ble 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 the happy to prevent satiety, and to endear life
by a short absence; and to the miserable