From my own Apartment, December 13.
An old friend of mine being lately come to town, I went to see him on
Tuesday last about eight o'clock in the evening, with a design to sit
with him an hour or two and talk over old stories; but, upon inquiring
after him, his servant told me he was just gone to bed. The next
morning, as soon as I was up and dressed, and had despatched a little
business, I came again to my friend's house about eleven o'clock, with a
design to renew my visit: but, upon asking for him, his servant told me
he was just sat down to dinner. In short, I found that my old-fashioned
friend religiously adhered to the example of his forefathers, and
observed the same hours that had been kept in the family ever since the
Conquest.
It is very plain that the night was much longer formerly in this island
than it is at present. By the night, I mean that portion of time which
Nature has thrown into darkness, and which the wisdom of mankind had
formerly dedicated to rest and silence. This used to begin at eight
o'clock in the evening, and conclude at six in the morning. The curfew,
or eight o'clock bell, was the signal throughout the nation for putting
out their candles and going to bed.
Our grandmothers, though they were wont to sit up the last in the
family, were all of them fast asleep at the same hours that their
daughters are busy at crimp and basset. Modern statesmen are concerting
schemes, and engaged in the depth of politics, at the time when their
forefathers were laid down quietly to rest and had nothing in their
heads but dreams. As we have thus thrown business and pleasure into the
hours of rest, and by that means made the natural night but half as long
as it should be, we are forced to piece it out with a great part of
the morning; so that near two-thirds of the nation lie fast asleep for
several hours in broad day-light. This irregularity is grown so very
fashionable at present, that there is scarcely a lady of quality in
Great Britain that ever saw the sun rise. And, if the humour increases
in proportion to what it has done of late years, it is not impossible
but our children may hear the bell-man going about the streets at nine
o'clock in the morning, and the watch making their rounds till eleven.
This unaccountable disposition in mankind to continue awake in the night
and sleep in sunshine, has made me inquire, whether the same change
of inclination has happened to any other animals? For this reason, I
desired a friend of mine in the country to let me know whether the lark
rises as early as he did formerly; and whether the cock begins to crow
at his usual hour? My friend has answered me, "that his poultry are
as regular as ever, and that all the birds and the beasts of his
neighbourhood keep the same hours that they have observed in the memory
of man; and the same which in all probability they have kept for these
five thousand years."
If you would see the innovations that have been made among us in this
particular, you may only look into the hours of colleges, where they
still dine at eleven, and sup at six, which were doubtless the hours
of the whole nation at the time when those places were founded. But at
present, the courts of justice are scarce opened in Westminster Hall at
the time when William Rufus used to go to dinner in it. All business is
driven forward. The landmarks of our fathers, if I may so call them, are
removed, and planted farther up into the day; insomuch, that I am afraid
our clergy will be obliged, if they expect full congregations, not to
look any more upon ten o'clock in the morning as a canonical hour. In
my own memory, the dinner has crept by degrees from twelve o'clock to
three, and where it will fix nobody knows.
I have sometimes thought to draw up a memorial in the behalf of Supper
against Dinner, setting forth, that the said Dinner has made several
encroachments upon the said Supper, and entered very far upon his
frontiers; that he has banished him out of several families, and in all
has driven him from his headquarters, and forced him to make his retreat
into the hours of midnight; and, in short, that he is now in danger of
being entirely confounded and lost in a breakfast. Those who have read
Lucian, and seen the complaints of the letter T against S, upon account
of many injuries and usurpations of the same nature, will not, I
believe, think such a memorial forced and unnatural. If dinner has been
thus postponed, or, if you please, kept back from time to time, you may
be sure that it has been in compliance with the other business of the
day, and that supper has still observed a proportionable distance. There
is a venerable proverb which we have all of us heard in our infancy, of
"putting the children to bed, and laying the goose to the fire." This
was one of the jocular sayings of our forefathers, but maybe properly
used in the literal sense at present. Who would not wonder at this
perverted relish of those who are reckoned the most polite part of
mankind, that prefer sea-coals and candles to the sun, and exchange so
many cheerful morning hours, for the pleasures of midnight revels and
debauches? If a man was only to consult his health, he would choose to
live his whole time, if possible, in daylight, and to retire out of
the world into silence and sleep, while the raw damps and unwholesome
vapours fly abroad, without a sun to disperse, moderate, or control
them. For my own part, I value an hour in the morning as much as common
libertines do an hour at midnight. When I find myself awakened into
being, and perceive my life renewed within me, and at the same time see
the whole face of nature recovered out of the dark uncomfortable state
in which it lay for several hours, my heart overflows with such secret
sentiments of joy and gratitude, as are a kind of implicit praise to the
great Author of Nature. The mind, in these early seasons of the day, is
so refreshed in all its faculties, and borne up with such new supplies
of animal spirits, that she finds herself in a state of youth,
especially when she is entertained with the breath of flowers, the
melody of birds, the dews that hang upon the plants, and all those other
sweets of nature that are peculiar to the morning.
It is impossible for a man to have this relish of being, this exquisite
taste of life, who does not come into the world before it is in all its
noise and hurry; who loses the rising of the sun, the still hours of the
day, and, immediately upon his first getting up plunges himself into the
ordinary cares or follies of the world.
I shall conclude this paper with Milton's inimitable description of
Adam's awakening his Eve in Paradise, which indeed would have been a
place as little delightful as a barren heath or desert to those who
slept in it. The fondness of the posture in which Adam is represented,
and the softness of his whisper, are passages in this divine poem that
are above all commendation, and rather to be admired than praised.
Now Morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime,
Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl,
When Adam waked, so customed; for his sleep
Was airy light from pure digestion bred,
And temperate vapours bland; which the only sound
Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan,
Lightly dispersed, and the shrill matin song
Of birds on every bough; so much the more
His wonder was to find unwakened Eve,
With tresses discomposed, and glowing cheek,
As through unquiet rest. He on his side
Leaning half-raised, with looks of cordial love,
Hung over her enamoured, and beheld
Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep,
Shot forth peculiar graces. Then, with voice
Mild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,
Her hand soft touching, whispered thus: "Awake,
My fairest, my espoused, my latest found,
Heaven's last, best gift, my ever-new delight,
Awake; the morning shines, and the fresh field
Calls us; we lose the prime, to mark how spring
Our tended plants, how blows the citron grove,
What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed,
How Nature paints her colours, how the bee
Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet."
Such whispering waked her, but with startled eye
On Adam, whom embracing, thus she spake:
"O soul! in whom my thoughts find all repose,
My glory, my perfection, glad I see
Thy face, and morn returned."
PAR. LOST, V.1.