may give to passion a fearful intensity, consequent on a state of moral disease; but human virtue must be the result of far higher causes. The exercise of principle, the generous force of purified emotions, cheerful desire, and willing industry, are the parents of real greatness. If we look through the various departments of public and of intellectual action, we shall find the mark of inferiority upon every thing which has sprung from ennui. In philosophy, it might produce the follies of Cynic oddity, but not the sublime lessons of Pythagoras or Socrates. In poetry, it may produce effusions from persons of quality, devoid of wit, but it never could have pointed the satire of Pope. In the mechanic arts it may contrive a balloon, but never could invent a steam-boat. In religion, it stumbles at a thousand knotty points in metaphysical theology, but it never led the soul to intercourse with heaven, or to the contemplation of divine truth.

The celebrated son of Philip was a man of exalted genius; and political wisdom had its share in his career. Ennui could never have produced Macedonia's madman, but it may well put in its claim to the Swede. Or let us look rather for a conqueror, who dreamed that he had genius to rival Achilles, and yet never had a settled plan of action. The famous king of Epirus has seemed to be an historical puzzle, so uncertain was his purpose, so wavering his character. Will you know the whole truth about him? Pyrrhus was an ennuyé.

When a painter, in the pursuit of his vocation, is obliged to give a likeness of a person that has neither beauty nor soul, he may perhaps draw figures in the air, or spoil his picture by an inconsiderate flourish of his pencil. He dislikes his task, and his work will show it.

When a poet writes a song for hire, or solely to be sung to some favourite air, it is more than probable his verses will be languid, and his meaning doubtful. Thus, for example,—

"The smiles of joy, the tears of wo

Deceitful shine, deceitful flow."

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