ter than the breezes
that scatter clouds. It climbs the ship of the restless who long for the
suns of Europe; it jumps up behind the horseman who scours the woods of
Michigan; it throws its scowling glances on the attempt at present
enjoyment; it scares the epicurean from his voluptuousness, and when the
ascetic has finished his vow, it compels him once more to repeat the
tale of his beads.

To the influence of ennui must be traced the passion for strong
excitement. When life has become almost stagnant, when the ordinary
course of events has been unable to excite any strong interest, ennui
assumes a terrific power over the mind, and clamours for emotion, though
that emotion is to be purchased by scenes of horror and of crime. "What
a magnificent spectacle," said the Parisian mob, "how interesting a
spectacle to see a woman of the wit and courage of Madame Roland on the
scaffold!" And it is precisely the same power, which excites the
sensitive admirer of works of fiction to ransack the shelves of a
library for works of thrilling and "painful" interest.

To the same kind of restless curiosity we have to ascribe the passionate
declamations of the tragic actor, and the splendid music of the opera;
the cunning feats of the village conjuror, and the lascivious pantomime
of the city ballet-dancers; the disgusting varieties of bull-fights, and
the celebrated feats of pugilism; the locomotive zeal of the great
pedestrians, and the perfect quiescence of the "pillar saints."

The habits of ancient Rome illustrate most clearly the extent to which
this passion for strong sensations may hurry the public mind into
extravagances, and repress every sentiment of sympathy and generosity.
Ambition itself is not so reckless of human life as _ennui_; clemency is
the favourite attribute of the former; but ennui has the tastes of a
cannibal, and the sight of human blood, shed for its amusement, makes it
greedy after a renewal of the dreadful indulgence. No one need be
informed, that the shows of ancient gladiators were attended by an
infinitely more numerous throng than is ever gathered by any modern
spectacle. And let it not be supposed, that the life of one of these
combatants was the more safe, because it depended on the interposition
of the Roman fair. The fondness for murderous exhibitions finally raged
with such vehemence, that they were at length introduced as an
attraction at a banquet, and the guests, as they reclined at table in
t