The Works of Samuel Johnson in Nine Volumes | Page 7

said
to have squandered my estate, without honour, without friends, and
without pleasure. The last may, perhaps, appear strange to men
unacquainted with the masquerade of life: I deceived others, and I
endeavoured to deceive myself; and have worn the face of pleasantry
and gaiety, while my heart suffered the most exquisite torture.
By the instigation and encouragement of my friends, I became at length
ambitious of a seat in parliament; and accordingly set out for the town
of Wallop in the west, where my arrival was welcomed by a thousand
throats, and I was in three days sure of a majority: but after drinking
out one hundred and fifty hogsheads of wine, and bribing two-thirds of
the corporation twice over, I had the mortification to find that the
borough had been before sold to Mr. Courtly.
In a life of this kind, my fortune, though considerable, was presently
dissipated; and as the attraction grows more strong the nearer any body
approaches the earth, when once a man begins to sink into poverty, he
falls with velocity always increasing; every supply is purchased at a
higher and higher price, and every office of kindness obtained with
greater and greater difficulty. Having now acquainted you with my
state of elevation, I shall, if you encourage the continuance of my
correspondence, shew you by what steps I descended from a first floor

in Pall-Mall to my present habitation[1].
I am, Sir,
Your humble servant,
MISARGYRUS.
[1] For an account of the disputes raised on this paper, and on the other
letters of Misargyrus, see Preface.

No. 39. TUESDAY, MARCH 20, 1753.
--[Greek: Oduseus phulloisi kalupsato to d ar Athaenae Hypnon ep
ommasi cheu, ina min pauseie tachista Dusponeos kamatoio.]--HOM. E.
491
--Pallas pour'd sweet slumbers on his soul; And balmy dreams, the gift
of soft repose, Calm'd all his pains, and banish'd all his woes. POPE.
If every day did not produce fresh instances of the ingratitude of
mankind, we might, perhaps, be at a loss, why so liberal and impartial a
benefactor as sleep, should meet with so few historians or panegyrists.
Writers are so totally absorbed by the business of the day, as never to
turn their attention to that power, whose officious hand so seasonably
suspends the burthen of life; and without whose interposition man
would not be able to endure the fatigue of labour, however rewarded, or
the struggle with opposition, however successful.
Night, though she divides to many the longest part of life, and to almost
all the most innocent and happy, is yet unthankfully neglected, except
by those who pervert her gifts.
The astronomers, indeed, expect her with impatience, and felicitate
themselves upon her arrival: Fontenelle has not failed to celebrate her
praises; and to chide the sun for hiding from his view the worlds, which
he imagines to appear in every constellation. Nor have the poets been
always deficient in her praises: Milton has observed of the night, that it
is "the pleasant time, the cool, the silent."
These men may, indeed, well be expected to pay particular homage to
night; since they are indebted to her, not only for cessation of pain, but

increase of pleasure; not only for slumber, but for knowledge. But the
greater part of her avowed votaries are the sons of luxury; who
appropriate to festivity the hours designed for rest; who consider the
reign of pleasure as commencing when day begins to withdraw her
busy multitudes, and ceases to dissipate attention by intrusive and
unwelcome variety; who begin to awake to joy when the rest of the
world sinks into insensibility; and revel in the soft affluence of
flattering and artificial lights, which "more shadowy set off the face of
things."
Without touching upon the fatal consequences of a custom, which, as
Ramazzini observes, will be for ever condemned, and for ever retained;
it may be observed, that however sleep may be put off from time to
time, yet the demand is of so importunate a nature, as not to remain
long unsatisfied: and if, as some have done, we consider it as the tax of
life, we cannot but observe it as a tax that must be paid, unless we
could cease to be men; for Alexander declared, that nothing convinced
him that he was not a divinity, but his not being able to live without
sleep.
To live without sleep in our present fluctuating state, however desirable
it might seem to the lady in Clelia, can surely be the wish only of the
young or the ignorant; to every one else, a perpetual vigil will appear to
be a state of wretchedness, second only to that of the miserable beings,
whom Swift has in his travels so elegantly described, as "supremely
cursed with immortality."
Sleep is necessary to