r, 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 _ennuye_.

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."

This is sheer nonsense. Joy smiles in good earnest, and many an aching
heart knows too well the deep truth of distress.

The fervent eloquence of true piety springs from conviction, and reaches
the heart; but we have sometimes listened to a dull sermon, which
proceeded from weariness more than from zeal, and belonged to ennui more
than to the stirring action of eloquent religion. The lawyer, too, is
sometimes overborne in his plea by disgust with his work, and in his
tiresome repetitions you may plainly see how he loathes--

"To drudge for the dregs of men,
And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen."

The life of Napoleon, in its busiest period, presents a remarkable
instance of ennui. While the allies were collecting around him in their
utmost strength, he was himself wavering in his purposes, and reluctant
to decide on the retreat to Leipsic. Strange, that at such a time he
should have given way to an overwhelming and almost childish languor.
Yet an eyewitness relates, "I have seen him at that time, seated on a
sofa, beside a table on which lay his charts, totally unemployed, unless
in scribbling mechanically large letters on a sheet of white paper."
Such was the power of ennui over Napoleon, at a time, when, in his own
language, nothing but a thunderbolt could save him.

It is dangerous for a man of superior ability to find himself thrown
upon the world without some regular employment. The restlessness
inherent in genius being thus left undirected by any permanent
influence, frames for itself occupations out of accidents. Moral
integrity sometimes falls a prey to this want of