early rising was a necessary consequence, as they were earlier tired of their beds; and this may account for the singular difference between ancient and modern times in this respect; so that late rising, though a modern refinement, is by no means exclusively attributable to modern luxury and indolence, but partly to a change of political enactments, (you see, ladies, I am giving you every chance.)
In the man of business, late rising is perfectly detestable; but to him, instead of the arguments of health and moral responsibility for time, (or rather in addition to these arguments,) I would urge the argumentum ad crumenam; which is so pithily, however homelily, expressed in these two proverbs, which he cannot be reminded of once too often:
"Early to bed, and early to rise,
Will make a man healthy, wealthy, and wise."
"There are no gains without pains;
Then plough deep, while sluggards sleep."
And a third proverb is a compendium of my advice to both classes of readers:
"He who will thrive must rise at five;
He who has thriven may sleep till seven."
So then we have defined what early rising is; seven, to those who have nothing to do,—as soon as ever business calls, to those who have. Was ever bed of sloth more eloquently reprobated than in the following lines from the Seasons?
"Falsely luxurious will not man awake,
And, springing from the bed of sloth, enjoy
The cool, the fragrant, and the silent hour,
To meditation due and sacred song?
For is there aught in sleep can charm the wise?
To lie in dead oblivion, losing half
The fleeting moments of too short a life,
Total extinction of th' enlighten'd soul!
Or else, to feverish vanity alive,
Wilder'd and tossing through distemper'd dreams?
Who would in such a gloomy state remain
Longer than nature craves, when every Muse
And every blooming pleasure wait without,
To bless the wildly devious morning walk?"
Exquisite indeed! But this too is a proof how nearly the sublime and ridiculous are associated,—"how thin partitions do their bounds divide;" for this fine poetry is associated, in most reader's minds, with Thomson's own odd indulgence in the "dead oblivion." He was a late riser, sleeping often till noon; and when once reproached for his sluggishness, observed, that "he felt so comfortable he really saw no motive for rising." As if, according to the popular version of the story, "I am convinced, in theory, of the advantage of early rising. Who knows it not, but what can Cato do?" "Ay, he's a good divine, you say, who follows his own teaching; don't talk to us of early rising after this." Why not, unless like Thomson, you're kept up till a very late hour by business? The fact is he did not
—"In that gloomy state remain
Longer than nature craves,"