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