Philosophy has often attempted to repress insolence, by asserting, that
all conditions are levelled by death; a position which, however it may
deject the happy, will seldom afford much comfort to the wretched. It is
far more pleasing to consider, that, sleep is equally a leveller with
death; that the time is never at a great distance, when the balm of rest
shall be diffused alike upon every head, when the diversities of life
shall stop their operation, and the high and the low shall lie down
together[1].
It is somewhere recorded of Alexander, that in the pride of conquests,
and intoxication of flattery, he declared that he only perceived himself
to be a man by the necessity of sleep. Whether he considered sleep as
necessary to his mind or body, it was indeed a sufficient evidence of
human infirmity; the body which required such frequency of renovation,
gave but faint promises of immortality; and the mind which, from time to
time, sunk gladly into insensibility, had made no very near approaches
to the felicity of the supreme and self-sufficient nature.
I know not what can tend more to repress all the passions, that disturb
the peace of the world, than the consideration that there is no height
of happiness or honour, from which man does not eagerly descend to a
state of unconscious repose; that the best condition of life is such,
that we contentedly quit its good to be disentangled from its evils;
that in a few hours splendour fades before the eye, and praise itself
deadens in the ear; the senses withdraw from their objects, and reason
favours the retreat.
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