suffer from this malady. It is difficult to conceive any pleasurable or painful emotion as arising from certain occupations which are ever the same, such as cotton-spinning, when labour is much divided, stone-cutting and sawing, coal-heaving, pin-making, and innumerable others; the business of under-clerks in banking houses, of copyists, &c.; but yet these occupations drive away mental languor. I make this remark for the purpose of showing that pleasure or pain is not necessary for expelling ennui, as has sometimes been asserted, but that thought alone will suffice. The feeling in question seems to be of a simple nature, and admits of no analysis.*

When we look abroad and observe what are the characters most liable to this evil, we shall find that they are precisely those who with considerable intellectual faculties, or at least not inferior to the ordi

The word ennui, though derived from the French, is used in that language in a much more extensive sense than in ours. With us it means but one thing, namely, that languid, uneasy feeling which arises from the want of any other emotion or occupation; but with the French it may mean any annoyance, or even grief. Thus, in Corneille's play of Les Horaces, Camille, when labouring under the deepest anguish on account of the approaching combat between her brother and her lover, says to Sabine, in reference to the "bonne nouvelle" of delay,

"Je pense la savoir s'il faut la nommer telle;
On l'a dite à mon père, et j'étais avec lui;
Mais je n'en conçois rien qui flatte mon ennui."

Acte iii:

Melancholy is sometimes confounded with ennui properly so called, but they are very different. The French are perhaps as much liable to the latter as we are, though not to the former.

E

nary, possess but weak desires. Diminish the faculties or increase the desires, and in both cases ennui will abate. Whatever the circumstance may be on which the lowness of the faculties depends, whether natural conformation, want of education, or a long course of mental inactivity, age, or temporary causes, such as illness, drinking, and opium eating, the consequence is always the same. Observe very old men, whose faculties have become impaired, they can sit doing nothing nearly all day long, and yet without ennui. The same more or less holds true of savages and halfsavages, such as the Esquimaux, who spend many months of the year shut up in snow houses without any occupation, and still appear cheerful; the Lazzaroni of Naples, who lie down in the shade for hours together; and many of the poorer Irish who may be often seen standing and looking over the country in an indolent state of mind equally void of pleasure and of pain. It has frequently been remarked of negroes, whose intellects are of an inferior order, that if not forced to work they will rather lie all day in the sun than exert themselves in any way, so that we cannot suppose them to feel any painful mental lassitude. In like manner persons in illness which depresses the faculties lie in bed perfectly idle, without suffering from vacuity of mind; but no sooner does the illness subside and the faculties return, than the want of occupation is again felt. Wine or spirits, tobacco and opium, produce the same effect for a short time. At first they exhilarate, but afterwards they bring on a calmness of mind nearly allied to torpor and sleep, and often ending in

one or other. The first effect is decidedly agreeable, and the second not unpleasant, were it only that it expels ennui, the constant foe of the idle. The Turks, as we know, carry opium eating to the greatest extent, and often impair their faculties to such a degree, as to stand in need neither of business nor amusement. Tobacco has a similar effect, though not to the same extent. We can, therefore, be at no loss to account for the great consumption of this nauseous and unwholesome drug; for if it at first enliven, and afterwards stupify, it serves a double purpose to those who have no better means of procuring pleasure and driving away pain.

Children, though full of activity and fleeting desire, seem more subject to ennui than the very aged; and clever children, I think, more than others, until they find out some continuous employment, such as reading. It is the more singular that children should in any degree suffer from this evil, since all is new to them, but novelty alone will not fill the head. They are, no doubt, much less liable to it than grown up people.

These examples may serve to shew us, that what

3 The instance of children is a remarkable one in proof of the fact, how little a constant succession of desires can be kept up without a leading one; for after all his plays were exhausted, I have seen a child ready to cry, merely from the want of something to do. And if this be sometimes the case, where everything is new, and the mind easily filled up, what must occur in after life? The more we advance in years, until the faculties decline, the more we feel the necessity of a strong pursuit, and that for two reasons; every day brings less of novelty, and the intellect, gradually expanding, requires more copious food.

ever depresses the faculties, causes the tendency to ennui to decrease also. On the other hand, increase the desires in proportion to the faculties, and then these will find a direction wherein to exert themselves, and the man will be all activity. But the more we enlarge the latter without the former, the more will the vacancy be felt. Faculties then without desires proportionably strong give rise to ennui. Also, this want of desires deprives us of all the pleasures connected with such active pursuits as our faculties are really fit for.

On the other hand, desires too strong in proportion to our intellect lead to endless agitation, anxiety, and final disappointment. Here there is a total loss of tranquillity. From these two opposite conditions of mind then result the two opposite sorts of pain, the pains of ennui and those of anxiety. Persons whose desires are too weak for their faculties suffer from the former, those whose desires are too strong for their faculties suffer from the latter. From all this it follows, that where the faculties and desires are in equilibrium, there we may expect happiness; whether the happiness be one of tranquillity chiefly, or of activity.

In extreme old age, both faculties and desires being often weak, there is an equilibrium between them, so that there is neither over-agitation from excess of desire, nor ennui from a disproportionate strength of faculty. The result, therefore, is tranquillity. In childhood, desires are pretty ardent; but being principally for objects within reach, here again there is an equilibrium, and the pleasures of

activity are felt more than the pains of anxiety. It is in the intermediate period that the two opposite kinds of pain are most experienced, because there is then more frequently a striking disproportion between desires and faculties. But as these are found in their highest degree of intensity and perfection at that time of life, so, should they go well together, the degree of happiness of which we are susceptible will then be the greatest. We shall enjoy the pleasures of activity to the utmost extent without the loss of tranquillity.

Emotion is what we are constantly in search of, and rather than be without any, we prefer one in which the pain bears no inconsiderable proportion to the pleasure. Nothing is so intolerable as the continued feeling of vacuity. It renders life utterly tasteless, and gives us the most humiliating sense of the worthlessness of our existence. This hankering after emotion can alone explain the eagerness with which sports of the most cruel kind are frequently run after, such as English bull and badger baiting, Spanish bull fights, and the gladiatorial shows of antiquity. It also accounts for the extraordinary crowds that flock to public executions, which, to a sensitive heart, communicate unmingled disgust, and it shows the origin of the ruinous passion for play.

4 The following anecdote may exemplify the hardness of heart and perversion of sentiment produced by these sanguinary exhibitions. A Spanish lady present at a bull-fight happening to see a Frenchman near her shudder with horror, cast upon him a look of inexpressible contempt, and called him butter-hearted, (cœur de beurre.)