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Memoirs Of My Life And Writings<=
/span>
By
Edward Gibbon
MEMOIRS OF MY LIFE AND WRITINGS
By Edward Gibbon<= o:p>
In the fifty-seco=
nd
year of my age, after the completion of an arduous and successful work, I n=
ow
propose to employ some moments of my leisure in reviewing the simple
transactions of a private and literary life. Truth, naked unblushing truth,=
the
first virtue of more serious history, must be the sole recommendation of th=
is
personal narrative. The style shall be simple and familiar; but style is the
image of character; and the habits of correct writing may produce, without
labour or design, the appearance of art and study. My own amusement is my
motive, and will be my reward: and if these sheets are communicated to some
discreet and indulgent friends, they will be secreted from the public eye t=
ill
the author shall be removed beyond the reach of criticism or ridicule.
A lively desire of
knowing and of recording our ancestors so generally prevails, that it must
depend on the influence of some common principle in the minds of men. We se=
em
to have lived in the persons of our forefathers; it is the labour and rewar=
d of
vanity to extend the term of this ideal longevity. Our imagination is always
active to enlarge the narrow circle in which Nature has confined us. Fifty =
or
an hundred years may be allotted to an individual, but we step forward beyo=
nd
death with such hopes as religion and philosophy will suggest; and we fill =
up
the silent vacancy that precedes our birth, by associating ourselves to the
authors of our existence. Our calmer judgment will rather tend to moderate,
than to suppress, the pride of an ancient and worthy race. The satirist may
laugh, the philosopher may preach; but Reason herself will respect the
prejudices and habits, which have been consecrated by the experience of
mankind.
Wherever the
distinction of birth is allowed to form a superior order in the state,
education and example should always, and will often, produce among them a
dignity of sentiment and propriety of conduct, which is guarded from dishon=
our
by their own and the public esteem. If we read of some illustrious line so
ancient that it has no beginning, so worthy that it ought to have no end, we
sympathize in its various fortunes; nor can we blame the generous enthusias=
m,
or even the harmless vanity, of those who are allied to the honours of its
name. For my own part, could I draw my pedigree from a general, a statesman=
, or
a celebrated author, I should study their lives with the diligence of filial
love. In the investigation of past events, our curiosity is stimulated by t=
he immediate
or indirect reference to ourselves; but in the estimate of honour we should
learn to value the gifts of Nature above those of Fortune; to esteem in our
ancestors the qualities that best promote the interests of society; and to
pronounce the descendant of a king less truly noble than the offspring of a=
man
of genius, whose writings will instruct or delight the latest posterity. The
family of Confucius is, in my opinion, the most illustrious in the world. A=
fter
a painful ascent of eight or ten centuries, our barons and princes of Europe
are lost in the darkness of the middle ages; but, in the vast equality of t=
he
empire of China, the posterity of Confucius have maintained, above two thou=
sand
two hundred years, their peaceful honours and perpetual succession. The chi=
ef
of the family is still revered, by the sovereign and the people, as the liv=
ely
image of the wisest of mankind. The nobility of the Spencers has been
illustrated and enriched by the trophies of Marlborough; but I exhort them =
to
consider the "Fairy Queen" as the most precious jewel of their
coronet. I have exposed my private feelings, as I shall always do, without =
scruple
or reserve. That these sentiments are just, or at least natural, I am incli=
ned
to believe, since I do not feel myself interested in the cause; for I can
derive from my ancestors neither glory nor shame.
Yet a sincere and
simple narrative of my own life may amuse some of my leisure hours; but it =
will
subject me, and perhaps with justice, to the imputation of vanity. I may ju=
dge,
however, from the experience both of past and of the present times, that the
public are always curious to know the men, who have left behind them any im=
age
of their minds: the most scanty accounts of such men are compiled with
diligence, and perused with eagerness; and the student of every class may
derive a lesson, or an example, from the lives most similar to his own. My =
name
may hereafter be placed among the thousand articles of a Biographic Britann=
ica;
and I must be conscious, that no one is so well qualified, as myself, to
describe the series of my thoughts and actions. The authority of my masters=
, of
the grave Thuanus, and the philosophic Hume, might be sufficient to justify=
my
design; but it would not be difficult to produce a long list of ancients and
moderns, who, in various forms, have exhibited their own portraits. Such
portraits are often the most interesting, and sometimes the only interesting
parts of their writings; and if they be sincere, we seldom complain of the
minuteness or prolixity of these personal memorials. The lives of the young=
er
Pliny, of Petrarch, and of Erasmus, are expressed in the epistles, which th=
ey themselves
have given to the world. The essays of Montaigne and Sir William Temple bri=
ng
us home to the houses and bosoms of the authors: we smile without contempt =
at
the headstrong passions of Benevenuto Cellini, and the gay follies of Colley
Cibber. The confessions of St. Austin and Rousseau disclose the secrets of =
the
human heart; the commentaries of the learned Huet have survived his evangel=
ical
demonstration; and the memoirs of Goldoni are more truly dramatic than his
Italian comedies. The heretic and the churchman are strongly marked in the
characters and fortunes of Whiston and Bishop Newton; and even the dullness=
of
Michael de Marolles and Anthony Wood acquires some value from the faithful =
representation
of men and manners. That I am equal or superior to some of these, the effec=
ts
of modesty or affectation cannot force me to dissemble.
My family is
originally derived from the county of Kent. The Southern district, which
borders on Sussex and the sea, was formerly overspread with the great fores=
t Anderida,
and even now retains the denomination of the Weald or Woodland. In this
district, and in the hundred and parish of Rolvenden, the Gibbons were
possessed of lands in the year one thousand three hundred and twenty-six; a=
nd
the elder branch of the family, without much increase or diminution of
property, still adheres to its native soil. Fourteen years after the first
appearance of his name, John Gibbon is recorded as the Marmorarius or archi=
tect
of King Edward the Third: the strong and stately castle of Queensborough, w=
hich
guarded the entrance of the Medway, was a monument of his skill; and the gr=
ant
of an hereditary toll on the passage from Sandwich to Stonar, in the Isle of
Thanet, is the reward of no vulgar artist. In the visitations of the herald=
s,
the Gibbons are frequently mentioned; they held the rank of esquire in an a=
ge,
when that title was less promiscuously assumed: one of them, under the reig=
n of
Queen Elizabeth, was captain of the militia of Kent; and a free school, in =
the neighbouring
town of Benenden, proclaims the charity and opulence of its founder. But ti=
me,
or their own obscurity, has cast a veil of oblivion over the virtues and vi=
ces
of my Kentish ancestors; their character or station confined them to the
labours and pleasures of a rural life: nor is it in my power to follow the
advice of the poet, in an inquiry after a name,--
"Go! search=
it
there, where to be born, and die, Of rich and=
poor
makes all the history."
So recent is the
institution of our parish registers. In the beginning of the seventeenth
century, a younger branch of the Gibbons of Rolvenden migrated from the cou=
ntry
to the city; and from this branch I do not blush to descend. The law requir=
es
some abilities; the church imposes some restraints; and before our army and
navy, our civil establishments, and India empire, had opened so many paths =
of
fortune, the mercantile profession was more frequently chosen by youths of a
liberal race and education, who aspired to create their own independence. O=
ur
most respectable families have not disdained the counting-house, or even th=
e shop;
their names are enrolled in the Livery and Companies of London; and in Engl=
and,
as well as in the Italian commonwealths, heralds have been compelled to dec=
lare
that gentility is not degraded by the exercise of trade.
The armorial ensi=
gns
which, in the times of chivalry, adorned the crest and shield of the soldie=
r,
are now become an empty decoration, which every man, who has money to build=
a
carriage, may paint according to his fancy on the panels. My family arms are
the same, which were borne by the Gibbons of Kent in an age, when the Colle=
ge
of Heralds religiously guarded the distinctions of blood and name: a lion
rampant gardant, between three schallop-shells argent, on a field azure. I
should not however have been tempted to blazon my coat of arms, were it not=
connected
with a whimsical anecdote. About the reign of James the First, the three
harmless schallop-shells were changed by Edmund Gibbon esq. into three
ogresses, or female cannibals, with a design of stigmatizing three ladies, =
his
kinswomen, who had provoked him by an unjust law-suit. But this singular mo=
de
of revenge, for which he obtained the sanction of Sir William Seagar, king =
at
arms, soon expired with its author; and, on his own monument in the Temple
church, the monsters vanish, and the three schallop-shells resume their pro=
per
and hereditary place.
Our alliances by
marriage it is not disgraceful to mention. The chief honour of my ancestry =
is
James Fiens, Baron Say and Scale, and Lord High Treasurer of England, in the
reign of Henry the Sixth; from whom by the Phelips, the Whetnalls, and the
Cromers, I am lineally descended in the eleventh degree. His dismission and
imprisonment in the Tower were insufficient to appease the popular clamour;=
and
the Treasurer, with his son-in-law Cromer, was beheaded(1450), after a mock
trial by the Kentish insurgents. The black list of his offences, as it is
exhibited in Shakespeare, displays the ignorance and envy of a plebeian tyr=
ant.
Besides the vague reproaches of selling Maine and Normandy to the Dauphin, =
the
Treasurer is specially accused of luxury, for riding on a foot-cloth; and of
treason, for speaking French, the language of our enemies: "Thou hast =
most
traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm," says Jack Cade to the
unfortunate Lord, "in erecting a grammar-school; and whereas before our
forefathers had no other books than the score and the tally, thou hast caus=
ed
printing to be used; and, contrary to the king, his crown, and dignity, thou
hast built a paper-mill. It will be proved to thy face, that thou hast men
about thee, who usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such abominable word=
s,
as no Christian ear can endure to hear." Our dramatic poet is generally
more attentive to character than to history; and I much fear that the art of
printing was not introduced into England, till several years after Lord Say=
's death;
but of some of these meritorious crimes I should hope to find my ancestor
guilty; and a man of letters may be proud of his descent from a patron and
martyr of learning.
In the beginning =
of
the last century Robert Gibbon Esq. of Rolvenden in Kent (who died in 1618),
had a son of the same name of Robert, who settled in London, and became a
member of the Cloth-workers' Company. His wife was a daughter of the Edgars,
who flourished about four hundred years in the county of Suffolk, and produ=
ced
an eminent and wealthy serjeant-at-law, Sir Gregory Edgar, in the reign of
Henry the Seventh. Of the sons of Robert Gibbon, (who died in 1643,) Matthew
did not aspire above the station of a linen-draper in Leadenhall-street; but
John has given to the public some curious memorials of his existence, his c=
haracter,
and his family. He was born on Nov. 3d, 1629; his education was liberal, at=
a
grammar-school, and afterwards in Jesus College at Cambridge; and he celebr=
ates
the retired content which he enjoyed at Allesborough, in Worcestershire, in=
the
house of Thomas Lord Coventry, where John Gibbon was employed as a domestic
tutor, the same office which Mr. Hobbes exercised in the Devonshire family.=
But
the spirit of my kinsman soon immerged into more active life: he visited
foreign countries as a soldier and a traveller, acquired the knowledge of t=
he French
and Spanish languages, passed some time in the Isle of Jersey, crossed the
Atlantic, and resided upwards of a twelvemonth (1659) in the rising colony =
of
Virginia. In this remote province his taste, or rather passion, for heraldry
found a singular gratification at a war-dance of the native Indians. As they
moved in measured steps, brandishing their tomahawks, his curious eye
contemplated their little shields of bark, and their naked bodies, which we=
re
painted with the colours and symbols of his favourite science. "At whi=
ch I
exceedingly wondered; and concluded that heraldry was ingrafted naturally i=
nto
the sense of human race. If so, it deserves a greater esteem than now-a-day=
s is
put upon it." His return to England after the Restoration was soon
followed by his marriage his settlement in a house in St. Catherine's Clois=
ter,
near the Tower, which devolved to my grandfather and his introduction into =
the
Heralds' College (in 1671) by the style and title of Blue-mantle Pursuivant=
at
Arms. In this office he enjoyed near fifty years the rare felicity of uniti=
ng,
in the same pursuit, his duty and inclination: his name is remembered in the
College, and many of his letters are still preserved. Several of the most
respectable characters of the age, Sir William Dugdale, Mr. Ashmole, Dr. Jo=
hn
Betts, and Dr. Nehemiah Grew, were his friends; and in the society of such =
men,
John Gibbon may be recorded without disgrace as the member of an astrologic=
al club.
The study of hereditary honours is favourable to the Royal prerogative; and=
my
kinsman, like most of his family, was a high Tory both in church and state.=
In
the latter end of the reign of Charles the Second, his pen was exercised in=
the
cause of the Duke of York: the Republican faction he most cordially deteste=
d;
and as each animal is conscious of its proper arms, the heralds' revenge was
emblazoned on a most diabolical escutcheon. But the triumph of the Whig
government checked the preferment of Blue-mantle; and he was even suspended=
from
his office, till his tongue could learn to pronounce the oath of abjuration.
His life was prolonged to the age of ninety: and, in the expectation of the
inevitable though uncertain hour, he wishes to preserve the blessings of
health, competence, and virtue. In the year 1682 he published in London his
Introductio ad Latinam Blasoniam, an original attempt, which Camden had
desiderated, to define, in a Roman idiom, the terms and attributes of a Got=
hic
institution. It is not two years since I acquired, in a foreign land, some
domestic intelligence of my own family; and this intelligence was conveyed =
to
Switzerland from the heart of Germany. I had formed an acquaintance with Mr.
Langer, a lively and ingenious scholar, while he resided at Lausanne as
preceptor to the Hereditary Prince of Brunswick. On his return to his prope=
r station
of Librarian to the Ducal Library of Wolfenbuttel, he accidentally found am=
ong
some literary rubbish a small old English volume of heraldry, inscribed with
the name of John Gibbon. From the title only Mr. Langer judged that it migh=
t be
an acceptable present to his friend--and he judged rightly. His manner is
quaint and affected; his order is confused: but he displays some wit, more
reading, and still more enthusiasm: and if an enthusiast be often absurd, h=
e is
never languid. An English text is perpetually interspersed with Latin sente=
nces
in prose and verse; but in his own poetry he claims an exemption from the l=
aws
of prosody. Amidst a profusion of genealogical knowledge, my kinsman could =
not
be forgetful of his own name; and to him I am indebted for almost the whole=
of
my information concerning the Gibbon family. From this small work the author
expected immortal fame.
Such are the hope=
s of
authors! In the failure of those hopes John Gibbon has not been the first of
his profession, and very possibly may not be the last of his name. His brot=
her
Matthew Gibbon, the draper, had one daughter and two sons--my grandfather
Edward, who was born in the year 1666, and Thomas, afterwards Dean of Carli=
sle.
According to the mercantile creed, that the best book is a profitable ledge=
r,
the writings of John the herald would be much less precious than those of h=
is
nephew Edward: but an author professes at least to write for the public
benefit; and the slow balance of trade can be pleasing to those persons onl=
y,
to whom it is advantageous. The successful industry of my grandfather raised
him above the level of his immediate ancestors; he appears to have launched
into various and extensive dealings: even his opinions were subordinate to =
his
interest; and I find him in Flanders clothing King William's troops, while =
he
would have contracted with more pleasure, though not perhaps at a cheaper r=
ate,
for the service of King James. During his residence abroad, his concerns at
home were managed by his mother Hester, an active and notable woman. Her se=
cond
husband was a widower of the name of Acton: they united the children of the=
ir first
nuptials. After his marriage with the daughter of Richard Acton, goldsmith =
in
Leadenhall-street, he gave his own sister to Sir Whitmore Acton, of Aldenha=
m;
and I am thus connected, by a triple alliance, with that ancient and loyal
family of Shropshire baronets. It consisted about that time of seven brothe=
rs,
all of gigantic stature; one of whom, a pigmy of six feet two inches, confe=
ssed
himself the last and least of the seven; adding, in the true spirit of part=
y,
that such men were not born since the Revolution. Under the Tory administra=
tion
of the four last years of Queen Anne (1710-1714) Mr. Edward Gibbon was
appointed one of the Commissioners of the Customs; he sat at that Board with
Prior; but the merchant was better qualified for his station than the poet;=
since
Lord Bolingbroke has been heard to declare, that he had never conversed wit=
h a
man, who more clearly understood the commerce and finances of England. In t=
he
year 1716 he was elected one of the Directors of the South Sea Company; and=
his
books exhibited the proof that, before his acceptance of this fatal office,=
he
had acquired an independent fortune of sixty thousand pounds.
But his fortune w=
as
overwhelmed in the shipwreck of the year twenty, and the labours of thirty
years were blasted in a single day. Of the use or abuse of the South Sea
scheme, of the guilt or innocence of my grandfather and his brother Directo=
rs,
I am neither a competent nor a disinterested judge. Yet the equity of modern
times must condemn the violent and arbitrary proceedings, which would have
disgraced the cause of justice, and would render injustice still more odiou=
s.
No sooner had the nation awakened from its golden dream, than a popular and
even a parliamentary clamour demanded their victims: but it was acknowledge=
d on
all sides that the South Sea Directors, however guilty, could not be touche=
d by
any known laws of the land. The speech of Lord Molesworth, the author of the
State of Denmark, may shew the temper, or rather the intemperance, of the H=
ouse
of Commons. "Extraordinary crimes (exclaimed that ardent Whig) call al=
oud
for extraordinary remedies. The Roman lawgivers had not foreseen the possib=
le
existence of a parricide; but as soon as the first monster appeared, he was
sewn in a sack, and cast headlong into the river; and I shall be content to
inflict the same treatment on the authors of our present ruin." His mo=
tion
was not literally adopted; but a bill of pains and penalties was introduced=
, a retroactive
statute, to punish the offences, which did not exist at the time they were
committed. Such a pernicious violation of liberty and law can be excused on=
ly
by the most imperious necessity; nor could it be defended on this occasion =
by
the plea of impending danger or useful example. The legislature restrained =
the
persons of the Directors, imposed an exorbitant security for their appearan=
ce,
and marked their characters with a previous note of ignominy: they were com=
pelled
to deliver, upon oath, the strict value of their estates; and were disabled=
from
making any transfer or alienation of any part of their property. Against a =
bill
of pains and penalties it is the common right of every subject to be heard =
by
his counsel at the bar: they prayed to be heard; their prayer was refused; =
and
their oppressors, who required no evidence, would listen to no defence. It =
had
been at first proposed that one-eighth of their respective estates should be
allowed for the future support of the Directors; but it was speciously urge=
d,
that in the various shades of opulence and guilt such an unequal proportion
would be too light for many, and for some might possibly be too heavy. The =
character
and conduct of each man were separately weighed; but, instead of the calm
solemnity of a judicial inquiry, the fortune and honour of three and thirty
Englishmen were made the topic of hasty conversation, the sport of a lawless
majority; and the basest member of the committee, by a malicious word or, a=
silent
vote, might indulge his general spleen or personal animosity. Injury was
aggravated by insult, and insult was embittered by pleasantry. Allowances of
twenty pounds, or one shilling, were facetiously moved. A vague report that=
a
Director had formerly been concerned in another project, by which some unkn=
own
persons had lost their money, was admitted as a proof of his actual guilt. =
One
man was ruined because he had dropped a foolish speech, that his horses sho=
uld feed
upon gold; another because he was grown so proud, that, one day at the
Treasury, he had refused a civil answer to persons much above him. All were
condemned, absent and unheard, in arbitrary fines and forfeitures, which sw=
ept
away the greatest part of their substance. Such bold oppression can scarcel=
y be
shielded by the omnipotence of parliament; and yet it maybe seriously
questioned, whether the judges of the South Sea Directors were the true and
legal representatives of their country. The first parliament of George the
First had been chosen (1715) for three years: the term had elapsed, their t=
rust
was expired; and the four additional years (1718-1722), during which they
continued to sit, were derived not from the people, but from themselves; fr=
om
the strong measure of the septennial bill, which can only be paralleled by =
il
serar di consiglio of the Venetian history. Yet candour will own that to th=
e same
parliament every Englishman is deeply indebted: the septennial act, so vici=
ous
in its origin, has been sanctioned by time, experience, and the national
consent. Its first operation secured the House of Hanover on the throne, and
its permanent influence maintains the peace and stability of government. As
often as a repeal has been moved in the House of Commons, I have given in i=
ts
defence a clear and conscientious vote. My grandfather could not expect to =
be
treated with more lenity than his companions. His Tory principles and
connections rendered him obnoxious to the ruling powers: his name is report=
ed
in a suspicious secret; and his well-known abilities could not plead the ex=
cuse
of ignorance or error. In the first proceedings against the South Sea Direc=
tors,
Mr. Gibbon is one of the few who were taken into custody; and, in the final
sentence, the measure of his fine proclaims him eminently guilty. The total
estimate which he delivered on oath to the House of Commons amounted to 106=
,543
pounds 5 shillings and 6 pence, exclusive of antecedent settlements. Two
different allowances of 15,000 pounds and of 10,000 pounds were moved for M=
r.
Gibbon; but, on the question being put, it was carried without a division f=
or
the smaller sum. On these ruins, with the skill and credit, of which parlia=
ment
had not been able to despoil him, my grandfather at a mature age erected the
edifice of a new fortune: the labours of sixteen years were amply rewarded;=
and
I have reason to believe that the second structure was not much inferior to=
the
first. He had realized a very considerable property in Sussex, Hampshire,
Buckinghamshire, and the New River Company; and had acquired a spacious hou=
se,
with gardens and lands, at Putney, in Surrey, where he resided in decent
hospitality. He died in December 1736, at the age of seventy; and by his la=
st
will, at the expense of Edward, his only son, (with whose marriage he was n=
ot
perfectly reconciled,) enriched his two daughters, Catherine and Hester. Th=
e former
became the wife of Mr. Edward Elliston, an East India captain: their daught=
er
and heiress Catherine was married in the year 1756 to Edward Eliot, Esq. (n=
ow
lord Eliot), of Port Eliot, in the county of Cornwall; and their three sons=
are
my nearest male relations on the father's side. A life of devotion and celi=
bacy
was the choice of my aunt, Mrs. Hester Gibbon, who, at the age of eighty-fi=
ve,
still resides in a hermitage at Cliffe, in Northamptonshire; having long
survived her spiritual guide and faithful companion Mr. William Law, who, a=
t an
advanced age, about the year 1761, died in her house. In our family he had =
left
the reputation of a worthy and pious man, who believed all that he professe=
d,
and practised all that he enjoined. The character of a non-juror, which he
maintained to the last, is a sufficient evidence of his principles in church
and state; and the sacrifice of interest to conscience will be always
respectable. His theological writings, which our domestic connection has
tempted me to peruse, preserve an imperfect sort of life, and I can pronoun=
ce
with more confidence and knowledge on the merits of the author. His last
compositions are darkly tinctured by the incomprehensible visions of Jacob
Behmen; and his discourse on the absolute unlawfulness of stage entertainme=
nts
is sometimes quoted for a ridiculous intemperance of sentiment and
language.--"The actors and spectators must all be damned: the playhous=
e is
the porch of Hell, the place of the Devil's abode, where he holds his filthy
court of evil spirits: a play is the Devil's triumph, a sacrifice performed=
to
his glory, as much as in the heathen temples of Bacchus or Venus, &c.,
&c." But these sallies of religious frenzy must not extinguish the
praise, which is due to Mr. William Law as a wit and a scholar. His argumen=
t on
topics of less absurdity is specious and acute, his manner is lively, his s=
tyle
forcible and clear; and, had not his vigorous mind been clouded by enthusia=
sm,
he might be ranked with the most agreeable and ingenious writers of the tim=
es.
While the Bangorian controversy was a fashionable theme, he entered the lis=
ts
on the subject of Christ's kingdom, and the authority of the priesthood:
against the plain account of the sacrament of the Lord's Supper he resumed =
the
combat with Bishop Hoadley, the object of Whig idolatry, and Tory abhorrenc=
e;
and at every weapon of attack and defence the non-juror, on the ground whic=
h is
common to both, approves himself at least equal to the prelate. On the
appearance of the Fable of the Bees, he drew his pen against the licentious
doctrine that private vices are public benefits, and morality as well as
religion must join in his applause. Mr. Law's master-work, the Serious Call=
, is
still read as a popular and powerful book of devotion. His precepts are rig=
id,
but they are founded on the gospel; his satire is sharp, but it is drawn fr=
om
the knowledge of human life; and many of his portraits are not unworthy of =
the
pen of La Bruyere. If he finds a spark of piety in his reader's mind, he wi=
ll
soon kindle it to a flame; and a philosopher must allow that he exposes, wi=
th
equal severity and truth, the strange contradiction between the faith and p=
ractice
of the Christian world. Under the names of Flavia and Miranda he has admira=
bly
described my two aunts the he=
athen
and the Christian sister.
My father, Edward
Gibbon, was born in October, 1707: at the age of thirteen he could scarcely
feel that he was disinherited by act of parliament; and, as he advanced tow=
ards
manhood, new prospects of fortune opened to his view. A parent is most
attentive to supply in his children the deficiencies, of which he is consci=
ous
in himself: my grandfather's knowledge was derived from a strong understand=
ing,
and the experience of the ways of men; but my father enjoyed the benefits o=
f a liberal
education as a scholar and a gentleman. At Westminster School, and afterwar=
ds
at Emanuel College in Cambridge, he passed through a regular course of
academical discipline; and the care of his learning and morals was intruste=
d to
his private tutor, the same Mr. William Law. But the mind of a saint is abo=
ve
or below the present world; and while the pupil proceeded on his travels, t=
he
tutor remained at Putney, the much-honoured friend and spiritual director of
the whole family. My father resided sometime at Paris to acquire the
fashionable exercises; and as his temper was warm and social, he indulged in
those pleasures, for which the strictness of his former education had given=
him
a keener relish. He afterwards visited several provinces of France; but his=
excursions
were neither long nor remote; and the slender knowledge, which he had gaine=
d of
the French language, was gradually obliterated. His passage through Besanco=
n is
marked by a singular consequence in the chain of human events. In a dangero=
us
illness Mr. Gibbon was attended, at his own request, by one of his kinsmen =
of
the name of Acton, the younger brother of a younger brother, who had applied
himself to the study of physic. During the slow recovery of his patient, the
physician himself was attacked by the malady of love: he married his mistre=
ss, renounced
his country and religion, settled at Besancon, and became the father of thr=
ee
sons; the eldest of whom, General Acton, is conspicuous in Europe as the
principal Minister of the king of the Two Sicilies. By an uncle whom another
stroke of fortune had transplanted to Leghorn, he was educated in the naval
service of the Emperor; and his valour and conduct in the command of the Tu=
scan
frigates protected the retreat of the Spaniards from Algiers. On my father's
return to England he was chosen, in the general election of 1734, to serve =
in
parliament for the borough of Petersfield; a burgage tenure, of which my gr=
andfather
possessed a weighty share, till he alienated (I know not why) such important
property. In the opposition to Sir Robert Walpole and the Pelhams, prejudice
and society connected his son with the Tories,--shall I say Jacobites? or, =
as
they were pleased to style themselves, the country gentlemen? with them he =
gave
many a vote; with them he drank many a bottle. Without acquiring the fame o=
f an
orator or a statesman, he eagerly joined in the great opposition, which, af=
ter
a seven years' chase, hunted down Sir Robert Walpole: and in the pursuit of=
an unpopular
minister, he gratified a private revenge against the oppressor of his famil=
y in
the South Sea persecution.
I was born at Put=
ney,
in the county of Surrey, April 27th, O. S., in the year one thousand seven
hundred and thirty-seven; the first child of the marriage of Edward Gibbon,
esq., and of Judith Porten. [Note: The union to which I owe my birth was a
marriage of inclination and esteem. Mr. James Porten, a merchant of London,
resided with his family at Putney, in a house adjoining to the bridge and
churchyard, where I have passed many happy hours of my childhood. He left o=
ne
son (the late Sir Stanier Porten) and three daughters; Catherine, who prese=
rved
her maiden name, and of whom I shall hereafter speak; another daughter marr=
ied
Mr. Darrel of Richmond, and left two sons, Edward and Robert: the youngest =
of
the three sisters was Judith, my mother.] My lot might have been that of a =
slave,
a savage, or a peasant; nor can I reflect without pleasure on the bounty of
Nature, which cast my birth in a free and civilized country, in an age of
science and philosophy, in a family of honourable rank, and decently endowed
with the gifts of fortune. From my birth I have enjoyed the right of
primogeniture; but I was succeeded by five brothers and one sister, all of =
whom
were snatched away in their infancy. My five brothers, whose names may be f=
ound
in the parish register of Putney, I shall not pretend to lament: but from my
childhood to the present hour I have deeply and sincerely regretted my sist=
er,
whose life was somewhat prolonged, and whom I remember to have been an amia=
ble
infant. The relation of a brother and a sister, especially if they do not
marry, appears to me of a very singular nature. It is a familiar and tender=
friendship
with a female, much about our own age; an affection perhaps softened by the
secret influence of sex, and the sole species of Platonic love that can be
indulged with truth, and without danger.
At the general
election of 1741, Mr. Gibbon and Mr. Delme stood an expensive and successful
contest at Southampton, against Mr. Dummer and Mr. Henly, afterwards Lord
Chancellor and Earl of Northington. The Whig candidates had a majority of t=
he
resident voters; but the corporation was firm in the Tory interest: a sudden
creation of one hundred and seventy new freemen turned the scale; and a sup=
ply
was readily obtained of respectable volunteers, who flocked from all parts =
of
England to support the cause of their political friends. The new parliament=
opened
with the victory of an opposition, which was fortified by strong clamour and
strange coalitions. From the event of the first divisions, Sir Robert Walpo=
le
perceived that he could no longer lead a majority in the House of Commons, =
and
prudently resigned (after a dominion of one-and-twenty years) the guidance =
of
the state (1742). But the fall of an unpopular minister was not succeeded,
according to general expectation, by a millennium of happiness and virtue: =
some
courtiers lost their places, some patriots lost their characters, Lord Orfo=
rd's
offences vanished with his power; and after a short vibration, the Pelham
government was fixed on the old basis of the Whig aristocracy. In the year
1745, the throne and the constitution were attacked by a rebellion, which d=
oes
not reflect much honour on the national spirit; since the English friends of
the Pretender wanted courage to join his standard, and his enemies (the bul=
k of
the people) allowed him to advance into the heart of the kingdom. Without
daring, perhaps without desiring, to aid the rebels, my father invariably
adhered to the Tory opposition. In the most critical season he accepted, for
the service of the party, the office of alderman in the city of London: but=
the
duties were so repugnant to his inclination and habits, that he resigned hi=
s gown
at the end of a few months. The second parliament in which he sat was
prematurely dissolved (1747): and as he was unable or unwilling to maintain=
a
second contest for Southampton, the life of the senator expired in that
dissolution.
The death of a
new-born child before that of its parents may seem an unnatural, but it is
strictly a probable, event: since of any given number the greater part are
extinguished before their ninth year, before they possess the faculties of =
the
mind or body. Without accusing the profuse waste or imperfect workmanship of
Nature, I shall only observe, that this unfavourable chance was multiplied
against my infant existence. So feeble was my constitution, so precarious my
life, that, in the baptism of each of my brothers, my father's prudence
successively repeated my Christian name of Edward, that, in case of the
departure of the eldest son, this patronymic appellation might be still
perpetuated in the family.
=
--Uno avulso non deficit alter.
To preserve and to
rear so frail a being, the most tender assiduity was scarcely sufficient, a=
nd
my mother's attention was somewhat diverted by an exclusive passion for her
husband, and by the dissipation of the world, in which his taste and author=
ity
obliged her to mingle. But the maternal office was supplied by my aunt, Mrs.
Catherine Porten; at whose name I feel a tear of gratitude trickling down my
cheek. A life of celibacy transferred her vacant affection to her sister's
first child; my weakness excited her pity; her attachment was fortified by
labour and success: and if there be any, as I trust there are some, who rej=
oice
that I live, to that dear and excellent woman they must hold themselves ind=
ebted.
Many anxious and solitary days did she consume in the patient trial of every
mode of relief and amusement. Many wakeful nights did she sit by my bedside=
in
trembling expectation that each hour would be my last. Of the various and
frequent disorders of my childhood my own recollection is dark. Suffice it =
to
say, that while every practitioner, from Sloane and Ward to the Chevalier
Taylor, was successively summoned to torture or relieve me, the care of my =
mind
was too frequently neglected for that of my health: compassion always sugge=
sted
an excuse for the indulgence of the master, or the idleness of the pupil; a=
nd
the chain of my education was broken, as often as I was recalled from the s=
chool
of learning to the bed of sickness.
As soon as the us=
e of
speech had prepared my infant reason for the admission of knowledge, I was
taught the arts of reading, writing, and arithmetic. So remote is the date,=
so
vague is the memory of their origin in myself, that, were not the error
corrected by analogy, I should be tempted to conceive them as innate. In my
childhood I was praised for the readiness with which I could multiply and
divide, by memory alone, two sums of several figures; such praise encourage=
d my
growing talent; and had I persevered in this line of application, I might h=
ave
acquired some fame in mathematical studies.
After this previo=
us
institution at home, or at a day school at Putney, I was delivered at the a=
ge
of seven into the hands of Mr. John Kirkby, who exercised about eighteen mo=
nths
the office of my domestic tutor. His learning and virtue introduced him to =
my
father; and at Putney he might have found at least a temporary shelter, had=
not
an act of indiscretion driven him into the world. One day reading prayers in
the parish church, he most unluckily forgot the name of King George: his pa=
tron,
a loyal subject, dismissed him with some reluctance, and a decent reward; a=
nd how
the poor man ended his days I have never been able to learn. Mr. John Kirkb=
y is
the author of two small volumes; the Life of Automathes (London, 1745), and=
an
English and Latin Grammar (London, 1746); which, as a testimony of gratitud=
e,
he dedicated (Nov. 5th, 1745) to my father. The books are before me: from t=
hem
the pupil may judge the preceptor; and, upon the whole, his judgment will n=
ot
be unfavourable. The grammar is executed with accuracy and skill, and I know
not whether any better existed at the time in our language: but the Life of
Automathes aspires to the honours of a philosophical fiction. It is the sto=
ry
of a youth, the son of a ship-wrecked exile, who lives alone on a desert is=
land
from infancy to the age of manhood. A hind is his nurse; he inherits a cott=
age,
with many useful and curious instruments; some ideas remain of the educatio=
n of
his two first years; some arts are borrowed from the beavers of a neighbour=
ing
lake; some truths are revealed in supernatural visions. With these helps, a=
nd
his own industry, Automathes becomes a self-taught though speechless
philosopher, who had investigated with success his own mind, the natural wo=
rld,
the abstract sciences, and the great principles of morality and religion. T=
he
author is not entitled to the merit of invention, since he has blended the
English story of Robinson Crusoe with the Arabian romance of Hai Ebn Yokhda=
n,
which he might have read in the Latin version of Pocock. In the Automathes =
I cannot
praise either the depth of thought or elegance of style; but the book is not
devoid of entertainment or instruction; and among several interesting passa=
ges,
I would select the discovery of fire, which produces by accidental mischief=
the
discovery of conscience. A man who had thought so much on the subjects of
language and education was surely no ordinary preceptor: my childish years,=
and
his hasty departure, prevented me from enjoying the full benefit of his
lessons; but they enlarged my knowledge of arithmetic, and left me a clear
impression of the English and Latin rudiments.
In my ninth year
(Jan., 1746), in a lucid interval of comparative health, my father adopted =
the
convenient and customary mode of English education; and I was sent to
Kingston-upon-Thames, to a school of about seventy boys, which was kept by =
Dr.
Wooddeson and his assistants. Every time I have since passed over Putney
Common, I have always noticed the spot where my mother, as we drove along in
the coach, admonished me that I was now going into the world, and must lear=
n to
think and act for myself. The expression may appear ludicrous; yet there is
not, in the course of life, a more remarkable change than the removal of a
child from the luxury and freedom of a wealthy house, to the frugal diet an=
d strict
subordination of a school; from the tenderness of parents, and the
obsequiousness of servants, to the rude familiarity of his equals, the inso=
lent
tyranny of his seniors, and the rod, perhaps, of a cruel and capricious
pedagogue. Such hardships may steel the mind and body against the injuries =
of
fortune; but my timid reserve was astonished by the crowd and tumult of the
school; the want of strength and activity disqualified me for the sports of=
the
play-field; nor have I forgotten how often in the year forty-six I was revi=
led
and buffeted for the sins of my Tory ancestors. By the common methods of
discipline, at the expence of many tears and some blood, I purchased the
knowledge of the Latin syntax: and not long since I was possessed of the di=
rty
volumes of Phaedrus and Cornelius Nepos, which I painfully construed and da=
rkly
understood. The choice of these authors is not injudicious. The lives of Co=
rnelius
Nepos, the friend of Atticus and Cicero, are composed in the style of the
purest age: his simplicity is elegant, his brevity copious; he exhibits a
series of men and manners; and with such illustrations, as every pedant is =
not
indeed qualified to give, this classic biographer may initiate a young stud=
ent in
the history of Greece and Rome. The use of fables or apologues has been
approved in every age from ancient India to modern Europe. They convey in
familiar images the truths of morality and prudence; and the most childish
understanding (I advert to the scruples of Rousseau) will not suppose either
that beasts do speak, or that men may lie. A fable represents the genuine
characters of animals; and a skilful master might extract from Pliny and Bu=
ffon
some pleasing lessons of natural history, a science well adapted to the tas=
te
and capacity of children. The Latinity of Phaedrus is not exempt from an al=
loy
of the silver age; but his manner is concise, terse, and sententious; the
Thracian slave discreetly breathes the spirit of a freeman; and when the te=
xt
is found, the style is perspicuous. But his fables, after a long oblivion, =
were
first published by Peter Pithou, from a corrupt manuscript. The labours of
fifty editors confess the defects of the copy, as well as the value of the
original; and the school-boy may have been whipped for misapprehending a
passage, which Bentley could not restore, and which Burman could not explai=
n.
My studies were t=
oo
frequently interrupted by sickness; and after a real or nominal residence at
Kingston School of near two years, I was finally recalled (Dec., 1747) by my
mother's death, in her thirty-eighth year. I was too young to feel the
importance of my loss; and the image of her person and conversation is fain=
tly
imprinted in my memory. The affectionate heart of my aunt, Catherine Porten,
bewailed a sister and a friend; but my poor father was inconsolable, and the
transport of grief seemed to threaten his life or his reason. I can never
forget the scene of our first interview, some weeks after the fatal event; =
the
awful silence, the room hung with black, the mid-day tapers, his sighs and
tears; his praises of my mother, a saint in heaven; his solemn adjuration t=
hat
I would cherish her memory and imitate her virtues; and the fervor with whi=
ch
he kissed and blessed me as the sole surviving pledge of their loves. The s=
torm
of passion insensibly subsided into calmer melancholy. At a convivial meeti=
ng
of his friends, Mr. Gibbon might affect or enjoy a gleam of cheerfulness; b=
ut
his plan of happiness was for ever destroyed: and after the loss of his
companion he was left alone in a world, of which the business and pleasures
were to him irksome or insipid. After some unsuccessful trials he renounced=
the
tumult of London and the hospitality of Putney, and buried himself in the r=
ural
or rather rustic solitude of Beriton; from which, during several years, he
seldom emerged.
As far back as I =
can
remember, the house, near Putney-bridge and churchyard, of my maternal
grandfather appears in the light of my proper and native home. It was there=
that
I was allowed to spend the greatest part of my time, in sickness or in heal=
th,
during my school vacations and my parents' residence in London, and finally
after my mother's death. Three months after that event, in the spring of 17=
48,
the commercial ruin of her father, Mr. James Porten, was accomplished and d=
eclared.
He suddenly absconded: but as his effects were not sold, nor the house
evacuated, till the Christmas following, I enjoyed during the whole year the
society of my aunt, without much consciousness of her impending fate. I fee=
l a
melancholy pleasure in repeating my obligations to that excellent woman, Mr=
s.
Catherine Porten, the true mother of my mind as well as of my health. Her
natural good sense was improved by the perusal of the best books in the Eng=
lish
language; and if her reason was sometimes clouded by prejudice, her sentime=
nts
were never disguised by hypocrisy or affectation. Her indulgent tenderness,=
the
frankness of her temper, and my innate rising curiosity, soon removed all
distance between us: like friends of an equal age, we freely conversed on e=
very
topic, familiar or abstruse; and it was her delight and reward to observe t=
he
first shoots of my young ideas. Pain and languor were often soothed by the
voice of instruction and amusement; and to her kind lessons I ascribe my ea=
rly
and invincible love of reading, which I would not exchange for the treasure=
s of
India. I should perhaps be astonished, were it possible to ascertain the da=
te,
at which a favourite tale was engraved, by frequent repetition, in my memor=
y:
the Cavern of the Winds; the Palace of Felicity; and the fatal moment, at t=
he
end of three months or centuries, when Prince Adolphus is overtaken by Time,
who had worn out so many pair of wings in the pursuit. Before I left Kingst=
on school
I was well acquainted with Pope's Homer and the Arabian Nights Entertainmen=
ts,
two books which will always please by the moving picture of human manners a=
nd
specious miracles: nor was I then capable of discerning that Pope's transla=
tion
is a portrait endowed with every merit, excepting that of likeness to the
original. The verses of Pope accustomed my ear to the sound of poetic harmo=
ny:
in the death of Hector, and the shipwreck of Ulysses, I tasted the new emot=
ions
of terror and pity; and seriously disputed with my aunt on the vices and vi=
rtues
of the heroes of the Trojan war. From Pope's Homer to Dryden's Virgil was an
easy transition; but I know not how, from some fault in the author, the
translator, or the reader, the pious Aeneas did not so forcibly seize on my
imagination; and I derived more pleasure from Ovid's Metamorphoses, especia=
lly
in the fall of Phaeton, and the speeches of Ajax and Ulysses. My grand-fath=
er's
flight unlocked the door of a tolerable library; and I turned over many Eng=
lish
pages of poetry and romance, of history and travels. Where a title attracte=
d my
eye, without fear or awe I snatched the volume from the shelf; and Mrs. Por=
ten,
who indulged herself in moral and religious speculations, was more prone to
encourage than to check a curiosity above the strength of a boy. This year
(1748), the twelfth of my age, I shall note as the most propitious to the
growth of my intellectual stature.
The relics of my
grandfather's fortune afforded a bare annuity for his own maintenance; and =
his
daughter, my worthy aunt, who had already passed her fortieth year, was left
destitute. Her noble spirit scorned a life of obligation and dependence; and
after revolving several schemes, she preferred the humble industry of keepi=
ng a
boarding-house for Westminster-school, where she laboriously earned a
competence for her old age. This singular opportunity of blending the
advantages of private and public education decided my father. After the
Christmas holidays in January, 1749, I accompanied Mrs. Porten to her new h=
ouse
in College-street; and was immediately entered in the school of which Dr. J=
ohn
Nicoll was at that time head-master. At first I was alone: but my aunt's
resolution was praised; her character was esteemed; her friends were numero=
us
and active: in the course of some years she became the mother of forty or f=
ifty
boys, for the most part of family and fortune; and as her primitive habitat=
ion
was too narrow, she built and occupied a spacious mansion in Dean's Yard. I
shall always be ready to join in the common opinion that our public schools,
which have produced so many eminent characters, are the best adapted to the
genius and constitution of the English people. A boy of spirit may acquire a
previous and practical experience of the world; and his playfellows may be =
the
future friends of his heart or his interest. In a free intercourse with his=
equals,
the habits of truth, fortitude, and prudence will insensibly be matured. Bi=
rth
and riches are measured by the standard of personal merit; and the mimic sc=
ene
of a rebellion has displayed, in their true colours, the ministers and patr=
iots
of the rising generation. Our seminaries of learning do not exactly corresp=
ond
with the precept of a Spartan king, "that the child should be instruct=
ed
in the arts, which will be useful to the man;" since a finished scholar
may emerge from the head of Westminster or Eton, in total ignorance of the
business and conversation of English gentlemen in the latter end of the
eighteenth century. But these schools may assume the merit of teaching all =
that
they pretend to teach, the Latin and Greek languages: they deposit in the h=
ands
of a disciple the keys of two valuable chests; nor can he complain, if they=
are
afterwards lost or neglected by his own fault. The necessity of leading in
equal ranks so many unequal powers of capacity and application, will prolon=
g to
eight or ten years the juvenile studies, which might be despatched in half =
that
time by the skilful master of a single pupil. Yet even the repetition of
exercise and discipline contributes to fix in a vacant mind the verbal scie=
nce
of grammar and prosody: and the private or voluntary student, who possesses=
the
sense and spirit of the classics, may offend, by a false quantity, the
scrupulous ear of a well-flogged critic. For myself, I must be content with=
a
very small share of the civil and literary fruits of a public school. In the
space of two years (1749, 1750), interrupted by danger and debility, I
painfully climbed into the third form; and my riper age was left to acquire=
the
beauties of the Latin, and the rudiments of the Greek tongue. Instead of
audaciously mingling in the sports, the quarrels, and the connections of our
little world, I was still cherished at home under the maternal wing of my a=
unt;
and my removal from Westminster long preceded the approach of manhood.
The violence and
variety of my complaint, which had excused my frequent absence from Westmin=
ster
School, at length engaged Mrs. Porten, with the advice of physicians, to
conduct me to Bath: at the end of the Michaelmas vacation (1750) she quitte=
d me
with reluctance, and I remained several months under the care of a trusty
maid-servant. A strange nervous affection, which alternately contracted my
legs, and produced, without any visible symptoms, the most excruciating pai=
n,
was ineffectually opposed by the various methods of bathing and pumping. Fr=
om
Bath I was transported to Winchester, to the house of a physician; and after
the failure of his medical skill, we had again recourse to the virtues of t=
he
Bath waters. During the intervals of these fits, I moved with my father to
Beriton and Putney; and a short unsuccessful trial was attempted to renew my
attendance at Westminster School. But my infirmities could not be reconciled
with the hours and discipline of a public seminary; and instead of a domest=
ic
tutor, who might have watched the favourable moments, and gently advanced t=
he
progress of my learning, my father was too easily content with such occasio=
nal
teachers as the different places of my residence could supply. I was never
forced, and seldom was I persuaded, to admit these lessons: yet I read with=
a clergyman
at Bath some odes of Horace, and several episodes of Virgil, which gave me =
an
imperfect and transient enjoyment of the Latin poets. It might now be
apprehended that I should continue for life an illiterate cripple; but, as I
approached my sixteenth year, Nature displayed in my favour her mysterious
energies: my constitution was fortified and fixed; and my disorders, instea=
d of
growing with my growth and strengthening with my strength, most wonderfully
vanished. I have never possessed or abused the insolence of health: but sin=
ce
that time few persons have been more exempt from real or imaginary ills; an=
d,
till I am admonished by the gout, the reader will no more be troubled with =
the
history of my bodily complaints. My unexpected recovery again encouraged the
hope of my education; and I was placed at Esher, in Surrey, in the house of=
the
Reverend Mr. Philip Francis, in a pleasant spot, which promised to unite the
various benefits of air, exercise, and study (Jan.,1752). The translator of
Horace might have taught me to relish the Latin poets, had not my friends
discovered in a few weeks, that he preferred the pleasures of London, to the
instruction of his pupils. My father's perplexity at this time, rather than=
his
prudence, was urged to embrace a singular and desperate measure. Without pr=
eparation
or delay he carried me to Oxford; and I was matriculated in the university =
as a
gentleman commoner of Magdalen college, before I had accomplished the fifte=
enth
year of my age (April 3, 1752).
The curiosity, wh=
ich
had been implanted in my infant mind, was still alive and active; but my re=
ason
was not sufficiently informed to understand the value, or to lament the los=
s,
of three precious years from my entrance at Westminster to my admission at
Oxford. Instead of repining at my long and frequent confinement to the cham=
ber
or the couch, I secretly rejoiced in those infirmities, which delivered me =
from
the exercises of the school, and the society of my equals. As often as I was
tolerably exempt from danger and pain, reading, free desultory reading, was=
the
employment and comfort of my solitary hours. At Westminster, my aunt sought
only to amuse and indulge me; in my stations at Bath and Winchester, at Ber=
iton
and Putney, a false compassion respected my sufferings; and I was allowed,
without controul or advice, to gratify the wanderings of an unripe taste. My
indiscriminate appetite subsided by degrees in the historic line: and since
philosophy has exploded all innate ideas and natural propensities, I must
ascribe this choice to the assiduous perusal of the Universal History, as t=
he
octavo volumes successively appeared. This unequal work, and a treatise of =
Hearne,
the Ductor historicus, referred and introduced me to the Greek and Roman
historians, to as many at least as were accessible to an English reader. All
that I could find were greedily devoured, from Littlebury's lame Herodotus,=
and
Spelman's valuable Xenophon, to the pompous folios of Gordon's Tacitus, and=
a
ragged Procopius of the beginning of the last century. The cheap acquisitio=
n of
so much knowledge confirmed my dislike to the study of languages; and I arg=
ued with
Mrs. Porten, that, were I master of Greek and Latin, I must interpret to my=
self
in English the thoughts of the original, and that such extemporary versions
must be inferior to the elaborate translations of professed scholars; a sil=
ly
sophism, which could not easily be confuted by a person ignorant of any oth=
er
language than her own. From the ancient I leaped to the modern world: many
crude lumps of Speed, Rapin, Mezeray, Davila, Machiavel, Father Paul, Bower,
&c., I devoured like so many novels; and I swallowed with the same
voracious appetite the descriptions of India and China, of Mexico and Peru.=
My first introduc=
tion
to the historic scenes, which have since engaged so many years of my life, =
must
be ascribed to an accident. In the summer of 1751, I accompanied my father =
on a
visit to Mr. Hoare's, in Wiltshire; but I was less delighted with the beaut=
ies
of Stourhead, than with discovering in the library a common book, the
Continuation of Echard's Roman History, which is indeed executed with more
skill and taste than the previous work. To me the reigns of the successors =
of Constantine
were absolutely new; and I was immersed in the passage of the Goths over the
Danube, when the summons of the dinner-bell reluctantly dragged me from my
intellectual feast. This transient glance served rather to irritate than to
appease my curiosity; and as soon as I returned to Bath I procured the seco=
nd
and third volumes of Howel's History of the World, which exhibit the Byzant=
ine
period on a larger scale. Mahomet and his Saracens soon fixed my attention;=
and
some instinct of criticism directed me to the genuine sources. Simon Ockley=
, an
original in every sense, first opened my eyes; and I was led from one book =
to
another, till I had ranged round the circle of Oriental history. Before I w=
as
sixteen, I had exhausted all that could be learned in English of the Arabs =
and
Persians, the Tartars and Turks; and the same ardour urged me to guess at t=
he
French of D'Herbelot, and to construe the barbarous Latin of Pocock's
Abulfaragius. Such vague and multifarious reading could not teach me to thi=
nk,
to write, or to act; and the only principle that darted a ray of light into=
the
indigested chaos, was an early and rational application to the order of time
and place. The maps of Cellarius and Wells imprinted in my mind the picture=
of
ancient geography: from Stranchius I imbibed the elements of chronology: the
Tables of Helvicus and Anderson, the Annals of Usher and Prideaux,
distinguished the connection of events, and engraved the multitude of names=
and
dates in a clear and indelible series. But in the discussion of the first a=
ges
I overleaped the bounds of modesty and use. In my childish balance I presum=
ed
to weigh the systems of Scaliger and Petavius, of Marsham and Newton, which=
I
could seldom study in the originals; and my sleep has been disturbed by the
difficulty of reconciling the Septuagint with the Hebrew computation. I arr=
ived
at Oxford with a stock of erudition, that might have puzzled a doctor, and a
degree of ignorance, of which a school-boy would have been ashamed.
At the conclusion=
of
this first period of my life, I am tempted to enter a protest against the t=
rite
and lavish praise of the happiness of our boyish years, which is echoed wit=
h so
much affectation in the world. That happiness I have never known, that time=
I
have never regretted; and were my poor aunt still alive, she would bear
testimony to the early and constant uniformity of my sentiments. It will in=
deed
be replied, that I am not a competent judge; that pleasure is incompatible =
with
pain; that joy is excluded from sickness; and that the felicity of a school=
boy consists
in the perpetual motion of thoughtless and playful agility, in which I was
never qualified to excel. My name, it is most true, could never be enrolled
among the sprightly race, the idle progeny of Eton or Westminster,
=
"Who foremost may delight to cleave, =
With
pliant arm, the glassy wave, =
Or
urge the flying ball."
The poet may gaily
describe the short hours of recreation; but he forgets the daily tedious
labours of the school, which is approached each morning with anxious and
reluctant steps.
A traveller, who
visits Oxford or Cambridge, is surprised and edified by the apparent order =
and
tranquillity that prevail in the seats of the English muses. In the most
celebrated universities of Holland, Germany, and Italy, the students, who s=
warm
from different countries, are loosely dispersed in private lodgings at the
houses of the burghers: they dress according to their fancy and fortune; an=
d in
the intemperate quarrels of youth and wine, their swords, though less
frequently than of old, are sometimes stained with each other's blood. The =
use
of arms is banished from our English universities; the uniform habit of the
academics, the square cap, and black gown, is adapted to the civil and even
clerical profession; and from the doctor in divinity to the under-graduate,=
the
degrees of learning and age are externally distinguished. Instead of being
scattered in a town, the students of Oxford and Cambridge are united in
colleges; their maintenance is provided at their own expense, or that of the
founders; and the stated hours of the hall and chapel represent the discipl=
ine
of a regular, and, as it were, a religious community. The eyes of the trave=
ller
are attracted by the size or beauty of the public edifices; and the princip=
al
colleges appear to be so many palaces, which a liberal nation has erected a=
nd
endowed for the habitation of science. My own introduction to the universit=
y of
Oxford forms a new aera in my life; and at the distance of forty years I st=
ill remember
my first emotions of surprise and satisfaction. In my fifteenth year I felt
myself suddenly raised from a boy to a man: the persons, whom I respected a=
s my
superiors in age and academical rank, entertained me with every mark of
attention and civility; and my vanity was flattered by the velvet cap and s=
ilk
gown, which distinguish a gentleman commoner from a plebeian student. A dec=
ent
allowance, more money than a schoolboy had ever seen, was at my own disposa=
l;
and I might command, among the tradesmen of Oxford, an indefinite and dange=
rous
latitude of credit. A key was delivered into my hands, which gave me the fr=
ee
use of a numerous and learned library; my apartment consisted of three eleg=
ant and
well-furnished rooms in the new building, a stately pile, of Magdalen Colle=
ge;
and the adjacent walks, had they been frequented by Plato's disciples, might
have been compared to the Attic shade on the banks of the Ilissus. Such was=
the
fair prospect of my entrance (April 3, 1752) into the university of Oxford.=
A venerable prela=
te,
whose taste and erudition must reflect honour on the society in which they =
were
formed, has drawn a very interesting picture of his academical life.--"=
; I
was educated (says Bishop Lowth) in the UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD. I enjoyed all=
the
advantages, both public and private, which that famous seat of learning so
largely affords. I spent many years in that illustrious society, in a
well-regulated course of useful discipline and studies, and in the agreeable
and improving commerce of gentlemen and of scholars; in a society where
emulation without envy, ambition without jealousy, contention without
animosity, incited industry, and awakened genius; where a liberal pursuit o=
f knowledge,
and a genuine freedom of thought, were raised, encouraged, and pushed forwa=
rd
by example, by commendation, and by authority. I breathed the same atmosphe=
re
that the HOOKERS, the CHILLINGWORTHS, and the LOCKES had breathed before; w=
hose
benevolence and humanity were as extensive as their vast genius and
comprehensive knowledge; who always treated their adversaries with civility=
and
respect; who made candour, moderation, and liberal judgment as much the rule
and law as the subject of their discourse. And do you reproach me with my
education in this place, and with my relation to this most respectable body,
which I shall always esteem my greatest advantage and my highest honour?&qu=
ot;
I transcribe with pleasure this eloquent passage, without examining what
benefits or what rewards were derived by Hooker, or Chillingworth, or Locke,
from their academical institution; without inquiring, whether in this angry=
controversy
the spirit of Lowth himself is purified from the intolerant zeal, which
Warburton had ascribed to the genius of the place. It may indeed be observe=
d,
that the atmosphere of Oxford did not agree with Mr. Locke's constitution; =
and
that the philosopher justly despised the academical bigots, who expelled his
person and condemned his principles. The expression of gratitude is a virtue
and a pleasure: a liberal mind will delight to cherish and celebrate the me=
mory
of its parents; and the teachers of science are the parents of the mind. I
applaud the filial piety, which it is impossible for me to imitate; since I
must not confess an imaginary debt, to assume the merit of a just or genero=
us retribution.
To the university of Oxford I acknowledge no obligation; and she will as
cheerfully renounce me for a son, as I am willing to disclaim her for a mot=
her.
I spent fourteen months at Magdalen College; they proved the fourteen months
the most idle and unprofitable of my whole life: the reader will pronounce
between the school and the scholar; but I cannot affect to believe that Nat=
ure
had disqualified me for all literary pursuits. The specious and ready excus=
e of
my tender age, imperfect preparation, and hasty departure, may doubtless be=
alleged;
nor do I wish to defraud such excuses of their proper weight. Yet in my
sixteenth year I was not devoid of capacity or application; even my childish
reading had displayed an early though blind propensity for books; and the
shallow flood might have been taught to flow in a deep channel and a clear
stream. In the discipline of a well-constituted academy, under the guidance=
of
skilful and vigilant professors, I should gradually have risen from
translations to originals, from the Latin to the Greek classics, from dead
languages to living science: my hours would have been occupied by useful and
agreeable studies, the wanderings of fancy would have been restrained, and I
should have escaped the temptations of idleness, which finally precipitated=
my
departure from Oxford.
Perhaps in a sepa=
rate
annotation I may coolly examine the fabulous and real antiquities of our si=
ster
universities, a question which has kindled such fierce and foolish disputes
among their fanatic sons. In the meanwhile it will be acknowledged that the=
se
venerable bodies are sufficiently old to partake of all the prejudices and
infirmities of age. The schools of Oxford and Cambridge were founded in a d=
ark
age of false and barbarous science; and they are still tainted with the vic=
es of
their origin. Their primitive discipline was adapted to the education of
priests and monks; and the government still remains in the hands of the cle=
rgy,
an order of men whose manners are remote from the present world, and whose =
eyes
are dazzled by the light of philosophy. The legal incorporation of these
societies by the charters of popes and kings had given them a monopoly of t=
he
public instruction; and the spirit of monopolists is narrow, lazy, and
oppressive; their work is more costly and less productive than that of
independent artists; and the new improvements so eagerly grasped by the
competition of freedom, are admitted with slow and sullen reluctance in tho=
se
proud corporations, above the fear of a rival, and below the confession of =
an
error. We may scarcely hope that any reformation will be a voluntary act; a=
nd
so deeply are they rooted in law and prejudice, that even the omnipotence of
parliament would shrink from an inquiry into the state and abuses of the two
universities.
The use of academ= ical degrees, as old as the thirteenth century, is visibly borrowed from the mechanic corporations; in which an apprentice, after serving his time, obta= ins a testimonial of his skill, and a licence to practise his trade and mystery= . It is not my design to depreciate those honours, which could never gratify or disappoint my ambition; and I should applaud the institution, if the degree= s of bachelor or licentiate were bestowed as the reward of manly and successful study: if the name and rank of doctor or master were strictly reserved for = the professors of science, who have approved their title to the public esteem.<= o:p>
In all the
universities of Europe, excepting our own, the languages and sciences are
distributed among a numerous list of effective professors: the students,
according to their taste, their calling, and their diligence, apply themsel=
ves
to the proper masters; and in the annual repetition of public and private
lectures, these masters are assiduously employed. Our curiosity may inquire
what number of professors has been instituted at Oxford? (for I shall now
confine myself to my own university;) by whom are they appointed, and what =
may
be the probable chances of merit or incapacity; how many are stationed to t=
he
three faculties, and how many are left for the liberal arts? what is the fo=
rm, and
what the substance, of their lessons? But all these questions are silenced =
by
one short and singular answer, "That in the University of Oxford, the
greater part of the public professors have for these many years given up
altogether even the pretence of teaching." Incredible as the fact may
appear, I must rest my belief on the positive and impartial evidence of a
master of moral and political wisdom, who had himself resided at Oxford. Dr.
Adam Smith assigns as the cause of their indolence, that, instead of being =
paid
by voluntary contributions, which would urge them to increase the number, a=
nd
to deserve the gratitude of their pupils, the Oxford professors are secure =
in
the enjoyment of a fixed stipend, without the necessity of labour, or the
apprehension of controul. It has indeed been observed, nor is the observati=
on
absurd, that excepting in experimental sciences, which demand a costly appa=
ratus
and a dexterous hand, the many valuable treatises, that have been published=
on
every subject of learning, may now supersede the ancient mode of oral
instruction. Were this principle true in its utmost latitude, I should only
infer that the offices and salaries, which are become useless, ought without
delay to be abolished. But there still remains a material difference betwee=
n a
book and a professor; the hour of the lecture enforces attendance; attentio=
n is
fixed by the presence, the voice, and the occasional questions of the teach=
er;
the most idle will carry something away; and the more diligent will compare=
the
instructions, which they have heard in the school, with the volumes, which =
they
peruse in their chamber. The advice of a skilful professor will adapt a cou=
rse
of reading to every mind and every situation; his authority will discover,
admonish, and at last chastise the negligence of his disciples; and his
vigilant inquiries will ascertain the steps of their literary progress.
Whatever science he professes he may illustrate in a series of discourses,
composed in the leisure of his closet, pronounced on public occasions, and
finally delivered to the press. I observe with pleasure, that in the univer=
sity
of Oxford Dr. Lowth, with equal eloquence and erudition, has executed this =
task
in his incomparable Praelections on the Poetry of the Hebrews.
The college of St.
Mary Magdalen was founded in the fifteenth century by Wainfleet, bishop of
Winchester; and now consists of a president, forty fellows, and a number of
inferior students. It is esteemed one of the largest and most wealthy of our
academical corporations, which may be compared to the Benedictine abbeys of
Catholic countries; and I have loosely heard that the estates belonging to
Magdalen College, which are leased by those indulgent landlords at small
quit-rents and occasional fines, might be raised, in the hands of private
avarice, to an annual revenue of nearly thirty thousand pounds. Our colleges
are supposed to be schools of science, as well as of education; nor is it
unreasonable to expect that a body of literary men, devoted to a life of
celibacy, exempt from the care of their own subsistence, and amply provided
with books, should devote their leisure to the prosecution of study, and th=
at some
effects of their studies should be manifested to the world. The shelves of
their library groan under the weight of the Benedictine folios, of the edit=
ions
of the fathers, and the collections of the middle ages, which have issued f=
rom
the single abbey of St. Germain de Prez at Paris. A composition of genius m=
ust
be the offspring of one mind; but such works of industry, as may be divided
among many hands, and must be continued during many years, are the peculiar
province of a laborious community. If I inquire into the manufactures of the
monks of Magdalen, if I extend the inquiry to the other colleges of Oxford =
and Cambridge,
a silent blush, or a scornful frown, will be the only reply. The fellows or
monks of my time were decent easy men, who supinely enjoyed the gifts of the
founder; their days were filled by a series of uniform employments; the cha=
pel
and the hall, the coffee-house and the common room, till they retired, weary
and well satisfied, to a long slumber. From the toil of reading, or thinkin=
g,
or writing, they had absolved their conscience; and the first shoots of
learning and ingenuity withered on the ground, without yielding any fruits =
to
the owners or the public. As a gentleman commoner, I was admitted to the so=
ciety
of the fellows, and fondly expected that some questions of literature would=
be
the amusing and instructive topics of their discourse. Their conversation
stagnated in a round of college business, Tory politics, personal anecdotes,
and private scandal: their dull and deep potations excused the brisk
intemperance of youth; and their constitutional toasts were not expressive =
of
the most lively loyalty for the house of Hanover. A general election was now
approaching: the great Oxfordshire contest already blazed with all the
malevolence of party-zeal. Magdalen College was devoutly attached to the old
interest! and the names of Wenman and Dashwood were more frequently pronoun=
ced,
than those of Cicero and Chrysostom. The example of the senior fellows could
not inspire the under-graduates with a liberal spirit or studious emulation;
and I cannot describe, as I never knew, the discipline of college. Some dut=
ies
may possibly have been imposed on the poor scholars, whose ambition aspired=
to
the peaceful honours of a fellowship (ascribi quietis ordinibus - - - -
Deorum); but no independent members were admitted below the rank of a gentl=
eman
commoner, and our velvet cap was the cap of liberty. A tradition prevailed =
that
some of our predecessors had spoken Latin declamations in the hall; but of =
this
ancient custom no vestige remained: the obvious methods of public exercises=
and
examinations were totally unknown; and I have never heard that either the
president or the society interfered in the private economy of the tutors and
their pupils.
The silence of the
Oxford professors, which deprives the youth of public instruction, is
imperfectly supplied by the tutors, as they are styled, of the several
colleges. Instead of confining themselves to a single science, which had
satisfied the ambition of Burman or Bernoulli, they teach, or promise to te=
ach,
either history or mathematics, or ancient literature, or moral philosophy; =
and
as it is possible that they may be defective in all, it is highly probable =
that
of some they will be ignorant. They are paid, indeed, by voluntary
contributions; but their appointment depends on the head of the house: their
diligence is voluntary, and will consequently be languid, while the pupils =
themselves,
or their parents, are not indulged in the liberty of choice or change. The =
first
tutor into whose hands I was resigned appears to have been one of the best =
of
the tribe: Dr. Waldegrave was a learned and pious man, of a mild dispositio=
n,
strict morals, and abstemious life, who seldom mingled in the politics or t=
he
jollity of the college. But his knowledge of the world was confined to the
university; his learning was of the last, rather than the present age; his
temper was indolent; his faculties, which were not of the first rate, had b=
een
relaxed by the climate, and he was satisfied, like his fellows, with the sl=
ight
and superficial discharge of an important trust. As soon as my tutor had so=
unded
the insufficiency of his pupil in school-learning, he proposed that we shou=
ld
read every morning from ten to eleven the comedies of Terence. The sum of my
improvement in the university of Oxford is confined to three or four Latin
plays; and even the study of an elegant classic, which might have been
illustrated by a comparison of ancient and modern theatres, was reduced to a
dry and literal interpretation of the author's text. During the first weeks=
I
constantly attended these lessons in my tutor's room; but as they appeared
equally devoid of profit and pleasure I was once tempted to try the experim=
ent
of a formal apology. The apology was accepted with a smile. I repeated the
offence with less ceremony; the excuse was admitted with the same indulgenc=
e: the
slightest motive of laziness or indisposition, the most trifling avocation =
at
home or abroad, was allowed as a worthy impediment; nor did my tutor appear
conscious of my absence or neglect. Had the hour of lecture been constantly
filled, a single hour was a small portion of my academic leisure. No plan of
study was recommended for my use; no exercises were prescribed for his
inspection; and, at the most precious season of youth, whole days and weeks
were suffered to elapse without labour or amusement, without advice or acco=
unt.
I should have listened to the voice of reason and of my tutor; his mild
behaviour had gained my confidence. I preferred his society to that of the
younger students; and in our evening walks to the top of Heddington-hill, we
freely conversed on a variety of subjects. Since the days of Pocock and Hyd=
e,
Oriental learning has always been the pride of Oxford, and I once expressed=
an inclination
to study Arabic. His prudence discouraged this childish fancy; but he negle=
cted
the fair occasion of directing the ardour of a curious mind. During my abse=
nce
in the summer vacation, Dr. Waldegrave accepted a college living at Washing=
ton
in Sussex, and on my return I no longer found him at Oxford. From that time=
I
have lost sight of my first tutor; but at the end of thirty years (1781) he=
was
still alive; and the practice of exercise and temperance had entitled him t=
o a
healthy old age.
The long recess
between the Trinity and Michaelmas terms empties the colleges of Oxford, as
well as the courts of Westminster. I spent, at my father's house at Beriton=
in
Hampshire, the two months of August and September. It is whimsical enough, =
that
as soon as I left Magdalen College, my taste for books began to revive; but=
it
was the same blind and boyish taste for the pursuit of exotic history.
Unprovided with original learning, unformed in the habits of thinking,
unskilled in the arts of composition, I resolved to write a book. The title=
of
this first Essay, The Age of Sesostris, was perhaps suggested by Voltaire's=
Age
of Lewis XIV. which was new and popular; but my sole object was to investig=
ate
the probable date of the life and reign of the conqueror of Asia. I was then
enamoured of Sir John Marsham's Canon Chronicus; an elaborate work, of whose
merits and defects I was not yet qualified to judge. According to his speci=
ous,
though narrow plan, I settled my hero about the time of Solomon, in the ten=
th
century before the Christian era. It was therefore incumbent on me, unless I
would adopt Sir Isaac Newton's shorter chronology, to remove a formidable
objection; and my solution, for a youth of fifteen, is not devoid of ingenu=
ity.
In his version of the Sacred Books, Manetho, high priest has identified Set=
hosis,
or Sesostris, with the elder brother of Danaus, who landed in Greece, accor=
ding
to the Parian Marble, fifteen hundred and ten years before Christ. But in my
supposition the high priest is guilty of a voluntary error; flattery is the
prolific parent of falsehood. Manetho's History of Egypt is dedicated to
Ptolemy Philadelphus, who derived a fabulous or illegitimate pedigree from =
the
Macedonian kings of the race of Hercules. Danaus is the ancestor of Hercule=
s;
and after the failure of the elder branch, his descendants, the Ptolemies, =
are
the sole representatives of the royal family, and may claim by inheritance =
the kingdom
which they hold by conquest. Such were my juvenile discoveries; at a riper =
age
I no longer presume to connect the Greek, the Jewish, and the Egyptian
antiquities, which are lost in a distant cloud. Nor is this the only instan=
ce,
in which the belief and knowledge of the child are superseded by the more
rational ignorance of the man. During my stay at Beriton, my infant-labour =
was
diligently prosecuted, without much interruption from company or country
diversions; and I already heard the music of public applause. The discovery=
of
my own weakness was the first symptom of taste. On my return to Oxford, the=
Age
of Sesostris was wisely relinquished; but the imperfect sheets remained twe=
nty
years at the bottom of a drawer, till, in a general clearance of papers (No=
v., 1772,)
they were committed to the flames.
After the departu=
re
of Dr. Waldegrave, I was transferred, with his other pupils, to his academi=
cal
heir, whose literary character did not command the respect of the college.
Dr--- well remembered that he had a salary to receive, and only forgot that=
he
had a duty to perform. Instead of guiding the studies, and watching over the
behaviour of his disciple, I was never summoned to attend even the ceremony=
of
a lecture; and, excepting one voluntary visit to his rooms, during the eight
months of his titular office, the tutor and pupil lived in the same college=
as strangers
to each other. The want of experience, of advice, and of occupation, soon
betrayed me into some improprieties of conduct, ill-chosen company, late ho=
urs,
and inconsiderate expense. My growing debts might be secret; but my frequent
absence was visible and scandalous: and a tour to Bath, a visit into
Buckingham-shire, and four excursions to London in the same winter, were co=
stly
and dangerous frolics. They were, indeed, without a meaning, as without an
excuse. The irksomeness of a cloistered life repeatedly tempted me to wande=
r;
but my chief pleasure was that of travelling; and I was too young and bashf=
ul to
enjoy, like a Manly Oxonian in Town, the pleasures of London. In all these
excursions I eloped from Oxford; I returned to college; in a few days I elo=
ped
again, as if I had been an independent stranger in a hired lodging, without
once hearing the voice of admonition, without once feeling the hand of cont=
rol.
Yet my time was lost, my expenses were multiplied, my behaviour abroad was
unknown; folly as well as vice should have awakened the attention of my
superiors, and my tender years would have justified a more than ordinary de=
gree
of restraint and discipline.
It might at least=
be
expected, that an ecclesiastical school should inculcate the orthodox
principles of religion. But our venerable mother had contrived to unite the
opposite extremes of bigotry and indifference: an heretic, or unbeliever, w=
as a
monster in her eyes; but she was always, or often, or sometimes, remiss in =
the
spiritual education of her own children. According to the statutes of the u=
niversity,
every student, before he is matriculated, must subscribe his assent to the
thirty-nine articles of the church of England, which are signed by more than
read, and read by more than believe them. My insufficient age excused me,
however, from the immediate performance of this legal ceremony; and the
vice-chancellor directed me to return, as soon as I should have accomplishe=
d my
fifteenth year; recommending me, in the mean while, to the instruction of my
college. My college forgot to instruct: I forgot to return, and was myself
forgotten by the first magistrate of the university. Without a single lectu=
re,
either public or private, either christian or protestant, without any acade=
mical
subscription, without any episcopal confirmation, I was left by the dim lig=
ht
of my catechism to grope my way to the chapel and communion-table, where I =
was
admitted, without a question, how far, or by what means, I might be qualifi=
ed
to receive the sacrament. Such almost incredible neglect was productive of =
the
worst mischiefs. From my childhood I had been fond of religious disputation=
: my
poor aunt has been often puzzled by the mysteries which she strove to belie=
ve;
nor had the elastic spring been totally broken by the weight of the atmosph=
ere
of Oxford. The blind activity of idleness urged me to advance without armour
into the dangerous mazes of controversy; and at the age of sixteen, I
bewildered myself in the errors of the church of Rome.
The progress of my
conversion may tend to illustrate, at least, the history of my own mind. It=
was
not long since Dr. Middleton's free inquiry had founded an alarm in the
theological world: much ink and much gall had been spilt in the defence of =
the
primitive miracles; and the two dullest of their champions were crowned with
academic honours by the university of Oxford. The name of Middleton was
unpopular; and his proscription very naturally led me to peruse his writing=
s,
and those of his antagonists. His bold criticism, which approaches the
precipice of infidelity, produced on my mind a singular effect; and had I
persevered in the communion of Rome, I should now apply to my own fortune t=
he prediction
of the Sibyl,
=
--Via prima salutis, =
Quod
minime reris, Graia, pandetur ab urbe.
The elegance of s=
tyle
and freedom of argument were repelled by a shield of prejudice. I still rev=
ered
the character, or rather the names, of the saints and fathers whom Dr.
Middleton exposes; nor could he destroy my implicit belief, that the gift of
miraculous powers was continued in the church, during the first four or five
centuries of Christianity. But I was unable to resist the weight of histori=
cal
evidence, that within the same period most of the leading doctrines of pope=
ry
were already introduced in theory and practice: nor was my conclusion absur=
d,
that miracles are the test of truth, and that the church must be orthodox a=
nd pure,
which was so often approved by the visible interposition of the Deity. The
marvellous tales which are so boldly attested by the Basils and Chrysostoms,
the Austins and Jeroms, compelled me to embrace the superior merits of
celibacy, the institution of the monastic life, the use of the sign of the
cross, of holy oil, and even of images, the invocation of saints, the worsh=
ip
of relics, the rudiments of purgatory in prayers for the dead, and the
tremendous mystery of the sacrifice of the body and blood of Christ, which
insensibly swelled into the prodigy of transubstantiation. In these disposi=
tions,
and already more than half a convert, I formed an unlucky intimacy with a y=
oung
gentleman of our college, whose name I shall spare. With a character less
resolute, Mr.--- had imbibed the same religious opinions; and some Popish
books, I know not through what channel, were conveyed into his possession. =
I read,
I applauded, I believed the English translations of two famous works of
Bossuet, Bishop of Meaux, the Exposition of the Catholic Doctrine, and the
History of the Protestant Variations, achieved my conversion, and I surely =
fell
by a noble hand. I have since examined the originals with a more discerning
eye, and shall not hesitate to pronounce, that Bossuet is indeed a master of
all the weapons of controversy. In the Exposition, a specious apology, the
orator assumes, with consummate art, the tone of candour and simplicity; and
the ten-horned monster is transformed, at his magic touch, into the milk-wh=
ite
hind, who must be loved as soon as she is seen. In the History, a bold and
well-aimed attack, he displays, with a happy mixture of narrative and argum=
ent,
the faults and follies, the changes and contradictions of our first reforme=
rs;
whose variations (as he dexterously contends) are the mark of historical er=
ror,
while the perpetual unity of the catholic church is the sign and test of in=
fallible
truth. To my present feelings it seems incredible that I should ever believe
that I believed in transubstantiation. But my conqueror oppressed me with t=
he
sacramental words, "Hoc est corpus meum," and dashed against each
other the figurative half-meanings of the protestant sects: every objection=
was
resolved into omnipotence; and after repeating at St. Mary's the Athanasian
creed, I humbly acquiesced in the mystery of the real presence.
"To take up=
half
on trust, and half to try, Name it not
faith, but bungling bigotry, Both knave =
and
fool, the merchant we may call, To pay great
sums, and to compound the small, For who wou=
ld
break with Heaven, and would not break for all?"
No sooner had I
settled my new religion than I resolved to profess myself a catholic. Youth=
is
sincere and impetuous; and a momentary glow of enthusiasm had raised me abo=
ve
all temporal considerations.
By the keen
protestants, who would gladly retaliate the example of persecution, a clamo=
ur
is raised of the increase of popery: and they are always loud to declaim
against the toleration of priests and jesuits, who pervert so many of his
majesty's subjects from their religion and allegiance. On the present occas=
ion,
the fall of one or more of her sons directed this clamour against the
university: and it was confidently affirmed that popish missionaries were
suffered, under various disguises, to introduce themselves into the college=
s of
Oxford. But justice obliges me to declare, that, as far as relates to mysel=
f,
this assertion is false; and that I never conversed with a priest, or even =
with
a papist, till my resolution from books was absolutely fixed. In my last
excursion to London, I addressed myself to Mr. Lewis, a Roman catholic
bookseller in Russell-street, Covent Garden, who recommended me to a priest=
, of
whose name and order I am at present ignorant. In our first interview he so=
on
discovered that persuasion was needless. After sounding the motives and mer=
its
of my conversion he consented to admit me into the pale of the church; and =
at
his feet on the eighth of June 1753, I solemnly, though privately, abjured =
the
errors of heresy. The seduction of an English youth of family and fortune w=
as
an act of as much danger as glory; but he bravely overlooked the danger, of
which I was not then sufficiently informed. "Where a person is reconci=
led
to the see of Rome, or procures others to be reconciled, the offence (says =
Blackstone)
amounts to high treason." And if the humanity of the age would prevent=
the
execution of this sanguinary statute, there were other laws of a less odious
cast, which condemned the priest to perpetual imprisonment, and transferred=
the
proselyte's estate to his nearest relation. An elaborate controversial epis=
tle,
approved by my director, and addressed to my father, announced and justified
the step which I had taken. My father was neither a bigot nor a philosopher;
but his affection deplored the loss of an only son; and his good sense was =
astonished
at my strange departure from the religion of my country. In the first sally=
of
passion he divulged a secret which prudence might have suppressed, and the
gates of Magdalen College were for ever shut against my return. Many years
afterwards, when the name of Gibbon was become as notorious as that of
Middleton, it was industriously whispered at Oxford, that the historian had
formerly "turned papist;" my character stood exposed to the repro=
ach
of inconstancy; and this invidious topic would have been handled without me=
rcy
by my opponents, could they have separated my cause from that of the
university. For my own part, I am proud of an honest sacrifice of interest =
to
conscience. I can never blush, if my tender mind was entangled in the sophi=
stry
that seduced the acute and manly understandings of CHILLINGWORTH and BAYLE,=
who
afterwards emerged from superstition to scepticism.
While Charles the
First governed England, and was himself governed by a catholic queen, it ca=
nnot
be denied that the missionaries of Rome laboured with impunity and success =
in
the court, the country, and even the universities. One of the sheep,
=
--Whom the grim wolf with privy paw =
Daily
devours apace, and nothing said,
is Mr. William
Chillingworth, Master of Arts, and Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford; who, =
at
the ripe age of twenty-eight years, was persuaded to elope from Oxford, to =
the
English seminary at Douay in Flanders. Some disputes with Fisher, a subtle
jesuit, might first awaken him from the prejudices of education; but he yie=
lded
to his own victorious argument, "that there must be somewhere an
infallible judge; and that the church of Rome is the only Christian society
which either does or can pretend to that character." After a short tri=
al
of a few months, Mr. Chillingworth was again tormented by religious scruple=
s: he
returned home, resumed his studies, unravelled his mistakes, and delivered =
his
mind from the yoke of authority and superstition. His new creed was built on
the principle, that the Bible is our sole judge, and private reason our sole
interpreter: and he ably maintains this principle in the Religion of a
Protestant, a book which, after startling the doctors of Oxford, is still
esteemed the most solid defence of the Reformation. The learning, the virtu=
e,
the recent merits of the author, entitled him to fair preferment: but the s=
lave
had now broken his fetters; and the more he weighed, the less was he dispos=
ed
to subscribe to the thirty-nine articles of the church of England. In a pri=
vate
letter he declares, with all the energy of language, that he could not subs=
cribe
to them without subscribing to his own damnation; and that if ever he should
depart from this immoveable resolution, he would allow his friends to think=
him
a madman, or an atheist. As the letter is without a date, we cannot ascerta=
in
the number of weeks or months that elapsed between this passionate abhorren=
ce
and the Salisbury Register, which is still extant. "Ego Gulielmus
Chillingworth,... omnibus hisce articulis....... et singulis in iisdem cont=
entis
volens, et ex animo subscribo, et consensum meum iisdem praebeo. 20 die Jul=
ii
1638." But, alas! the chancellor and prebendary of Sarum soon deviated
from his own subscription: as he more deeply scrutinized the article of the
Trinity, neither scripture nor the primitive fathers could long uphold his =
orthodox
belief; and he could not but confess, "that the doctrine of Arius is
either the truth, or at least no damnable heresy." From this middle re=
gion
of the air, the descent of his reason would naturally rest on the firmer gr=
ound
of the Socinians: and if we may credit a doubtful story, and the popular
opinion, his anxious inquiries at last subsided in philosophic indifference=
. So
conspicuous, however, were the candour of his nature and the innocence of h=
is
heart, that this apparent levity did not affect the reputation of
Chillingworth. His frequent changes proceeded from too nice an inquisition =
into
truth. His doubts grew out of himself; he assisted them with all the streng=
th
of his reason: he was then too hard for himself; but finding as little quiet
and repose in those victories, he quickly recovered, by a new appeal to his=
own
judgment: so that in all his sallies and retreats, he was in fact his own
convert.
Bayle was the son=
of
a Calvinist minister in a remote province of France, at the foot of the
Pyrenees. For the benefit of education, the protestants were tempted to risk
their children in the catholic universities; and in the twenty-second year =
of
his age, young Bayle was seduced by the arts and arguments of the jesuits of
Toulouse. He remained about seventeen months (Mar. 19 1669--Aug. 19 1670) in
their hands, a voluntary captive: and a letter to his parents, which the ne=
w convert
composed or subscribed (April 15 1670), is darkly tinged with the spirit of
popery. But Nature had designed him to think as he pleased, and to speak as=
he
thought: his piety was offended by the excessive worship of creatures; and =
the
study of physics convinced him of the impossibility of transubstantiation,
which is abundantly refuted by the testimony of our senses. His return to t=
he
communion of a falling sect was a bold and disinterested step, that exposed=
him
to the rigour of the laws; and a speedy flight to Geneva protected him from=
the
resentment of his spiritual tyrants, unconscious as they were of the full v=
alue
of the prize, which they had lost. Had Bayle adhered to the catholic church,
had he embraced the ecclesiastical profession, the genius and favour of suc=
h a
proselyte might have aspired to wealth and honours in his native country: b=
ut
the hypocrite would have found less happiness in the comforts of a benefice=
, or
the dignity of a mitre, than he enjoyed at Rotterdam in a private state of
exile, indigence, and freedom. Without a country, or a patron, or a prejudi=
ce,
he claimed the liberty and subsisted by the labours of his pen: the inequal=
ity
of his voluminous works is explained and excused by his alternately writing=
for
himself, for the booksellers, and for posterity; and if a severe critic wou=
ld
reduce him to a single folio, that relic, like the books of the Sibyl, would
become still more valuable. A calm and lofty spectator of the religious
tempest, the philosopher of Rotterdam condemned with equal firmness the
persecution of Lewis the Fourteenth, and the republican maxims of the
Calvinists; their vain prophecies, and the intolerant bigotry which sometim=
es
vexed his solitary retreat. In reviewing the controversies of the times, he
turned against each other the arguments of the disputants; successively
wielding the arms of the catholics and protestants, he proves that neither =
the
way of authority, nor the way of examination can afford the multitude any t=
est
of religious truth; and dexterously concludes that custom and education mus=
t be
the sole grounds of popular belief. The ancient paradox of Plutarch, that
atheism is less pernicious than superstition, acquires a tenfold vigor, whe=
n it
is adorned with the colours of his wit, and pointed with the acuteness of h=
is
logic. His critical dictionary is a vast repository of facts and opinions; =
and
he balances the false religions in his sceptical scales, till the opposite
quantities (if I may use the language of algebra) annihilate each other. The
wonderful power which he so boldly exercised, of assembling doubts and
objections, had tempted him jocosely to assume the title of the {Greek
expression} Zeus, the cloud-compelling Jove; and in a conversation with the
ingenious Abbe (afterwards Cardinal) de Polignac, he freely disclosed his
universal Pyrrhonism. "I am most truly (said Bayle) a protestant; for I
protest indifferently against all systems and all sects."
The academical
resentment, which I may possibly have provoked, will prudently spare this p=
lain
narrative of my studies, or rather of my idleness; and of the unfortunate e=
vent
which shortened the term of my residence at Oxford. But it may be suggested,
that my father was unlucky in the choice of a society, and the chance of a
tutor. It will perhaps be asserted, that in the lapse of forty years many
improvements have taken place in the college and in the university. I am not
unwilling to believe, that some tutors might have been found more active th=
an
Dr. Waldgrave, and less contemptible than Dr.****. About the same time, and=
in
the same walk, a Bentham was still treading in the footsteps of a Burton, w=
hose
maxims he had adopted, and whose life he had published. The biographer inde=
ed
preferred the school-logic to the new philosophy, Burgursdicius to Locke; a=
nd
the hero appears, in his own writings, a stiff and conceited pedant. Yet ev=
en
these men, according to the measure of their capacity, might be diligent and
useful; and it is recorded of Burton, that he taught his pupils what he kne=
w;
some Latin, some Greek, some ethics and metaphysics; referring them to prop=
er
masters for the languages and sciences of which he was ignorant. At a more
recent period, many students have been attracted by the merit and reputatio=
n of
Sir William Scott, then a tutor in University College, and now conspicuous =
in
the profession of the civil law: my personal acquaintance with that gentlem=
an
has inspired me with a just esteem for his abilities and knowledge; and I am
assured that his lectures on history would compose, were they given to the
public, a most valuable treatise. Under the auspices of the present Archbis=
hop
of York, Dr. Markham, himself an eminent scholar, a more regular discipline=
has
been introduced, as I am told, at Christ Church; a course of classical and
philosophical studies is proposed, and even pursued, in that numerous semin=
ary:
learning has been made a duty, a pleasure, and even a fashion; and several
young gentlemen do honour to the college in which they have been educated. =
According
to the will of the donor, the profit of the second part of Lord Clarendon's
History has been applied to the establishment of a riding-school, that the
polite exercises might be taught, I know not with what success, in the
university. The Vinerian professorship is of far more serious importance; t=
he
laws of his country are the first science of an Englishman of rank and fort=
une,
who is called to be a magistrate, and may hope to be a legislator. This
judicious institution was coldly entertained by the graver doctors, who
complained (I have heard the complaint) that it would take the young people
from their books: but Mr. Viner's benefaction is not unprofitable, since it=
has
at least produced the excellent commentaries of Sir William Blackstone.
After carrying me=
to
Putney, to the house of his friend Mr. Mallet, by whose philosophy I was ra=
ther
scandalized than reclaimed, it was necessary for my father to form a new pl=
an
of education, and to devise some method which, if possible, might effect the
cure of my spiritual malady. After much debate it was determined, from the
advice and personal experience of Mr. Eliot (now Lord Eliot) to fix me, dur=
ing
some years, at Lausanne in Switzerland. Mr. Frey, a Swiss gentleman of Basi=
l, undertook
the conduct of the journey: we left London the 19th of June, crossed the sea
from Dover to Calais, travelled post through several provinces of France, by
the direct road of St. Quentin, Rheims, Langres, and Besancon, and arrived =
the
30th of June at Lausanne, where I was immediately settled under the roof and
tuition of Mr. Pavilliard, a Calvinist minister.
The first marks o=
f my
father's displeasure rather astonished than afflicted me: when he threatene=
d to
banish, and disown, and disinherit a rebellious son, I cherished a secret h=
ope
that he would not be able or willing to effect his menaces; and the pride of
conscience encouraged me to sustain the honourable and important part which=
I
was now acting. My spirits were raised and kept alive by the rapid motion o=
f my
journey, the new and various scenes of the Continent, and the civility of M=
r. Frey,
a man of sense, who was not ignorant of books or the world. But after he had
resigned me into Pavilliard's hands, and I was fixed in my new habitation, I
had leisure to contemplate the strange and melancholy prospect before me. My
first complaint arose from my ignorance of the language. In my childhood I =
had
once studied the French grammar, and I could imperfectly understand the easy
prose of a familiar subject. But when I was thus suddenly cast on a foreign
land, I found myself deprived of the use of speech and of hearing; and, dur=
ing
some weeks, incapable not only of enjoying the pleasures of conversation, b=
ut
even of asking or answering a question in the common intercourse of life. T=
o a home-bred
Englishman every object, every custom was offensive; but the native of any
country might have been disgusted with the general aspect of his lodging and
entertainment. I had now exchanged my elegant apartment in Magdalen College,
for a narrow, gloomy street, the most unfrequented of an unhandsome town, f=
or
an old inconvenient house, and for a small chamber ill-contrived and
ill-furnished, which, on the approach of Winter, instead of a companionable
fire, must be warmed by the dull invisible heat of a stove. From a man I was
again degraded to the dependence of a schoolboy. Mr. Pavilliard managed my =
expences,
which had been reduced to a diminutive state: I received a small monthly al=
lowance
for my pocket-money; and helpless and awkward as I have ever been, I no lon=
ger
enjoyed the indispensable comfort of a servant. My condition seemed as
destitute of hope, as it was devoid of pleasure: I was separated for an
indefinite, which appeared an infinite term from my native country; and I h=
ad
lost all connexion with my catholic friends. I have since reflected with
surprise, that as the Romish clergy of every part of Europe maintain a close
correspondence with each other, they never attempted, by letters or message=
s,
to rescue me from the hands of the heretics, or at least to confirm my zeal=
and
constancy in the profession of the faith. Such was my first introduction to
Lausanne; a place where I spent nearly five years with pleasure and profit,
which I afterwards revisited without compulsion, and which I have finally s=
elected
as the most grateful retreat for the decline of my life.
But it is the
peculiar felicity of youth that the most unpleasing objects and events seld=
om
make a deep or lasting impression; it forgets the past, enjoys the present,=
and
anticipates the future. At the flexible age of sixteen I soon learned to
endure, and gradually to adopt, the new forms of arbitrary manners: the real
hardships of my situation were alienated by time. Had I been sent abroad in=
a
more splendid style, such as the fortune and bounty of my father might have=
supplied,
I might have returned home with the same stock of language and science, whi=
ch
our countrymen usually import from the Continent. An exile and a prisoner a=
s I
was, their example betrayed me into some irregularities of wine, of play, a=
nd
of idle excursions: but I soon felt the impossibility of associating with t=
hem on
equal terms; and after the departure of my first acquaintance, I held a cold
and civil correspondence with their successors. This seclusion from English=
society
was attended with the most solid benefits. In the Pays de Vaud, the French
language is used with less imperfection than in most of the distant provinc=
es
of France: in Pavilliard's family, necessity compelled me to listen and to
speak; and if I was at first disheartened by the apparent slowness, in a few
months I was astonished by the rapidity of my progress. My pronunciation was
formed by the constant repetition of the same sounds; the variety of words =
and
idioms, the rules of grammar, and distinctions of genders, were impressed i=
n my
memory ease and freedom were obtained by practice; correctness and elegance=
by
labour; and before I was recalled home, French, in which I spontaneously th=
ought,
was more familiar than English to my ear, my tongue, and my pen. The first
effect of this opening knowledge was the revival of my love of reading, whi=
ch
had been chilled at Oxford; and I soon turned over, without much choice, al=
most
all the French books in my tutor's library. Even these amusements were
productive of real advantage: my taste and judgment were now somewhat riper=
. I
was introduced to a new mode of style and literature: by the comparison of
manners and opinions, my views were enlarged, my prejudices were corrected,=
and
a copious voluntary abstract of the Histoire de l'Eglise et de l'Empire, by=
le Sueur,
may be placed in a middle line between my childish and my manly studies. As
soon as I was able to converse with the natives, I began to feel some
satisfaction in their company my awkward timidity was polished and embolden=
ed;
and I frequented, for the first time, assemblies of men and women. The acqu=
aintance
of the Pavilliards prepared me by degrees for more elegant society. I was
received with kindness and indulgence in the best families of Lausanne; and=
it
was in one of these that I formed an intimate and lasting connection with M=
r.
Deyverdun, a young man of an amiable temper and excellent understanding. In=
the
arts of fencing and dancing, small indeed was my proficiency; and some mont=
hs
were idly wasted in the riding-school. My unfitness to bodily exercise
reconciled me to a sedentary life, and the horse, the favourite of my
countrymen, never contributed to the pleasures of my youth.
My obligations to=
the
lessons of Mr. Pavilliard, gratitude will not suffer me to forget: he was
endowed with a clear head and a warm heart; his innate benevolence had assu=
aged
the spirit of the church; he was rational, because he was moderate: in the
course of his studies he had acquired a just though superficial knowledge of
most branches of literature; by long practice, he was skilled in the arts of
teaching; and he laboured with assiduous patience to know the character, ga=
in
the affection, and open the mind of his English pupil. As soon as we began =
to
understand each other, he gently led me, from a blind and undistinguishing =
love
of reading, into the path of instruction. I consented with pleasure that a
portion of the morning hours should be consecrated to a plan of modern hist=
ory
and geography, and to the critical perusal of the French and Latin classics;
and at each step I felt myself invigorated by the habits of application and
method. His prudence repressed and dissembled some youthful sallies; and as
soon as I was confirmed in the habits of industry and temperance, he gave t=
he reins
into my own hands. His favourable report of my behaviour and progress gradu=
ally
obtained some latitude of action and expence; and he wished to alleviate the
hardships of my lodging and entertainment. The principles of philosophy were
associated with the examples of taste; and by a singular chance, the book, =
as
well as the man, which contributed the most effectually to my education, ha=
s a
stronger claim on my gratitude than on my admiration. Mr. De Crousaz, the
adversary of Bayle and Pope, is not distinguished by lively fancy or profou=
nd
reflection; and even in his own country, at the end of a few years, his name
and writings are almost obliterated. But his philosophy had been formed in =
the
school of Locke, his divinity in that of Limborch and Le Clerc; in a long a=
nd
laborious life, several generations of pupils were taught to think, and eve=
n to
write; his lessons rescued the academy of Lausanne from Calvinistic prejudi=
ce;
and he had the rare merit of diffusing a more liberal spirit among the cler=
gy
and people of the Pays de Vaud. His system of logic, which in the last edit=
ions
has swelled to six tedious and prolix volumes, may be praised as a clear and
methodical abridgment of the art of reasoning, from our simple ideas to the
most complex operations of the human understanding. This system I studied, =
and meditated,
and abstracted, till I have obtained the free command of an universal
instrument, which I soon presumed to exercise on my catholic opinions.
Pavilliard was not unmindful that his first task, his most important duty, =
was
to reclaim me from the errors of popery. The intermixture of sects has rend=
ered
the Swiss clergy acute and learned on the topics of controversy; and I have
some of his letters in which he celebrates the dexterity of his attack, and=
my
gradual concessions after a firm and well-managed defence. I was willing, a=
nd I
am now willing, to allow him a handsome share of the honour of my conversio=
n:
yet I must observe, that it was principally effected by my private reflecti=
ons;
and I still remember my solitary transport at the discovery of a philosophi=
cal
argument against the doctrine of transubstantiation: that the text of
scripture, which seems to inculcate the real presence, is attested only by a
single sense--our sight; while the real presence itself is disproved by thr=
ee
of our senses--the sight, the touch, and the taste. The various articles of=
the
Romish creed disappeared like a dream; and after a full conviction, on
Christmas-day, 1754, I received the sacrament in the church of Lausanne. It=
was
here that I suspended my religious inquiries, acquiescing with implicit bel=
ief
in the tenets and mysteries, which are adopted by the general consent of
catholics and protestants.
Such, from my arr=
ival
at Lausanne, during the first eighteen or twenty months (July 1753--March
1755), were my useful studies, the foundation of all my future improvements.
But every man who rises above the common level has received two educations:=
the
first from his teachers; the second, more personal and important, from hims=
elf.
He will not, like the fanatics of the last age, define the moment of grace;=
but
he cannot forget the aera of his life, in which his mind has expanded to it=
s proper
form and dimensions. My worthy tutor had the good sense and modesty to disc=
ern
how far he could be useful: as soon as he felt that I advanced beyond his s=
peed
and measure, he wisely left me to my genius; and the hours of lesson were s=
oon
lost in the voluntary labour of the whole morning, and sometimes of the who=
le
day. The desire of prolonging my time, gradually confirmed the salutary hab=
it
of early rising, to which I have always adhered, with some regard to seasons
and situations; but it is happy for my eyes and my health, that my temperate
ardour has never been seduced to trespass on the hours of the night. During=
the
last three years of my residence at Lausanne, I may assume the merit of ser=
ious
and solid application; but I am tempted to distinguish the last eight month=
s of
the year 1755, as the period of the most extraordinary diligence and rapid
progress. In my French and Latin translations I adopted an excellent method=
, which,
from my own success, I would recommend to the imitation of students. I chose
some classic writer, such as Cicero and Vertot, the most approved for purity
and elegance of style. I translated, for instance, an epistle of Cicero into
French; and after throwing it aside, till the words and phrases were
obliterated from my memory, I re-translated my French into such Latin as I
could find; and then compared each sentence of my imperfect version, with t=
he ease,
the grace, the propriety of the Roman orator. A similar experiment was made=
on
several pages of the Revolutions of Vertot; I turned them into Latin, retur=
ned
them after a sufficient interval into my own French, and again scrutinized =
the
resemblance or dissimilitude of the copy and the original. By degrees I was
less ashamed, by degrees I was more satisfied with myself; and I persevered=
in
the practice of these double translations, which filled several books, till=
I
had acquired the knowledge or both idioms, and the command at least of a
correct style. This useful exercise of writing was accompanied and succeede=
d by
the more pleasing occupation of reading the best authors. The perusal of the
Roman classics was at once my exercise and reward. Dr. Middleton's History,
which I then appreciated above its true value, naturally directed the to the
writings of Cicero. The most perfect editions, that of Olivet, which may ad=
orn
the shelves of the rich, that of Ernesti, which should lie on the table of =
the
learned, were not in my power. For the familiar epistles I used the text and
English commentary of Bishop Ross: but my general edition was that of
Verburgius, published at Amsterdam in two large volumes in folio, with an
indifferent choice of various notes. I read, with application and pleasure,=
all
the epistles, all the orations, and the most important treatises of rhetoric
and philosophy; and as I read, I applauded the observation of Quintilian, t=
hat
every student may judge of his own proficiency, by the satisfaction which he
receives from the Roman orator. I tasted the beauties of language, I breath=
ed
the spirit of freedom, and I imbibed from his precepts and examples the pub=
lic
and private sense of a man. Cicero in Latin, and Xenophon in Greek, are ind=
eed
the two ancients whom I would first propose to a liberal scholar; not only =
for
the merit of their style and sentiments, but for the admirable lessons, whi=
ch
may be applied almost to every situation of public and private life. Cicero=
's
Epistles may in particular afford the models of every form of correspondenc=
e, from
the careless effusions of tenderness and friendship, to the well guarded
declaration of discreet and dignified resentment. After finishing this great
author, a library of eloquence and reason, I formed a more extensive plan of
reviewing the Latin classics, under the four divisions of, 1. historians, 2.
Poets, 3. orators, and 4. philosophers, in a chronological series, from the
days of Plautus and Sallust, to the decline of the language and empire of R=
ome:
and this plan, in the last twenty-seven months of my residence at Lausanne
(Jan. 1756--April 1758), I nearly accomplished. Nor was this review, however
rapid, either hasty or superficial. I indulged myself in a second and even a
third perusal of Terence, Virgil, Horace, Tacitus, &c.; and studied to =
imbibe
the sense and spirit most congenial to my own. I never suffered a difficult=
or
corrupt passage to escape, till I had viewed it in every light of which it =
was
susceptible: though often disappointed, I always consulted the most learned=
or
ingenious commentators, Torrentius and Dacier on Horace, Catrou and Servius=
on Virgil,
Lipsius on Tacitus, Meziriac on Ovid, &c.; and in the ardour of my
inquiries, I embraced a large circle of historical and critical erudition. =
My
abstracts of each book were made in the French language: my observations of=
ten
branched into particular essays; and I can still read, without contempt, a
dissertation of eight folio pages on eight lines (287-294) of the fourth
Georgic of Virgil. Mr. Deyverdun, my friend, whose name will be frequently
repeated, had joined with equal zeal, though not with equal perseverance, in
the same undertaking. To him every thought, every composition, was instantly
communicated; with him I enjoyed the benefits of a free conversation on the
topics of our common studies.
But it is scarcely
possible for a mind endowed with any active curiosity to be long conversant
with the Latin classics, without aspiring to know the Greek originals, whom
they celebrate as their masters, and of whom they so warmly recommend the s=
tudy
and imitation;
=
--Vos exemplaria Graeca =
Nocturna
versate manu, versate diurna.
It was now that I
regretted the early years which had been wasted in sickness or idleness, or
mere idle reading; that I condemned the perverse method of our schoolmaster=
s,
who, by first teaching the mother-language, might descend with so much ease=
and
perspicuity to the origin and etymology of a derivative idiom. In the
nineteenth year of my age I determined to supply this defect; and the lesso=
ns
of Pavilliard again contributed to smooth the entrance of the way, the Greek
alphabet, the grammar, and the pronunciation according to the French accent=
. At
my earnest request we presumed to open the Iliad; and I had the pleasure of=
beholding,
though darkly and through a glass, the true image of Homer, whom I had long
since admired in an English dress. After my tutor had left me to myself, I
worked my way through about half the Iliad, and afterwards interpreted alon=
e a
large portion of Xenophon and Herodotus. But my ardour, destitute of aid and
emulation, was gradually cooled, and, from the barren task of searching wor=
ds
in a lexicon, I withdrew to the free and familiar conversation of Virgil and
Tacitus. Yet in my residence at Lausanne I had laid a solid foundation, whi=
ch
enabled me, in a more propitious season, to prosecute the study of Grecian =
literature.
From a blind idea=
of
the usefulness of such abstract science, my father had been desirous, and e=
ven
pressing, that I should devote some time to the mathematics; nor could I re=
fuse
to comply with so reasonable a wish. During two winters I attended the priv=
ate
lectures of Monsieur de Traytorrens, who explained the elements of algebra =
and
geometry, as far as the conic sections of the Marquis de l'Hopital, and app=
eared
satisfied with my diligence and improvement. But as my childish propensity =
for
numbers and calculations was totally extinct, I was content to receive the
passive impression of my Professor's lectures, without any active exercise =
of
my own powers. As soon as I understood the principles, I relinquished for e=
ver
the pursuit of the mathematics; nor can I lament that I desisted, before my
mind was hardened by the habit of rigid demonstration, so destructive of the
finer feelings of moral evidence, which must, however, determine the actions
and opinions of our lives. I listened with more pleasure to the proposal of
studying the law of nature and nations, which was taught in the academy of =
Lausanne
by Mr. Vicat, a professor of some learning and reputation. But instead of
attending his public or private course, I preferred in my closet the lesson=
s of
his masters, and my own reason. Without being disgusted by Grotius or
Puffendorf, I studied in their writings the duties of a man, the rights of a
citizen, the theory of justice (it is, alas! a theory), and the laws of pea=
ce
and war, which have had some influence on the practice of modern Europe. My
fatigues were alleviated by the good sense of their commentator Barbeyrac.
Locke's Treatise of Government instructed me in the knowledge of Whig
principles, which are rather founded in reason than experience; but my deli=
ght
was in the frequent perusal of Montesquieu, whose energy of style, and bold=
ness
of hypothesis, were powerful to awaken and stimulate the genius of the age.=
The
logic of De Crousaz had prepared me to engage with his master Locke and his
antagonist Bayle; of whom the former may be used as a bridle, and the latter
applied as a spur, to the curiosity of a young philosopher. According to the
nature of their respective works, the schools of argument and objection, I
carefully went through the Essay on Human Understanding, and occasionally
consulted the most interesting articles of the Philosophic Dictionary. In t=
he
infancy of my reason I turned over, as an idle amusement, the most serious =
and
important treatise: in its maturity, the most trifling performance could
exercise my taste or judgment, and more than once I have been led by a nove=
l into
a deep and instructive train of thinking. But I cannot forbear to mention t=
hree
particular books, since they may have remotely contributed to form the
historian of the Roman empire. 1. From the Provincial Letters of Pascal, wh=
ich
almost every year I have perused with new pleasure, I learned to manage the
weapon of grave and temperate irony, even on subjects of ecclesiastical
solemnity. 2. The Life of Julian, by the Abbe de la Bleterie, first introdu=
ced
me to the man and the times; and I should be glad to recover my first essay=
on
the truth of the miracle which stopped the rebuilding of the Temple of
Jerusalem. 3. In Giannone's Civil History of Naples I observed with a criti=
cal
eye the progress and abuse of sacerdotal power, and the revolutions of Ital=
y in
the darker ages. This various reading, which I now conducted with discretio=
n,
was digested, according to the precept and model of Mr. Locke, into a large
common-place book; a practice, however, which I do not strenuously recommen=
d.
The action of the pen will doubtless imprint an idea on the mind as well as=
on
the paper: but I much question whether the benefits of this laborious method
are adequate to the waste of time; and I must agree with Dr. Johnson, (Idle=
r,
No. 74.) "that what is twice read, is commonly better remembered, than
what is transcribed."
During two years,=
if I
forget some boyish excursions of a day or a week, I was fixed at Lausanne; =
but
at the end of the third summer, my father consented that I should make the =
tour
of Switzerland with Pavilliard: and our short absence of one month (Sept.
21st--Oct. 20th, 1755) was a reward and relaxation of my assiduous studies.=
The
fashion of climbing the mountains and reviewing the Glaciers, had not yet b=
een
introduced by foreign travellers, who seek the sublime beauties of nature. =
But
the political face of the country is not less diversified by the forms and =
spirit
of so many various republics, from the jealous government of the few to the
licentious freedom of the many. I contemplated with pleasure the new prospe=
cts
of men and manners; though my conversation with the natives would have been
more free and instructive, had I possessed the German, as well as the French
language. We passed through most of the principal towns of Switzerland;
Neufchatel, Bienne, Soleurre, Arau, Baden, Zurich, Basil, and Berne. In eve=
ry
place we visited the churches, arsenals, libraries, and all the most eminent
persons; and after my return, I digested my notes in fourteen or fifteen sh=
eets
of a French journal, which I dispatched to my father, as a proof that my ti=
me
and his money had not been mis-spent. Had I found this journal among his pa=
pers,
I might be tempted to select some passages; but I will not transcribe the
printed accounts, and it may be sufficient to notice a remarkable spot, whi=
ch
left a deep and lasting impression on my memory. From Zurich we proceeded to
the Benedictine Abbey of Einfidlen, snore commonly styled Our Lady of the
Hermits. I was astonished by the profuse ostentation of riches in the poore=
st
corner of Europe; amidst a savage scene of woods and mountains, a palace
appears to have been erected by magic; and it was erected by the potent mag=
ic
of religion. A crowd of palmers and votaries was prostrate before the altar.
The title and worship of the Mother of God provoked my indignation; and the
lively naked image of superstition suggested to me, as in the same place it=
had
done to Zuinglius, the most pressing argument for the reformation of the ch=
urch.
About two years after this tour, I passed at Geneva a useful and agreeable
month; but this excursion, and short visits in the Pays de Vaud, did not
materially interrupt my studious and sedentary life at Lausanne.
My thirst of
improvement, and the languid state of science at Lausanne, soon prompted me=
to
solicit a literary correspondence with several men of learning, whom I had =
not an
opportunity of personally consulting. 1. In the perusal of Livy, (xxx. 44,)=
I
had been stopped by a sentence in a speech of Hannibal, which cannot be
reconciled by any torture with his character or argument. The commentators
dissemble, or confess their perplexity. It occurred to me, that the change =
of a
single letter, by substituting otio instead of odio, might restore a clear =
and
consistent sense; but I wished to weigh my emendation in scales less partial
than my own. I addressed myself to M. Crevier, the successor of Rollin, and=
a
professor in the university of Paris, who had published a large and valuable
edition of Livy. His answer was speedy and polite; he praised my ingenuity,=
and
adopted my conjecture. 2. I maintained a Latin correspondence, at first
anonymous, and afterwards in my own name, with Professor Breitinger of Zuri=
ch,
the learned editor of a Septuagint Bible. In our frequent letters we discus=
sed
many questions of antiquity, many passages of the Latin classics. I propose=
d my
interpretations and amendments. His censures, for he did not spare my boldn=
ess of
conjecture, were sharp and strong; and I was encouraged by the consciousnes=
s of
my strength, when I could stand in free debate against a critic of such
eminence and erudition. 3. I corresponded on similar topics with the celebr=
ated
Professor Matthew Gesner, of the university of Gottingen; and he accepted, =
as
courteously as the two former, the invitation of an unknown youth. But his
abilities might possibly be decayed; his elaborate letters were feeble and
prolix; and when I asked his proper direction, the vain old man covered hal=
f a
sheet of paper with the foolish enumeration of his titles and offices. 4. T=
hese
Professors of Paris, Zurich, and Gottingen, were strangers, whom I presumed=
to
address on the credit of their name; but Mr. Allamand, Minister at Bex, was=
my
personal friend, with whom I maintained a more free and interesting
correspondence. He was a master of language, of science, and, above all, of
dispute; and his acute and flexible logic could support, with equal address,
and perhaps with equal indifference, the adverse sides of every possible
question. His spirit was active, but his pen had been indolent. Mr. Allamand
had exposed himself to much scandal and reproach, by an anonymous letter (1=
745)
to the Protestants of France; in which he labours to persuade them that pub=
lic
worship is the exclusive right and duty of the state, and that their numero=
us assemblies
of dissenters and rebels were not authorized by the law or the gospel. His
style is animated, his arguments specious; and if the papist may seem to lu=
rk
under the mask of a protestant, the philosopher is concealed under the disg=
uise
of a papist. After some trials in France and Holland, which were defeated by
his fortune or his character, a genius that might have enlightened or delud=
ed
the world, was buried in a country living, unknown to fame, and discontented
with mankind. Est sacrificulus in pago, et rusticos decipit. As often as
private or ecclesiastical business called him to Lausanne, I enjoyed the
pleasure and benefit of his conversation, and we were mutually flattered by=
our
attention to each other. Our correspondence, in his absence, chiefly turned=
on
Locke's metaphysics, which he attacked, and I defended; the origin of ideas,
the principles of evidence, and the doctrine of liberty;
=
And found no end, in wandering mazes lost.
By fencing with so
skilful a master, I acquired some dexterity in the use of my philosophic
weapons; but I was still the slave of education and prejudice. He had some
measures to keep; and I much suspect that he never showed me the true colou=
rs
of his secret scepticism.
Before I was reca=
lled
from Switzerland, I had the satisfaction of seeing the most extraordinary m=
an
of the age; a poet, an historian, a philosopher, who has filled thirty quar=
tos,
of prose and verse, with his various productions, often excellent, and alwa=
ys
entertaining. Need I add the name of Voltaire? After forfeiting, by his own
misconduct, the friendship of the first of kings, he retired, at the age of
sixty, with a plentiful fortune, to a free and beautiful country, and resid=
ed
two winters (1757 and 1758) in the town or neighbourhood of Lausanne. My de=
sire
of beholding Voltaire, whom I then rated above his real magnitude, was easi=
ly
gratified. He received me with civility as an English youth; but I cannot b=
oast
of any peculiar notice or distinction, Virgilium vidi tantum.
The ode which he
composed on his first arrival on the banks of the Leman Lake, O Maison
d'Aristippe! O Jardin d'Epicure, &c. had been imparted as a secret to t=
he
gentleman by whom I was introduced. He allowed me to read it twice; I knew =
it
by heart; and as my discretion was not equal to my memory, the author was s=
oon
displeased by the circulation of a copy. In writing this trivial anecdote, I
wished to observe whether my memory was impaired, and I have the comfort of
finding that every line of the poem is still engraved in fresh and indelible
characters. The highest gratification which I derived from Voltaire's resid=
ence
at Lausanne, was the uncommon circumstance of hearing a great poet declaim =
his
own productions on the stage. He had formed a company of gentlemen and ladi=
es,
some of whom were not destitute of talents. A decent theatre was framed at
Monrepos, a country-house at the end of a suburb; dresses and scenes were
provided at the expense of the actors; and the author directed the rehearsa=
ls
with the zeal and attention of paternal love. In two successive winters his
tragedies of Zayre, Alzire, Zulime, and his sentimental comedy of the Enfant
Prodigue, were played at the theatre of Monrepos. Voltaire represented the
characters best adapted to his years, Lusignan, Alvarez, Benassar, Euphemon.
His declamation was fashioned to the pomp and cadence of the old stage; and=
he
expressed the enthusiasm of poetry, rather than the feelings of nature. My
ardour, which soon became conspicuous, seldom failed of procuring me a tick=
et.
The habits of pleasure fortified my taste for the French theatre, and that
taste has perhaps abated my idolatry for the gigantic genius of Shakespeare=
, which
is inculcated from our infancy as the first duty of an Englishman. The wit =
and
philosophy of Voltaire, his table and theatre, refined, in a visible degree,
the manners of Lausanne; and, however addicted to study, I enjoyed my share=
of
the amusements of society. After the representation of Monrepos I sometimes
supped with the actors. I was now familiar in some, and acquainted in many
houses; and my evenings were generally devoted to cards and conversation,
either in private parties or numerous assemblies.
I hesitate, from =
the
apprehension of ridicule, when I approach the delicate subject of my early
love. By this word I do not mean the polite attention, the gallantry, witho=
ut
hope or design, which has originated in the spirit of chivalry, and is
interwoven with the texture of French manners. I understand by this passion=
the
union of desire, friendship, and tenderness, which is inflamed by a single
female, which prefers her to the rest of her sex, and which seeks her
possession as the supreme or the sole happiness of our being. I need not bl=
ush
at recollecting the object of my choice; and though my love was disappointe=
d of
success, I am rather proud that I was once capable of feeling such a pure a=
nd exalted
sentiment. The personal attractions of Mademoiselle Susan Curchod were
embellished by the virtues and talents of the mind. Her fortune was humble,=
but
her family was respectable. Her mother, a native of France, had preferred h=
er
religion to her country. The profession of her father did not extinguish the
moderation and philosophy of his temper, and he lived content with a small
salary and laborious duty, in the obscure lot of minister of Crassy, in the
mountains that separate the Pays de Vaud from the county of Burgundy. In the
solitude of a sequestered village he bestowed a liberal, and even learned,
education on his only daughter. She surpassed his hopes by her proficiency =
in
the sciences and languages; and in her short visits to some relations at La=
usanne,
the wit, the beauty, and erudition of Mademoiselle Curchod were the theme of
universal applause. The report of such a prodigy awakened my curiosity; I s=
aw
and loved. I found her learned without pedantry, lively in conversation, pu=
re
in sentiment, and elegant in manners; and the first sudden emotion was
fortified by the habits and knowledge of a more familiar acquaintance. She
permitted me to make her two or three visits at her father's house. I passed
some happy days there, in the mountains of Burgundy, and her parents honour=
ably
encouraged the connection. In a calm retirement the gay vanity of youth no
longer fluttered in her bosom; she listened to the voice of truth and passi=
on,
and I might presume to hope that I had made some impression on a virtuous
heart. At Crassy and Lausanne I indulged my dream of felicity: but on my re=
turn
to England, I soon discovered that my father would not hear of this strange
alliance, and that without his consent I was myself destitute and helpless.
After a painful struggle I yielded to my fate: I sighed as a lover, I obeye=
d as
a son; my wound was insensibly healed by time, absence, and the habits of a=
new
life. My cure was accelerated by a faithful report of the tranquillity and
cheerfulness of the lady herself, and my love subsided in friendship and
esteem. The minister of Crassy soon afterwards died; his stipend died with =
him:
his daughter retired to Geneva, where, by teaching young ladies, she earned=
a
hard subsistence for herself and her mother; but in her lowest distress she
maintained a spotless reputation, and a dignified behaviour. A rich banker =
of
Paris, a citizen of Geneva, had the good fortune and good sense to discover=
and
possess this inestimable treasure; and in the capital of taste and luxury s=
he
resisted the temptations of wealth, as she had sustained the hardships of
indigence. The genius of her husband has exalted him to the most conspicuou=
s station
in Europe. In every change of prosperity and disgrace he has reclined on the
bosom of a faithful friend; and Mademoiselle Curchod is now the wife of M.
Necker, the minister, and perhaps the legislator, of the French monarchy.
Whatsoever have b=
een
the fruits of my education, they must be ascribed to the fortunate banishme=
nt
which placed me at Lausanne. I have sometimes applied to my own fate the ve=
rses
of Pindar, which remind an Olympic champion that his victory was the
consequence of his exile; and that at home, like a domestic fowl, his days
might have rolled away inactive or inglorious. [Greek omitted]
=
Thus, like the crested bird of Mars, at home =
Engag'd
in foul domestic jars, =
And
wasted with intestine wars, =
Inglorious
hadst thou spent thy vig'rous bloom; =
Had
not sedition's civil broils =
Expell'd
thee from thy native Crete, =
And
driv'n thee with more glorious toils =
Th'
Olympic crown in Pisa's plain to meet. =
&nb=
sp; West's
Pindar.
If my childish re=
volt
against the religion of my country had not stripped me in time of my academ=
ic
gown, the five important years, so liberally improved in the studies and
conversation of Lausanne, would have been steeped in port and prejudice amo=
ng
the monks of Oxford. Had the fatigue of idleness compelled me to read, the =
path
of learning would not have been enlightened by a ray of philosophic freedom=
. I
should have grown to manhood ignorant of the life and language of Europe, a=
nd
my knowledge of the world would have been confined to an English cloister. =
But
my religious error fixed me at Lausanne, in a state of banishment and disgr=
ace.
The rigid course of discipline and abstinence, to which I was condemned,
invigorated the constitution of my mind and body; poverty and pride estrang=
ed
me from my countrymen. One mischief, however, and in their eyes a serious a=
nd
irreparable mischief, was derived from the success of my Swiss education; I=
had
ceased to be an Englishman. At the flexible period of youth, from the age of
sixteen to twenty-one, my opinions, habits, and sentiments were cast in a
foreign mould; the faint and distant remembrance of England was almost
obliterated; my native language was grown less familiar; and I should have
cheerfully accepted the offer of a moderate independence on the terms of pe=
rpetual
exile. By the good sense and temper of Pavilliard my yoke was insensibly li=
ghtened:
he left me master of my time and actions; but he could neither change my
situation, nor increase my allowance, and with the progress of my years and
reason I impatiently sighed for the moment of my deliverance. At length, in=
the
spring of the year 1758, my father signified his permission and his pleasure
that I should immediately return home. We were then in the midst of a war: =
the
resentment of the French at our taking their ships without a declaration, h=
ad
rendered that polite nation somewhat peevish and difficult. They denied a
passage to English travellers, and the road through Germany was circuitous,=
toilsome,
and perhaps in the neighbourhood of the armies, exposed to some danger. In =
this
perplexity, two Swiss officers of my acquaintance in the Dutch service, who
were returning to their garrisons, offered to conduct me through France as =
one
of their companions; nor did we sufficiently reflect that my borrowed name =
and
regimentals might have been considered, in case of a discovery, in a very
serious light. I took my leave of Lausanne on April 11 1758, with a mixture=
of
joy and regret, in the firm resolution revisiting, as a man, the persons and
places which had been so dear to my youth. We travelled slowly, but pleasan=
tly,
in a hired coach, over the hills of Franche-compte and the fertile province=
of
Lorraine, and passed, without accident or inquiry, through several fortified
towns of the French frontier: from thence we entered the wild Ardennes of t=
he
Austrian dutchy of Luxemburg; and after crossing the Meuse at Liege, we
traversed the heaths of Brabant, and reached, on April 26, our Dutch garris=
on
of Bois le Duc. In our passage through Nancy, my eye was gratified by the
aspect of a regular and beautiful city, the work of Stanislaus, who, after =
the
storms of Polish royalty, reposed in the love and gratitude of his new subj=
ects
of Lorraine. In our halt at Maestricht I visited Mr. de Beaufort, a learned=
critic,
who was known to me by his specious arguments against the five first centur=
ies
of the Roman History. After dropping my regimental companions, I stepped as=
ide
to visit Rotterdam and the Hague. I wished to have observed a country, the
monument of freedom and industry; but my days were numbered, and a longer d=
elay
would have been ungraceful. I hastened to embark at the Brill, landed the n=
ext
day at Harwich, and proceeded to London, where my father awaited my arrival.
The whole term of my first absence from England was four years ten months a=
nd
fifteen days.
In the prayers of=
the
church our personal concerns are judiciously reduced to the threefold
distinction of mind, body, and estate. The sentiments of the mind excite and
exercise our social sympathy. The review of my moral and literary character=
is
the most interesting to myself and to the public; and I may expatiate, with=
out
reproach, on my private studies; since they have produced the public writin=
gs,
which can alone entitle me to the esteem and friendship of my readers. The =
experience
of the world inculcates a discreet reserve on the subject of our person and
estate, and we soon learn that a free disclosure of our riches or poverty w=
ould
provoke the malice of envy, or encourage the insolence of contempt.
The only person in
England whom I was impatient to see was my aunt Porten, the affectionate
guardian of my tender years. I hastened to her house in College-street,
Westminster; and the evening was spent in the effusions of joy and confiden=
ce.
It was not without some awe and apprehension that I approached the presence=
of
my father. My infancy, to speak the truth, had been neglected at home; the
severity of his look and language at our last parting still dwelt on my mem=
ory;
nor could I form any notion of his character, or my probable reception. They
were both more agreeable than I could expect. The domestic discipline of ou=
r ancestors
has been relaxed by the philosophy and softness of the age; and if my father
remembered that he had trembled before a stern parent, it was only to adopt
with his own son an opposite mode of behaviour. He received me as a man and=
a
friend; all constraint was banished at our first interview, and we ever
afterwards continued on the same terms of easy and equal politeness. He
applauded the success of my education; every word and action was expressive=
of
the most cordial affection; and our lives would have passed without a cloud=
, if
his oeconomy had been equal to his fortune, or if his fortune had been equa=
l to
his desires. During my absence he had married his second wife, Miss Dorothea
Patton, who was introduced to me with the most unfavourable prejudice. I co=
nsidered
his second marriage as an act of displeasure, and I was disposed to hate the
rival of my mother. But the injustice was in my own fancy, and the imaginary
monster was an amiable and deserving woman. I could not be mistaken in the
first view of her understanding, her knowledge, and the elegant spirit of h=
er
conversation: her polite welcome, and her assiduous care to study and grati=
fy my
wishes, announced at least that the surface would be smooth; and my suspici=
ons of
art and falsehood were gradually dispelled by the full discovery of her warm
and exquisite sensibility. After some reserve on my side, our minds associa=
ted
in confidence and friendship; and as Mrs. Gibbon had neither children nor t=
he
hopes of children, we more easily adopted the tender names and genuine
characters of mother and of son. By the indulgence of these parents, I was =
left
at liberty to consult my taste or reason in the choice of place, of company,
and of amusements; and my excursions were bounded only by the limits of the
island, and the measure of my income. Some faint efforts were made to procu=
re
me the employment of secretary to a foreign embassy; and I listened to a sc=
heme
which would again have transported me to the continent. Mrs. Gibbon, with
seeming wisdom, exhorted me to take chambers in the Temple, and devote my
leisure to the study of the law. I cannot repent of having neglected her
advice. Few men, without the spur of necessity, have resolution to force th=
eir
way, through the thorns and thickets of that gloomy labyrinth. Nature had n=
ot
endowed me with the bold and ready eloquence which makes itself heard amidst
the tumult of the bar; and I should probably have been diverted from the
labours of literature, without acquiring the fame or fortune of a successful
pleader. I had no need to call to my aid the regular duties of a profession;
every day, every hour, was agreeably filled; nor have I known, like so many=
of
my countrymen, the tediousness of an idle life.
Of the two years =
(May
1758-May 1760,) between my return to England and the embodying of the Hamps=
hire
militia, I passed about nine months in London, and the remainder in the
country. The metropolis affords many amusements, which are open to all. It =
is
itself an astonishing and perpetual spectacle to the curious eye; and each
taste, each sense may be gratified by the variety of objects which will occ=
ur
in the long circuit of a morning walk. I assiduously frequented the theatre=
s at
a very propitious aera of the stage, when a constellation of excellent acto=
rs,
both in tragedy and comedy, was eclipsed by the meridian brightness of Garr=
ick
in the maturity of his judgment, and vigour of his performance. The pleasur=
es
of a town-life are within the reach of every man who is regardless of his
health, his money, and his company. By the contagion of example I was somet=
imes
seduced; but the better habits, which I had formed at Lausanne, induced me =
to
seek a more elegant and rational society; and if my search was less easy and
successful than I might have hoped, I shall at present impute the failure to
the disadvantages of my situation and character. Had the rank and fortune o=
f my
parents given them an annual establishment in London, their own house would
have introduced me to a numerous and polite circle of acquaintance. But my
father's taste had always preferred the highest and the lowest company, for
which he was equally qualified; and after a twelve years' retirement, he wa=
s no
longer in the memory of the great with whom he had associated. I found myse=
lf a
stranger in the midst of a vast and unknown city; and at my entrance into l=
ife
I was reduced to some dull family parties, and some scattered connections,
which were not such as I should have chosen for myself. The most useful fri=
ends
of my father were the Mallets: they received me with civility and kindness =
at first
on his account, and afterwards on my own; and (if I may use Lord Chesterfie=
ld's
words) I was soon domesticated in their house. Mr. Mallet, a name among the
English poets, is praised by an unforgiving enemy, for the ease and eleganc=
e of
his conversation, and his wife was not destitute of wit or learning. By his
assistance I was introduced to Lady Hervey, the mother of the present earl =
of
Bristol. Her age and infirmities confined her at home; her dinners were sel=
ect;
in the evening her house was open to the best company of both sexes and all=
nations;
nor was I displeased at her preference and affectation of the manners, the
language, and the literature of France. But my progress in the English world
was in general left to my own efforts, and those efforts were languid and s=
low.
I had not been endowed by art or nature with those happy gifts of confidence
and address, which unlock every door and every bosom; nor would it be
reasonable to complain of the just consequences of my sickly childhood, for=
eign
education, and reserved temper. While coaches were rattling through
Bond-street, I have passed many a solitary evening in my lodging with my bo=
oks.
My studies were sometimes interrupted by a sigh, which I breathed towards
Lausanne; and on the approach of Spring, I withdrew without reluctance from=
the
noisy and extensive scene of crowds without company, and dissipation withou=
t pleasure.
In each of the twenty-five years of my acquaintance with London (1758-1783)=
the
prospect gradually brightened; and this unfavourable picture most properly
belongs to the first period after my return from Switzerland.
My father's resid=
ence
in Hampshire, where I have passed many light, and some heavy hours, was at
Beriton, near Petersfield, one mile from the Portsmouth road, and at the ea=
sy
distance of fifty-eight miles from London. An old mansion, in a state of de=
cay,
had been converted into the fashion and convenience of a modern house: and =
if
strangers had nothing to see, the inhabitants had little to desire. The spot
was not happily chosen, at the end of the village and the bottom of the hil=
l:
but the aspect of the adjacent grounds was various and cheerful; the downs =
commanded
a noble prospect, and the long hanging woods in sight of the house could not
perhaps have been improved by art or expence. My father kept in his own han=
ds
the whole of the estate, and even rented some additional land; and whatsoev=
er
might be the balance of profit and loss, the farm supplied him with amuseme=
nt
and plenty. The produce maintained a number of men and horses, which were
multiplied by the intermixture of domestic and rural servants; and in the
intervals of labour the favourite team, a handsome set of bays or greys, was
harnessed to the coach. The oeconomy of the house was regulated by the taste
and prudence of Mrs. Gibbon. She prided herself in the elegance of her
occasional dinners; and from the uncleanly avarice of Madame Pavilliard, I =
was suddenly
transported to the daily neatness and luxury of an English table. Our immed=
iate
neighbourhood was rare and rustic; but from the verge of our hills, as far =
as
Chichester and Goodwood, the western district of Sussex was interspersed wi=
th
noble seats and hospitable families, with whom we cultivated a friendly, and
might have enjoyed a very frequent, intercourse. As my stay at Buriton was
always voluntary, I was received and dismissed with smiles; but the comfort=
s of
my retirement did not depend on the ordinary pleasures of the country. My f=
ather
could never inspire me with his love and knowledge of farming. I never hand=
led
a gun, I seldom mounted an horse; and my philosophic walks were soon termin=
ated
by a shady bench, where I was long detained by the sedentary amusement of
reading or meditation. At home I occupied a pleasant and spacious apartment;
the library on the same floor was soon considered as my peculiar domain; an=
d I
might say with truth, that I was never less alone than when by myself. My s=
ole
complaint, which I piously suppressed, arose from the kind restraint impose=
d on
the freedom of my time. By the habit of early rising I always secured a sac=
red
portion of the day, and many scattered moments were stolen and employed by =
my studious
industry. But the family hours of breakfast, of dinner, of tea, and of supp=
er,
were regular and long: after breakfast Mrs. Gibbon expected my company in h=
er
dressing-room; after tea my father claimed my conversation and the perusal =
of
the newspapers; and in the midst of an interesting work I was often called =
down
to receive the visit of some idle neighbours. Their dinners and visits
required, in due season, a similar return; and I dreaded the period of the =
full
moon, which was usually reserved for our more distant excursions. I could n=
ot
refuse attending my father, in the summer of 1759, to the races at Stockbri=
dge,
Reading, and Odiam, where he had entered a horse for the hunter's plate; an=
d I
was not displeased with the sight of our Olympic games, the beauty of the s=
pot,
the fleetness of the horses, and the gay tumult of the numerous spectators.=
As
soon as the militia business was agitated, many days were tediously consume=
d in
meetings of deputy-lieutenants at Petersfield, Alton, and Winchester. In the
close of the same year, 1759, Sir Simeon (then Mr.) Stewart attempted an
unsuccessful contest for the county of Southampton, against Mr. Legge,
Chancellor of the Exchequer: a well-known contest, in which Lord Bute's
influence was first exerted and censured. Our canvas at Portsmouth and Gosp=
ort
lasted several days; but the interruption of my studies was compensated in =
some
degree by the spectacle of English manners, and the acquisition of some
practical knowledge.
If in a more dome=
stic
or more dissipated scene my application was somewhat relaxed, the love of
knowledge was inflamed and gratified by the command of books; and I compared
the poverty of Lausanne with the plenty of London. My father's study at Bur=
iton
was stuffed with much trash of the last age, with much high church divinity=
and
politics, which have long since gone to their proper place: yet it contained
some valuable editions of the classics and the fathers, the choice, as it s=
hould
seem, of Mr. Law; and many English publications of the times had been
occasionally added. From this slender beginning I have gradually formed a
numerous and select library, the foundation of my works, and the best comfo=
rt
of my life, both at home and abroad. On the receipt of the first quarter, a
large share of my allowance was appropriated to my literary wants. I cannot
forget the joy with which I exchanged a bank-note of twenty pounds for the
twenty volumes of the Memoirs of the Academy of Inscriptions; nor would it =
have
been easy, by any other expenditure of the same sum, to have procured so la=
rge
and lasting a fund of rational amusement. At a time when I most assiduously
frequented this school of ancient literature, I thus expressed my opinion o=
f a learned
and various collection, which since the year 1759 has been doubled in
magnitude, though not in merit--"Une de ces societes, qui ont mieux
immortalise Louis XIV. qu un ambition souvent pernicieuse aux hommes,
commengoit deja ces recherches qui reunissent la justesse de l'esprit,
l'amenete & l'eruditlon: ou l'on voit iant des decouvertes, et quelquef=
ois,
ce qui ne cede qu'a peine aux decouvertes, une ignorance modeste et
savante." The review of my library must be reserved for the period of =
its
maturity; but in this place I may allow myself to observe, that I am not
conscious of having ever bought a book from a motive of ostentation, that e=
very
volume, before it was deposited on the shelf, was either read or sufficient=
ly
examined, and that I soon adopted the tolerating maxim of the elder Pliny, =
"nullum
esse librum tam malum ut non ex aliqua parte prodesset." I could not y=
et
find leisure or courage to renew the pursuit of the Greek language, excepti=
ng
by reading the lessons of the Old and New Testament every Sunday, when I
attended the family to church. The series of my Latin authors was less
strenuously completed; but the acquisition, by inheritance or purchase, of =
the
best editions of Cicero, Quintilian, Livy, Tacitus, Ovid, &c. afforded a
fair prospect, which I seldom neglected. I persevered in the useful method =
of abstracts
and observations; and a single example may suffice, of a note which had alm=
ost
swelled into a work. The solution of a passage of Livy (xxxviii. 38,) invol=
ved
me in the dry and dark treatises of Greaves, Arbuthnot, Hooper, Bernard,
Eisenschmidt, Gronovius, La Barre, Freret, &c.; and in my French essay
(chap. 20,) I ridiculously send the reader to my own manuscript remarks on =
the
weights, coins, and measures of the ancients, which were abruptly terminate=
d by
the militia drum.
As I am now enter=
ing
on a more ample field of society and study, I can only hope to avoid a vain=
and
prolix garrulity, by overlooking the vulgar crowd of my acquaintance, and
confining myself to such intimate friends among books and men, as are best
entitled to my notice by their own merit and reputation, or by the deep
impression which they have left on my mind. Yet I will embrace this occasio=
n of
recommending to the young student a practice, which about this time I myself
adopted. After glancing my eye over the design and order of a new book, I
suspended the perusal till I had finished the task of self examination, til=
l I had
revolved, in a solitary walk, all that I knew or believed, or had thought on
the subject of the whole work, or of some particular chapter: I was then
qualified to discern how much the author added to my original stock; and I =
was
sometimes satisfied by the agreement, I was sometimes armed by the oppositi=
on
of our ideas. The favourite companions of my leisure were our English write=
rs
since the Revolution: they breathe the spirit of reason and liberty; and th=
ey
most seasonably contributed to restore the purity of my own language, which=
had
been corrupted by the long use of a foreign idiom. By the judicious advice =
of
Mr. Mallet, I was directed to the writings of Swift and Addison; wit and
simplicity are their common attributes: but the style of Swift is supported=
by manly
original vigour; that of Addison is adorned by the female graces of elegance
and mildness. The old reproach, that no British altars had been raised to t=
he
muse of history, was recently disproved by the first performances of Robert=
son
and Hume, the histories of Scotland and of the Stuarts. I will assume the
presumption of saying, that I was not unworthy to read them: nor will I
disguise my different feelings in the repeated perusals. The perfect
composition, the nervous language, the well-turned periods of Dr. Robertson,
inflamed me to the ambitious hope that I might one day tread in his footste=
ps:
the calm philosophy, the careless, inimitable beauties of his friend and ri=
val,
often forced me to close the volume with a mixed sensation of delight and
despair.
The design of my
first work, the Essay on the Study of Literature, was suggested by a refine=
ment
of vanity, the desire of justifying and praising the object of a favourite
pursuit. In France, to which my ideas were confined, the learning and langu=
age
of Greece and Rome were neglected by a philosophic age. The guardian of tho=
se
studies, the Academy of Inscriptions, was degraded to the lowest rank among=
the
three royal societies of Paris: the new appellation of Erudits was contempt=
uously
applied to the successors of Lipsius and Casaubon; and I was provoked to he=
ar
(see M. d'Alembert Discours preliminaire a l'Encyclopedie) that the exercis=
e of
the memory, their sole merit, had been superseded by the nobler faculties of
the imagination and the judgment. I was ambitious of proving by my own exam=
ple,
as well as by my precepts, that all the faculties of the mind may be exerci=
sed
and displayed by the study of ancient literature: I began to select and ado=
rn
the various proofs and illustrations which had offered themselves in reading
the classics; and the first pages or chapters of my essay were composed bef=
ore
my departure from Lausanne. The hurry of the journey, and of the first week=
s of
my English life, suspended all thoughts of serious application: but my obje=
ct
was ever before my eyes; and no more than ten days, from the first to the
eleventh of July, were suffered to elapse after my summer establishment at
Buriton. My essay was finished in about six weeks; and as soon as a fair co=
py
had been transcribed by one of the French prisoners at Petersfield, I looke=
d round
for a critic and judge of my first performance. A writer can seldom be cont=
ent
with the doubtful recompense of solitary approbation; but a youth ignorant =
of
the world, and of himself, must desire to weigh his talents in some scales =
less
partial than his own: my conduct was natural, my motive laudable, my choice=
of
Dr. Maty judicious and fortunate. By descent and education Dr. Maty, though
born in Holland, might be considered as a Frenchman; but he was fixed in Lo=
ndon
by the practice of physic, and an office in the British Museum. His reputat=
ion was
justly founded on the eighteen volumes of the Journal Britannique, which he=
had
supported, almost alone, with perseverance and success. This humble though
useful labour, which had once been dignified by the genius of Bayle and the
learning of Le Clerc, was not disgraced by the taste, the knowledge, and the
judgment of Maty: he exhibits a candid and pleasing view of the state of
literature in England during a period of six years (January 1750--December
1755); and, far different from his angry son, he handles the rod of critici=
sm
with the tenderness and reluctance of a parent. The author of the Journal
Britannique sometimes aspires to the character of a poet and philosopher: h=
is
style is pure and elegant; and in his virtues, or even in his defects, he m=
ay
be ranked as one of the last disciples of the school of Fontenelle. His ans=
wer
to my first letter was prompt and polite: after a careful examination he
returned my manuscript, with some animadversion and much applause; and when=
I
visited London in the ensuing winter, we discussed the design and execution=
in
several free and familiar conversations. In a short excursion to Buriton I
reviewed my essay, according to his friendly advice; and after suppressing a
third, adding a third, and altering a third, I consummated my first labour =
by a
short preface, which is dated Feb. 3, 1759. Yet I still shrunk from the pre=
ss
with the terrors of virgin modesty: the manuscript was safely deposited in =
my desk;
and as my attention was engaged by new objects, the delay might have been
prolonged till I had fulfilled the precept of Horace, "nonumque premat=
ur
in annum." Father Sirmond, a learned jesuit, was still more rigid, sin=
ce
he advised a young friend to expect the mature age of fifty, before he gave
himself or his writings to the public (Olivet Hist. de l'Acad. Francoise, t=
om.
ii. p. 143). The counsel was singular; but it is still more singular that it
should have been approved by the example of the author. Sirmond was himself
fifty-five years of age when he published (in 1614) his first work, an edit=
ion
of Sidonius Apollinaris, with many valuable annotations: (see his life, bef=
ore
the great edition of his works in five volumes folio, Paris, 1696, e
Typographia Regia).
Two years elapsed=
in
silence: but in the spring of 1761 I yielded to the authority of a parent, =
and
complied, like a pious son, with the wish of my own heart. My private resol=
ves
were influenced by the state of Europe. About this time the belligerent pow=
ers
had made and accepted overtures of peace; our English plenipotentiaries were
named to assist at the Congress of Augsburg, which never met: I wished to
attend them as a gentleman or a secretary; and my father fondly believed th=
at
the proof of some literary talents might introduce me to public notice, and
second the recommendations of my friends. After a last revisal I consulted =
with
Mr. Mallet and Dr. Maty, who approved the design and promoted the execution.
Mr. Mallet, after hearing me read my manuscript, received it from my hands,=
and
delivered it into those of Becket, with whom he made an agreement in my nam=
e;
an easy agreement: I required only a certain number of copies; and, without
transferring my property, I devolved on the bookseller the charges and prof=
its
of the edition. Dr. Maty undertook, in my absence, to correct the sheets: h=
e inserted,
without my knowledge, an elegant and flattering epistle to the author; whic=
h is
composed, however, with so much art, that, in case of a defeat, his favoura=
ble
report might have been ascribed to the indulgence of a friend for the rash
attempt of a young English gentleman. The work was printed and published, u=
nder
the title of Essai sur l'Etude de la Litterature, a Londres, chez T. Becket=
et
P. A. de Hondt, 1761, in a small volume in duodecimo: my dedication to my
father, a proper and pious address, was composed the twenty-eighth of May: =
Dr.
Maty's letter is dated June 16; and I received the first copy (June 23) at
Alresford, two days before I marched with the Hampshire militia. Some weeks
afterwards, on the same ground, I presented my book to the late Duke of Yor=
k,
who breakfasted in Colonel Pitt's tent. By my father's direction, and Malle=
t's
advice, many literary gifts were distributed to several eminent characters =
in
England and France; two books were sent to the Count de Caylus, and the
Duchesse d'Aiguillon, at Paris: I had reserved twenty copies for my friends=
at Lausanne,
as the first fruits of my education, and a grateful token of my remembrance:
and on all these persons I levied an unavoidable tax of civility and
compliment. It is not surprising that a work, of which the style and sentim=
ents
were so totally foreign, should have been more successful abroad than at ho=
me.
I was delighted by the copious extracts, the warm commendations, and the
flattering predictions of the journals of France and Holland: and the next =
year
(1762) a new edition (I believe at Geneva) extended the fame, or at least t=
he
circulation, of the work. In England it was received with cold indifference,
little read, and speedily forgotten: a small impression was slowly disperse=
d; the
bookseller murmured, and the author (had his feelings been more exquisite)
might have wept over the blunders and baldness of the English translation. =
The
publication of my History fifteen years afterwards revived the memory of my
first performance, and the Essay was eagerly sought in the shops. But I ref=
used
the permission which Becket solicited of reprinting it: the public curiosity
was imperfectly satisfied by a pirated copy of the booksellers of Dublin; a=
nd
when a copy of the original edition has been discovered in a sale, the
primitive value of half-a-crown has risen to the fanciful price of a guinea=
or
thirty shillings.
I have expatiated=
on
the petty circumstances and period of my first publication, a memorable aer=
a in
the life of a student, when he ventures to reveal the measure of his mind: =
his
hopes and fears are multiplied by the idea of self-importance, and he belie=
ves
for a while that the eyes of mankind are fixed on his person and performanc=
e.
Whatever may be my present reputation, it no longer rests on the merit of t=
his
first essay; and at the end of twenty-eight years I may appreciate my juven=
ile
work with the impartiality, and almost with the indifference, of a stranger=
. In
his answer to Lady Hervey, the Count de Caylus admires, or affects to admir=
e,
"les livres sans nombre que Mr. Gibbon a lus et tres bien lus." B=
ut,
alas! my stock of erudition at that time was scanty and superficial; and if=
I
allow myself the liberty of naming the Greek masters, my genuine and person=
al
acquaintance was confined to the Latin classics. The most serious defect of=
my
Essay is a kind of obscurity and abruptness which always fatigues, and may
often elude, the attention of the reader. Instead of a precise and proper
definition of the title itself, the sense of the word Litterature is loosely
and variously applied: a number of remarks and examples, historical, critic=
al, philosophical,
are heaped on each other without method or connection; and if we except some
introductory pages, all the remaining chapters might indifferently be rever=
sed
or transposed. The obscure passages is often affected, brevis esse laboro,
obscurus fio; the desire of expressing perhaps a common idea with sententio=
us
and oracular brevity: alas! how fatal has been the imitation of Montesquieu!
But this obscurity sometimes proceeds from a mixture of light and darkness =
in
the author's mind; from a partial ray which strikes upon an angle, instead =
of
spreading itself over the surface of an object. After this fair confession I
shall presume to say, that the Essay does credit to a young writer of two a=
nd
twenty years of age, who had read with taste, who thinks with freedom, and =
who
writes in a foreign language with spirit and elegance. The defence of the e=
arly
History of Rome and the new Chronology of Sir Isaac Newton form a specious
argument. The patriotic and political design of the Georgics is happily
conceived; and any probable conjecture, which tends to raise the dignity of=
the
poet and the poem, deserves to be adopted, without a rigid scrutiny. Some d=
awnings
of a philosophic spirit enlighten the general remarks on the study of histo=
ry
and of man. I am not displeased with the inquiry into the origin and nature=
of
the gods of polytheism, which might deserve the illustration of a riper
judgment. Upon the whole, I may apply to the first labour of my pen the spe=
ech
of a far superior artist, when he surveyed the first productions of his pen=
cil.
After viewing some portraits which he had painted in his youth, my friend S=
ir
Joshua Reynolds acknowledged to me, that he was rather humbled than flatter=
ed by
the comparison with his present works; and that after so much time and stud=
y,
he had conceived his improvement to be much greater than he found it to have
been.
At Lausanne I
composed the first chapters of my Essay in French, the familiar language of=
my
conversation and studies, in which it was easier for me to write than in my
mother tongue. After my return to England I continued the same practice,
without any affectation, or design of repudiating (as Dr. Bentley would say=
) my
vernacular idiom. But I should have escaped some Anti-gallican clamour, had=
I
been content with the more natural character of an English author. I should
have been more consistent had I rejected Mallet's advice, of prefixing an
English dedication to a French book; a confusion of tongues that seemed to =
accuse
the ignorance of my patron. The use of a foreign dialect might be excused by
the hope of being employed as a negociator, by the desire of being generally
understood on the continent; but my true motive was doubtless the ambition =
of
new and singular fame, an Englishman claiming a place among the writers of
France. The latin tongue had been consecrated by the service of the church,=
it
was refined by the imitation of the ancients; and in the fifteenth and
sixteenth centuries the scholars of Europe enjoyed the advantage, which they
have gradually resigned, of conversing and writing in a common and learned
idiom. As that idiom was no longer in any country the vulgar speech, they a=
ll stood
on a level with each other; yet a citizen of old Rome might have smiled at =
the
best Latinity of the Germans and Britons; and we may learn from the
Ciceronianus of Erasmus, how difficult it was found to steer a middle course
between pedantry and barbarism. The Romans themselves had sometimes attempt=
ed a
more perilous task, of writing in a living language, and appealing to the t=
aste
and judgment of the natives. The vanity of Tully was doubly interested in t=
he
Greek memoirs of his own consulship; and if he modestly supposes that some
Latinisms might be detected in his style, he is confident of his own skill =
in
the art of Isocrates and Aristotle; and he requests his friend Atticus to
disperse the copies of his work at Athens, and in the other cities of Greec=
e,
(Ad Atticum, i. 19. ii. i.) But it must not be forgotten, that from infancy=
to
manhood Cicero and his contemporaries had read and declaimed, and composed =
with
equal diligence in both languages; and that he was not allowed to frequent a
Latin school till he had imbibed the lessons of the Greek grammarians and
rhetoricians. In modern times, the language of France has been diffused by =
the
merit of her writers, the social manners of the natives, the influence of t=
he
monarchy, and the exile of the protestants. Several foreigners have seized =
the
opportunity of speaking to Europe in this common dialect, and Germany may p=
lead
the authority of Leibnitz and Frederick, of the first of her philosophers, =
and
the greatest of her kings. The just pride and laudable prejudice of England=
has
restrained this communication of idioms; and of all the nations on this sid=
e of
the Alps, my Countrymen are the least practised, and least perfect in the
exercise of the French tongue. By Sir William Temple and Lord Chesterfield =
it
was only used on occasions of civility and business, and their printed lett=
ers
will not be quoted as models of composition. Lord Bolingbroke may have
published in French a sketch of his Reflections on Exile: but his reputation
now reposes on the address of Voltaire, "Docte sermones utriusque
linguae;" and by his English dedication to Queen Caroline, and his Ess=
ay
on Epic Poetry, it should seem that Voltaire himself wished to deserve a re=
turn
of the same compliment. The exception of Count Hamilton cannot fairly be ur=
ged;
though an Irishman by birth, he was educated in France from his childhood. =
Yet
I am surprised that a long residence in England, and the habits of domestic
conversation, did not affect the ease and purity of his inimitable style; a=
nd I
regret the omission of his English verses, which might have afforded an amu=
sing
object of comparison. I might therefore assume the primus ego in patriam,
&c.; but with what success I have explored this untrodden path must be =
left
to the decision of my French readers. Dr. Maty, who might himself be questi=
oned
as a foreigner, has secured his retreat at my expense. "Je ne crois pas
que vous vous piquiez d'etre moins facile a reconnoitre pour un Anglois que=
Lucullus
pour un Romain." My friends at Paris have been more indulgent, they
received me as a countryman, or at least as a provincial; but they were fri=
ends
and Parisians. The defects which Maty insinuates, "Ces traits saillans,
ces figures hardies, ce sacrifice de la regle au sentiment, et de la cadenc=
e a
la force," are the faults of the youth, rather than of the stranger: a=
nd
after the long and laborious exercise of my own language, I am conscious th=
at
my French style has been ripened and improved.
I have already
hinted, that the publication of my essay was delayed till I had embraced the
military profession. I shall now amuse myself with the recollection of an
active scene, which bears no affinity to any other period of my studious and
social life.
In the outset of a
glorious war, the English people had been defended by the aid of German
mercenaries. A national militia has been the cry of every patriot since the
Revolution; and this measure, both in parliament and in the field, was
supported by the country gentlemen or Tories, who insensibly transferred th=
eir
loyalty to the house of Hanover: in the language of Mr. Burke, they have
changed the idol, but they have preserved the idolatry. In the act of offer=
ing
our names and receiving our commissions, as major and captain in the Hampsh=
ire
regiment, (June 12, 1759,) we had not supposed that we should be dragged aw=
ay,
my father from his farm, myself from my books, and condemned, during two ye=
ars and
a half, (May 10, 1760--December 23, 1762,) to a wandering life of military
servitude. But a weekly or monthly exercise of thirty thousand provincials
would have left them useless and ridiculous; and after the pretence of an
invasion had vanished, the popularity of Mr. Pitt gave a sanction to the
illegal step of keeping them till the end of the war under arms, in constant
pay and duty, and at a distance from their respective homes. When the King's
order for our embodying came down, it was too late to retreat, and too soon=
to
repent. The South battalion of the Hampshire militia was a small independent
corps of four hundred and seventy-six, officers and men, commanded by
lieutenant-colonel Sir Thomas Worsley, who, after a prolix and passionate
contest, delivered us from the tyranny of the lord lieutenant, the Duke of
Bolton. My proper station, as first captain, was at the head of my own, and=
afterwards
of the grenadier, company; but in the absence, or even in the presence, of =
the
two field officers, I was entrusted by my friend and my father with the
effective labour of dictating the orders, and exercising the battalion. With
the help of an original journal, I could write the history of my bloodless =
and
inglorious campaigns; but as these events have lost much of their importanc=
e in
my own eyes, they shall be dispatched in a few words. From Winchester, the
first place of assembly, (June 4, 1760,) we were removed, at our own reques=
t,
for the benefit of a foreign education. By the arbitrary, and often caprici=
ous,
orders of the War-office, the battalion successively marched to the pleasant
and hospitable Blandford (June 17); to Hilsea barracks, a seat of disease a=
nd
discord (Sept. 1); to Cranbrook in the weald of Kent (Dec. 11); to the
sea-coast of Dover (Dec. 27); to Winchester camp (June 25, 1761); to the
populous and disorderly town of Devizes (Oct. 23); to Salisbury (Feb. 28,
1762); to our beloved Blandford a second time (March 9); and finally, to the
fashionable resort of Southampton (June 2); where the colours were fixed ti=
ll
our final dissolution. (Dec. 23). On the beach at Dover we had exercised in
sight of the Gallic shores. But the most splendid and useful scene of our l=
ife
was a four months' encampment on Winchester Down, under the command of the =
Earl
of Effingham. Our army consisted of the thirty-fourth regiment of foot and =
six
militia corps. The consciousness of our defects was stimulated by friendly
emulation. We improved our time and opportunities in morning and evening fi=
eld-days;
and in the general reviews the South Hampshire were rather a credit than a
disgrace to the line. In our subsequent quarters of the Devizes and Blandfo=
rd,
we advanced with a quick step in our military studies; the ballot of the
ensuing summer renewed our vigour and youth; and had the militia subsisted
another year, we might have contested the prize with the most perfect of our
brethren.
The loss of so ma=
ny
busy and idle hours was not compensated by any elegant pleasure; and my tem=
per
was insensibly soured by the society of out rustic officers. In every state
there exists, however, a balance of good and evil. The habits of a sedentary
life were usefully broken by the duties of an active profession: in the
healthful exercise of the field I hunted with a battalion, instead of a pac=
k;
and at that time I was ready, at any hour of the day or night, to fly from
quarters to London, from London to quarters, on the slightest call of priva=
te
or regimental business. But my principal obligation to the militia, was the=
making
me an Englishman, and a soldier. After my foreign education, with my reserv=
ed
temper, I should long have continued a stranger in my native country, had I=
not
been shaken in this various scene of new faces and new friends: had not
experience forced me to feel the characters of our leading men, the state of
parties, the forms of office, and the operation of our civil and military
system. In this peaceful service I imbibed the rudiments of the language, a=
nd
science of tactics, which opened a new field of study and observation. I
diligently read, and meditated, the Memoires Militaires of Quintus Icilius,
(Mr. Guichardt,) the only writer who has united the merits of a professor a=
nd a
veteran. The discipline and evolutions of a modern battalion gave me a clea=
rer notion
of the phalanx and the legion; and the captain of the Hampshire grenadiers =
(the
reader may smile) has not been useless to the historian of the Roman empire=
.
A youth of any sp=
irit
is fired even by the play of arms, and in the first sallies of my enthusias=
m I
had seriously attempted to embrace the regular profession of a soldier. But
this military fever was cooled by the enjoyment of our mimic Bellona, who s=
oon
unveiled to my eyes her naked deformity. How often did I sigh for my proper
station in society and letters. How often (a proud comparison) did I repeat=
the
complaint of Cicero in the command of a provincial army: "Clitellae bo=
vi
sunt impositae. Est incredibile quam me negotii taedeat. Non habet satis ma=
gnum
campum ille tibi non ignotus cursus animi; et industriae meae praeclara ope=
ra
cessat. Lucem, libros, urbem, domum, vos desidero. Sed feram, ut potero; sit
modo annuum. Si prorogatur, actum est."--Epist. ad Atticum, lib. v. 15.
From a service without danger I might indeed have retired without disgrace;=
but
as often as I hinted a wish of resigning, my fetters were riveted by the
friendly intreaties of the colonel, the parental authority of the major, an=
d my
own regard for the honour and welfare of the battalion. When I felt that my
personal escape was impracticable, I bowed my neck to the yoke: my servitude
was protracted far beyond the annual patience of Cicero; and it was not till
after the preliminaries of peace that I received my discharge, from the act=
of government
which disembodied the militia.
When I complain of
the loss of time, justice to myself and to the militia must throw the great=
est
part of that reproach on the first seven or eight months, while I was oblig=
ed
to learn as well as to teach. The dissipation of Blandford, and the dispute=
s of
Portsmouth, consumed the hours which were not employed in the field; and am=
id
the perpetual hurry of an inn, a barrack, or a guard-room, all literary ide=
as
were banished from my mind. After this long fast, the longest which I have =
ever
known, I once more tasted at Dover the pleasures of reading and thinking; a=
nd
the hungry appetite with which I opened a volume of Tully's philosophical w=
orks
is still present to my memory. The last review of my Essay before its
publication, had prompted me to investigate the nature of the gods; my
inquiries led me to the Historie Critique du Manicheisme of Beausobre, who
discusses many deep questions of Pagan and Christian theology: and from this
rich treasury of facts and opinions, I deduced my own consequences, beyond =
the
holy circle of the author. After this recovery I never relapsed into indole=
nce;
and my example might prove, that in the life most averse to study, some hou=
rs
may be stolen, some minutes may be snatched. Amidst the tumult of Winchester
camp I sometimes thought and read in my tent; in the more settled quarters =
of the
Devizes, Blandford, and Southampton, I always secured a separate lodging, a=
nd
the necessary books; and in the summer of 1762, while the new militia was
raising, I enjoyed at Buriton two or three months of literary repose. In
forming a new plan of study, I hesitated between the mathematics and the Gr=
eek
language; both of which I had neglected since my return from Lausanne. I
consulted a learned and friendly mathematician, Mr. George Scott, a pupil o=
f de
Moivre; and his map of a country which I have never explored, may perhaps be
more serviceable to others. As soon as I had given the preference to Greek,=
the
example of Scaliger and my own reason determined me on the choice of Homer,=
the
father of poetry, and the Bible of the ancients: but Scaliger ran through t=
he
Iliad in one and twenty days; and I was not dissatisfied with my own dilige=
nce
for performing the same labour in an equal number of weeks. After the first
difficulties were surmounted, the language of nature and harmony soon became
easy and familiar, and each day I sailed upon the ocean with a brisker gale=
and
a more steady course.
{Passage in Greek=
}
Ilias, A 481.
--Fair wind, and blowi=
ng
fresh, Apol=
lo
sent them; quick they rear'd the mast, Then spread
th'unsullied canvas to the gale, And the wind fill=
'd
it. Roar'd the sable flood Around the bark, =
that
ever as she went Dash'd wide the brine, =
and
scudded swift away. COWPER'S Homer.
In the study of a
poet who has since become the most intimate of my friends, I successively
applied many passages and fragments of Greek writers; and among these I sha=
ll
notice a life of Homer, in the Oposcula Mythologica of Gale, several books =
of
the geography of Strabo, and the entire treatise of Longinus, which, from t=
he
title and the style, is equally worthy of the epithet of sublime. My
grammatical skill was improved, my vocabulary was enlarged; and in the mili=
tia
I acquired a just and indelible knowledge of the first of languages. On eve=
ry
march, in every journey, Horace was always in my pocket, and often in my ha=
nd: but
I should not mention his two critical epistles, the amusement of a morning,=
had
they not been accompanied by the elaborate commentary of Dr. Hurd, now Bish=
op
of Worcester. On the interesting subjects of composition and imitation of e=
pic
and dramatic poetry, I presumed to think for myself; and thirty close-writt=
en
pages in folio could scarcely comprise my full and free discussion of the s=
ense
of the master and the pedantry of the servant.
After his oracle =
Dr.
Johnson, my friend Sir Joshua Reynolds denies all original genius, any natu=
ral
propensity of the mind to one art or science rather than another. Without
engaging in a metaphysical or rather verbal dispute, I know, by experience,
that from my early youth I aspired to the character of an historian. While I
served in the militia, before and after the publication of my essay, this i=
dea
ripened in my mind; nor can I paint in more lively colours the feelings of =
the
moment, than by transcribing some passages, under their respective dates, f=
rom
a journal which I kept at that time. Beriton, April 14, 1761. (In a short e=
xcursion
from Dover.)--"Having thought of several subjects for an historical
composition, I chose the expedition of Charles VIII. of France into Italy. I
read two memoirs of Mr. de Foncemagne in the Academy of Inscriptions (tom.
xvii. p. 539-607.), and abstracted them. I likewise finished this day a
dissertation, in which I examine the right of Charles VIII. to the crown of
Naples, and the rival claims of the House of Anjou and Arragon: it consists=
of
ten folio pages, besides large notes."
Beriton, August 4=
, 1761.
(In a week's excursion from Winchester camp.)--"After having long revo=
lved
subjects for my intended historical essay, I renounced my first thought of =
the
expedition of Charles VIII. as too remote from us, and rather an introducti=
on
to great events, than great and important in itself. I successively chose a=
nd
rejected the crusade of Richard the First, the barons' wars against John and
Henry the Third, the History of Edward the Black Prince, the lives and comp=
arisons
of Henry V. and the Emperor Titus, the life of Sir Philip Sidney, and that =
of
the Marquis of Montrose. At length I have fixed on Sir Walter Raleigh for my
hero. His eventful story is varied by the characters of the soldier and sai=
lor,
the courtier and historian; and it may afford such a fund of materials as I
desire, which have not yet been properly manufactured. At present I cannot
attempt the execution of this work. Free leisure, and the opportunity of
consulting many books, both printed and manuscript, are as necessary as they
are impossible to be attained in my present way of life. However, to acquir=
e a
general insight into my subject and resources, I read the life of Sir Walte=
r Raleigh
by Dr. Birch, his copious article in the General Dictionary by the same han=
d,
and the reigns of Queen Elizabeth and James the First in Hume's History of
England." Beriton, January 1762. (In a month's absence from the
Devizes.)--"During this interval of repose, I again turned my thoughts=
to
Sir Walter Raleigh, and looked more closely into my materials. I read the t=
wo
volumes in quarto of the Bacon Papers, published by Dr. Birch; the Fragmenta
Regalia of Sir Robert Naunton, Mallet's Life of Lord Bacon, and the politic=
al
treatises of that great man in the first volume of his works, with many of =
his
letters in the second; Sir William Monson's Naval Tracts, and the elaborate
life of Sir Walter Raleigh, which Mr. Oldys has prefixed to the best editio=
n of
his History of the World. My subject opens upon me, and in general improves=
upon
a nearer prospect."
Beriton, July 26,
1762. (During my summer residence.)--"I am afraid of being reduced to =
drop
my hero; but my time has not, however, been lost in the research of his sto=
ry,
and of a memorable aera of our English annals. The life of Sir Walter Ralei=
gh,
by Oldys, is a very poor performance; a servile panegyric, or flat apology,
tediously minute, and composed in a dull and affected style. Yet the author=
was
a man of diligence and learning, who had read everything relative to his
subject, and whose ample collections are arranged with perspicuity and meth=
od. Excepting
some anecdotes lately revealed in the Sidney and Bacon Papers, I know not w=
hat
I should be able to add. My ambition (exclusive of the uncertain merit of s=
tyle
and sentiment) must be confined to the hope of giving a good abridgment of
Oldys. I have even the disappointment of finding some parts of this copious
work very dry and barren; and these parts are unluckily some of the most
characteristic: Raleigh's colony of Virginia, his quarrels with Essex, the =
true
secret of his conspiracy, and, above all, the detail of his private life, t=
he
most essential and important to a biographer. My best resource would be in =
the
circumjacent history of the times, and perhaps in some digressions artfully=
introduced,
like the fortunes of the Peripatetic philosophy in the portrait of Lord Bac=
on.
But the reigns of Elizabeth and James the First are the periods of English
history, which have been the most variously illustrated: and what new lights
could I reflect on a subject, which has exercised the accurate industry of
Birch, the lively and curious acuteness of Walpole, the critical spirit of
Hurd, the vigorous sense of Mallet and Robertson, and the impartial philoso=
phy
of Hume? Could I even surmount these obstacles, I should shrink with terror
from the modern history of England, where every character is a problem, and
every reader a friend or an enemy; where a writer is supposed to hoist a fl=
ag
of party, and is devoted to damnation by the adverse faction. Such would be=
my
reception at home: and abroad, the historian of Raleigh must encounter an
indifference far more bitter than censure or reproach. The events of his li=
fe
are interesting: but his character is ambiguous, his actions are obscure, h=
is
writings are English, and his fame is confined to the narrow limits of our
language and our island. I must embrace a safer and more extensive theme.
"There is one
which I should prefer to all others, The History of the Liberty of the Swis=
s,
of that independence which a brave people rescued from the House of Austria,
defended against a Dauphin of France, and finally sealed with the blood of
Charles of Burgundy. From such a theme, so full of public spirit, of milita=
ry
glory, of examples of virtue, of lessons of government, the dullest stranger
would catch fire; what might not I hope, whose talents, whatsoever they may=
be,
would be inflamed with the zeal of patriotism. But the materials of this
history are inaccessible to me, fast locked in the obscurity of an old
barbarous German dialect, of which I am totally ignorant, and which I canno=
t resolve
to learn for this sole and peculiar purpose.
"I have anot=
her
subject in view, which is the contrast of the former history: the one a poo=
r,
warlike, virtuous republic, which emerges into glory and freedom; the other=
a
commonwealth, soft, opulent, and corrupt; which, by just degrees, is
precipitated from the abuse to the loss of her liberty: both lessons are,
perhaps, equally instructive. This second subject is, The History of the
Republic of Florence under the House of Medicis: a period of one hundred and
fifty years, which rises or descends from the dregs of the Florentine
democracy, to the title and dominion of Cosmo de Medicis in the Grand Duchy=
of
Tuscany. I might deduce a chain of revolutions not unworthy of the pen of
Vertot; singular men, and singular events; the Medicis four times expelled,=
and
as often recalled; and the Genius of Freedom reluctantly yielding to the ar=
ms
of Charles V. and the policy of Cosmo. The character and fate of Savanerola,
and the revival of arts and letters in Italy, will be essentially connected
with the elevation of the family and the fall of the republic. The Medicis
(stirps quasi fataliter nata ad instauranda vel fovenda studia (Lipsius ad
Germanos et Galles, Epist. viii.)) were illustrated by the patronage of
learning; and enthusiasm was the most formidable weapon of their adversarie=
s.
On this splendid subject I shall most probably fix; but when, or where, or =
how
will it be executed? I behold in a dark and doubtful perspective."
Res alta terra, =
et
caligine mersas.
The youthful habi=
ts
of the language and manners of France had left in my mind an ardent desire =
of
revisiting the Continent on a larger and more liberal plan. According to the
law of custom, and perhaps of reason, foreign travel completes the educatio=
n of
an English gentleman: my father had consented to my wish, but I was detained
above four years by my rash engagement in the militia. I eagerly grasped the
first moments of freedom: three or four weeks in Hampshire and London were
employed in the preparations of my journey, and the farewell visits of
friendship and civility: my last act in town was to applaud Mallet's new
tragedy of Elvira; a post-chaise conveyed me to Dover, the packet to Boulog=
ne, and
such was my diligence, that I reached Paris on Jan. 28, 1763, only thirty-s=
ix
days after the disbanding of the militia. Two or three years were loosely
defined for the term of my absence; and I was left at liberty to spend that
time in such places and in such a manner as was most agreeable to my taste =
and
judgment.
In this first vis=
it I
passed three months and a half, (Jan. 28-May 9,) and a much longer space mi=
ght
have been agreeably filled, without any intercourse with the natives. At ho=
me
we are content to move in the daily round of pleasure and business; and a s=
cene
which is always present is supposed to be within our knowledge, or at least
within our power. But in a foreign country, curiosity is our business and o=
ur pleasure;
and the traveller, conscious of his ignorance, and covetous of his time, is
diligent in the search and the view of every object that can deserve his
attention. I devoted many hours of the morning to the circuit of Paris and =
the
neighbourhood, to the visit of churches and palaces conspicuous by their
architecture, to the royal manufactures, collections of books and pictures,=
and
all the various treasures of art, of learning, and of luxury. An Englishman=
may
hear without reluctance, that in these curious and costly articles Paris is
superior to London; since the opulence of the French capital arises from the
defects of its government and religion. In the absence of Louis XIV. and hi=
s successors,
the Louvre has been left unfinished: but the millions which have been lavis=
hed
on the sands of Versailles, and the morass of Marli, could not be supplied =
by
the legal allowance of a British king. The splendour of the French nobles is
confined to their town residence; that of the English is more usefully
distributed in their country seats; and we should be astonished at our own
riches, if the labours of architecture, the spoils of Italy and Greece, whi=
ch
are now scattered from Inverary to Wilton, were accumulated in a few streets
between Marylebone and Westminster. All superfluous ornament is rejected by=
the
cold frugality of the protestants; but the catholic superstition, which is
always the enemy of reason, is often the parent of the arts. The wealthy
communities of priests and monks expend their revenues in stately edifices;=
and
the parish church of St. Sulpice, one of the noblest structures in Paris, w=
as
built and adorned by the private industry of a late cure. In this outset, a=
nd
still more in the sequel of my tour, my eye was amused; but the pleasing vi=
sion
cannot be fixed by the pen; the particular images are darkly seen through t=
he
medium of five-and-twenty years, and the narrative of my life must not
degenerate into a book of travels.
But the principal=
end
of my journey was to enjoy the society of a polished and amiable people, in
whose favour I was strongly prejudiced, and to converse with some authors,
whose conversation, as I fondly imagined, must be far more pleasing and
instructive than their writings. The moment was happily chosen. At the clos=
e of
a successful war the British name was respected on the continent.
=
Clarum et venerabile nomen =
Gentibus.
Our opinions, our
fashions, even our games, were adopted in France, a ray of national glory
illuminated each individual, and every Englishman was supposed to be born a
patriot and a philosopher. For myself, I carried a personal recommendation;=
my
name and my Essay were already known; the compliment of having written in t=
he
French language entitled me to some returns of civility and gratitude. I was
considered as a man of letters, who wrote for amusement. Before my departur=
e I
had obtained from the Duke de Nivernois, Lady Hervey, the Mallets, Mr. Walp=
ole,
&c. many letters of recommendation to their private or literary friends=
. Of
these epistles the reception and success were determined by the character a=
nd
situation of the persons by whom and to whom they were addressed: the seed =
was
sometimes cast on a barren rock, and it sometimes multiplied an hundred fol=
d in
the production of new shoots, spreading branches, and exquisite fruit. But =
upon
the whole, I had reason to praise the national urbanity, which from the cou=
rt
has diffused its gentle influence to the shop, the cottage, and the schools=
. Of
the men of genius of the age, Montesquieu and Fontenelle were no more; Volt=
aire
resided on his own estate near Geneva; Rousseau in the preceding year had b=
een
driven from his hermitage of Montmorency; and I blush at my having neglecte=
d to
seek, in this journey, the acquaintance of Buffon. Among the men of letters
whom I saw, D'Alembert and Diderot held the foremost rank in merit, or at l=
east
in fame. I shall content myself with enumerating the well-known names of the
Count de Caylus, of the Abbe de la Bleterie, Barthelemy, Reynal, Arnaud, of
Messieurs de la Condamine, du Clos, de Ste Palaye, de Bougainville,
Caperonnier, de Guignes, Suard, &c. without attempting to discriminate =
the
shades of their characters, or the degrees of our connection. Alone, in a
morning visit, I commonly found the artists and authors of Paris less vain,=
and
more reasonable, than in the circles of their equals, with whom they mingle=
in
the houses of the rich. Four days in a week, I had place, without invitatio=
n,
at the hospitable tables of Mesdames Geoffrin and du Bocage, of the celebra=
ted
Helvetius, and of the Baron d'Olbach. In these symposia the pleasures of the
table were improved by lively and liberal conversation; the company was sel=
ect,
though various and voluntary.
The society of Ma=
dame
du Bocage was more soft and moderate than that of her rivals, and the eveni=
ng
conversations of M. de Foncemagne were supported by the good sense and lear=
ning
of the principal members of the Academy of Inscriptions. The opera and the
Italians I occasionally visited; but the French theatre, both in tragedy and
comedy, was my daily and favourite amusement. Two famous actresses then div=
ided
the public applause. For my own part, I preferred the consummate art of the=
Claron,
to the intemperate sallies of the Dumesnil, which were extolled by her
admirers, as the genuine voice of nature and passion. Fourteen weeks insens=
ibly
stole away; but had I been rich and independent, I should have prolonged, a=
nd
perhaps have fixed, my residence at Paris.
Between the expen=
sive
style of Paris and of Italy it was prudent to interpose some months of tran=
quil
simplicity; and at the thoughts of Lausanne I again lived in the pleasures =
and
studies of my early youth. Shaping my course through Dijon and Besancon, in=
the
last of which places I was kindly entertained by my cousin Acton, I arrived=
in the
month of May 1763 on the banks of the Leman Lake. It had been my intention =
to
pass the Alps in the autumn, but such are the simple attractions of the pla=
ce,
that the year had almost expired before my departure from Lausanne in the
ensuing spring. An absence of five years had not made much alteration in
manners, or even in persons. My old friends, of both sexes, hailed my volun=
tary
return; the most genuine proof of my attachment. They had been flattered by=
the
present of my book, the produce of their soil; and the good Pavilliard shed
tears of joy as he embraced a pupil, whose literary merit he might fairly
impute to his own labours. To my old list I added some new acquaintance, an=
d among
the strangers I shall distinguish Prince Lewis of Wirtemberg, the brother of
the reigning Duke, at whose country-house, near Lausanne, I frequently dine=
d: a
wandering meteor, and at length a falling star, his light and ambitious spi=
rit
had successively dropped from the firmament of Prussia, of France, and of
Austria; and his faults, which he styled his misfortunes, had driven him in=
to
philosophic exile in the Pays de Vaud. He could now moralize on the vanity =
of
the world, the equality of mankind, and the happiness of a private station.=
His
address was affable and polite, and as he had shone in courts and armies, h=
is
memory could supply, and his eloquence could adorn, a copious fund of
interesting anecdotes. His first enthusiasm was that of charity and
agriculture; but the sage gradually lapsed in the saint, and Prince Lewis of
Wirtemberg is now buried in a hermitage near Mayence, in the last stage of
mystic devotion. By some ecclesiastical quarrel, Voltaire had been provoked=
to
withdraw himself from Lausanne, and retire to his castle at Ferney, where I
again visited the poet and the actor, without seeking his more intimate
acquaintance, to which I might now have pleaded a better title. But the the=
atre
which he had founded, the actors whom he had formed, survived the loss of t=
heir
master; and, recent from Paris, I attended with pleasure at the representat=
ion
of several tragedies and comedies. I shall not descend to specify particular
names and characters; but I cannot forget a private institution, which will
display the innocent freedom of Swiss manners. My favourite society had ass=
umed,
from the age of its members, the proud denomination of the spring (la socie=
ty
du printems). It consisted of fifteen or twenty young unmarried ladies, of =
genteel,
though not of the very first families; the eldest perhaps about twenty, all
agreeable, several handsome, and two or three of exquisite beauty. At each
other's houses they assembled almost every day, without the controul, or ev=
en
the presence, of a mother or an aunt; they were trusted to their own pruden=
ce,
among a crowd of young men of every nation in Europe. They laughed, they su=
ng,
they danced, they played at cards, they acted comedies; but in the midst of
this careless gaiety, they respected themselves, and were respected by the =
men;
the invisible line between liberty and licentiousness was never transgresse=
d by
a gesture, a word, or a look, and their virgin chastity was never sullied by
the breath of scandal or suspicion. A singular institution, expressive of t=
he
innocent simplicity of Swiss manners. After having tasted the luxury of Eng=
land
and Paris, I could not have returned with satisfaction to the coarse and ho=
mely
table of Madame Pavilliard; nor was her husband offended that I now entered
myself as a pensionaire, or boarder, in the elegant house of Mr. De Mesery,
which may be entitled to a short remembrance, as it has stood above twenty
years, perhaps, without a parallel in Europe. The house in which we lodged =
was
spacious and convenient, in the best street, and commanding, from behind, a=
noble
prospect over the country and the Lake. Our table was served with neatness =
and
plenty; the boarders were select; we had the liberty of inviting any guests=
at
a stated price; and in the summer the scene was occasionally transferred to=
a
pleasant villa, about a league from Lausanne. The characters of Master and
Mistress were happily suited to each other, and to their situation. At the =
age
of seventy-five, Madame de Mesery, who has survived her husband, is still a
graceful, I had almost said, a handsome woman. She was alike qualified to
preside in her kitchen and her drawing-room; and such was the equal proprie=
ty
of her conduct, that of two or three hundred foreigners, none ever failed i=
n respect,
none could complain of her neglect, and none could ever boast of her favour.
Mesery himself, of the noble family of De Crousaz, was a man of the world, a
jovial companion, whose easy manners and natural sallies maintained the
cheerfulness of his house. His wit could laugh at his own ignorance: he
disguised, by an air of profusion, a strict attention to his interest; and =
in
this situation he appeared like a nobleman who spent his fortune and
entertained his friends. In this agreeable society I resided nearly eleven
months (May 1763--April 1764); and in this second visit to Lausanne, among a
crowd of my English companions, I knew and esteemed Mr. Holroyd (now Lord
Sheffield); and our mutual attachment was renewed and fortified in the
subsequent stages of our Italian journey. Our lives are in the power of cha=
nce,
and a slight variation on either side, in time or place, might have deprive=
d me
of a friend, whose activity in the ardour of youth was always prompted by a
benevolent heart, and directed by a strong understanding.
If my studies at
Paris had been confined to the study of the world, three or four months wou=
ld
not have been unprofitably spent. My visits, however superficial, to the
Academy of Medals and the public libraries, opened a new field of inquiry; =
and
the view of so many manuscripts of different ages and characters induced me=
to
consult the two great Benedictine works, the Diplomatica of Mabillon, and t=
he
Palaeographia of Montfaucon. I studied the theory without attaining the
practice of the art: nor should I complain of the intricacy of Greek
abbreviations and Gothic alphabets, since every day, in a familiar language=
, I
am at a loss to decipher the hieroglyphics of a female note. In a tranquil =
scene,
which revived the memory of my first studies, idleness would have been less
pardonable: the public libraries of Lausanne and Geneva liberally supplied =
me
with books; and if many hours were lost in dissipation, many more were empl=
oyed
in literary labour. In the country, Horace and Virgil, Juvenal and Ovid, we=
re
my assiduous companions but, in town, I formed and executed a plan of study=
for
the use of my Transalpine expedition: the topography of old Rome, the ancie=
nt geography
of Italy, and the science of medals. 1. I diligently read, almost always wi=
th
my pen in my hand, the elaborate treatises of Nardini, Donatus, &c., wh=
ich
fill the fourth volume of the Roman Antiquities of Graevius. 2. I next
undertook and finished the Italia Antiqua of Cluverius, a learned native of
Prussia, who had measured, on foot, every spot, and has compiled and digest=
ed
every passage of the ancient writers. These passages in Greek or Latin auth=
ors
I perused in the text of Cluverius, in two folio volumes: but I separately =
read
the descriptions of Italy by Strabo, Pliny, and Pomponius Mela, the Catalog=
ues
of the Epic poets, the Itineraries of Wesseling's Antoninus, and the coasti=
ng
Voyage of Rutilius Numatianus; and I studied two kindred subjects in the
Measures Itineraires of d'Anville, and the copious work of Bergier, Histoire
des grands Chemins de I'Empire Romain. From these materials I formed a tabl=
e of
roads and distances reduced to our English measure; filled a folio common-p=
lace
book with my collections and remarks on the geography of Italy; and inserte=
d in
my journal many long and learned notes on the insulae and populousness of R=
ome,
the social war, the passage of the Alps by Hannibal, &c. 3. After glanc=
ing
my eye over Addison's agreeable dialogues, I more seriously read the great =
work
of Ezechiel Spanheim de Praestantia et Usu Numismatum, and applied with him=
the
medals of the kings and emperors, the families and colonies, to the
illustration of ancient history. And thus was I armed for my Italian journe=
y.
I shall advance w=
ith
rapid brevity in the narrative of this tour, in which somewhat more than a =
year
(April 1764-May 1765) was agreeably employed. Content with tracing my line =
of
march, and slightly touching on my personal feelings, I shall waive the min=
ute
investigation of the scenes which have been viewed by thousands, and descri=
bed
by hundreds, of our modern travellers. ROME is the great object of our
pilgrimage: and 1st, the journey; 2d, the residence; and 3d, the return; wi=
ll
form the most proper and perspicuous division. 1. I climbed Mount Cenis, an=
d descended
into the plain of Piedmont, not on the back of an elephant, but on a light
osier seat, in the hands of the dextrous and intrepid chairmen of the Alps.=
The
architecture and government of Turin presented the same aspect of tame and
tiresome uniformity: but the court was regulated with decent and splendid
oeconomy; and I was introduced to his Sardinian majesty Charles Emanuel, wh=
o,
after the incomparable Frederic, held the second rank (proximus longo tamen
intervallo) among the kings of Europe. The size and populousness of Milan c=
ould
not surprise an inhabitant of London: but the fancy is amused by a visit to=
the
Boromean Islands, an enchanted palace, a work of the fairies in the midst o=
f a lake
encompassed with mountains, and far removed from the haunts of men. I was l=
ess
amused by the marble palaces of Genoa, than by the recent memorials of her
deliverance (in December 1746) from the Austrian tyranny; and I took a mili=
tary
survey of every scene of action within the inclosure of her double walls. My
steps were detained at Parma and Modena, by the precious relics of the Farn=
ese
and Este collections: but, alas! the far greater part had been already
transported, by inheritance or purchase, to Naples and Dresden. By the road=
of
Bologna and the Apennine I at last reached Florence, where I reposed from J=
une
to September, during the heat of the summer months. In the Gallery, and esp=
ecially
in the Tribune, I first acknowledged, at the feet of the Venus of Medicis, =
that
the chisel may dispute the pre-eminence with the pencil, a truth in the fine
arts which cannot on this side of the Alps be felt or understood. At home I=
had
taken some lessons of Italian on the spot I read, with a learned native, the
classics of the Tuscan idiom: but the shortness of my time, and the use of =
the
French language, prevented my acquiring any facility of speaking; and I was=
a
silent spectator in the conversations of our envoy, Sir Horace Mann, whose =
most
serious business was that of entertaining the English at his hospitable tab=
le.
After leaving Florence, I compared the solitude of Pisa with the industry of
Lucca and Leghorn, and continued my journey through Sienna to Rome, where I
arrived in the beginning of October. 2. My temper is not very susceptible of
enthusiasm; and the enthusiasm which I do not feel, I have ever scorned to
affect. But, at the distance of twenty-five years, I can neither forget nor=
express
the strong emotions which agitated my mind as I first approached and entered
the eternal city. After a sleepless night, I trod, with a lofty step, the r=
uins
of the Forum; each memorable spot where Romulus stood, or Tully spoke, or
Caesar fell, was at once present to my eye; and several days of intoxication
were lost or enjoyed before I could descend to a cool and minute investigat=
ion.
My guide was Mr. Byers, a Scotch antiquary of experience and taste; but, in=
the
daily labour of eighteen weeks, the powers of attention were sometimes
fatigued, till I was myself qualified, in a last review, to select and study
the capital works of ancient and modern art. Six weeks were borrowed for my
tour of Naples, the most populous of cities, relative to its size, whose
luxurious inhabitants seem to dwell on the confines of paradise and hell-fi=
re.
I was presented to the boy-king by our new envoy, Sir William Hamilton; who,
wisely diverting his correspondence from the Secretary of State to the Royal
Society and British Museum, has elucidated a country of such inestimable va=
lue
to the naturalist and antiquarian. On my return, I fondly embraced, for the
last time, the miracles of Rome; but I departed without kissing the feet of
Rezzonico (Clement XIII.), who neither possessed the wit of his predecessor
Lambertini, nor the virtues of his successor Ganganelli. 3. In my pilgrimage
from Rome to Loretto I again crossed the Apennine; from the coast of the
Adriatic I traversed a fruitful and populous country, which could alone dis=
prove
the paradox of Montesquieu, that modern Italy is a desert. Without adopting=
the
exclusive prejudice of the natives, I sincerely admire the paintings of the
Bologna school. I hastened to escape from the sad solitude of Ferrara, whic=
h in
the age of Caesar was still more desolate. The spectacle of Venice afforded
some hours of astonishment; the university of Padua is a dying taper: but
Verona still boasts her amphitheatre, and his native Vicenza is adorned by =
the
classic architecture of Palladio: the road of Lombardy and Piedmont (did
Montesquieu find them without inhabitants?) led me back to Milan, Turin, and
the passage of Mount Cenis, where I again crossed the Alps in my way to Lyo=
ns.
The use of foreign
travel has been often debated as a general question; but the conclusion mus=
t be
finally applied to the character and circumstances of each individual. With=
the
education of boys, where or how they may pass over some juvenile years with=
the
least mischief to themselves or others, I have no concern. But after suppos=
ing
the previous and indispensable requisites of age, judgment, a competent kno=
wledge
of men and books, and a freedom from domestic prejudices, I will briefly
describe the qualifications which I deem most essential to a traveller. He
should be endowed with an active, indefatigable vigour of mind and body, wh=
ich
can seize every mode of conveyance, and support, with a careless smile, eve=
ry
hardship of the road, the weather, or the inn. The benefits of foreign trav=
el
will correspond with the degrees of these qualifications; but, in this sket=
ch,
those to whom I am known will not accuse me of framing my own panegyric. It=
was
at Rome, on the 15th of October 1764, as I sat musing amidst the ruins of t=
he
Capitol, while the bare-footed fryars were singing vespers in the temple of
Jupiter, that the idea of writing the decline and fall of the city first
started to my mind. But my original plan was circumscribed to the decay of =
the city
rather than of the empire: and though my reading and reflections began to p=
oint
towards that object, some years elapsed, and several avocations intervened,
before I was seriously engaged in the execution of that laborious work.
I had not totally
renounced the southern provinces of France, but the letters which I found at
Lyons were expressive of some impatience. Rome and Italy had satiated my
curious appetite, and I was now ready to return to the peaceful retreat of =
my
family and books. After a happy fortnight I reluctantly left Paris, embarke=
d at
Calais, again landed at Dover, after an interval of two years and five mont=
hs,
and hastily drove through the summer dust and solitude of London. On June 25
1765 I arrived at my father's house: and the five years and a half between =
my travels
and my father's death (1770) are the portion of my life which I passed with=
the
least enjoyment, and which I remember with the least satisfaction. Every sp=
ring
I attended the monthly meeting and exercise of the militia at Southampton; =
and
by the resignation of my father, and the death of Sir Thomas Worsley, I was
successively promoted to the rank of major and lieutenant-colonel commandan=
t;
but I was each year more disgusted with the inn, the wine, the company, and=
the
tiresome repetition of annual attendance and daily exercise. At home, the o=
economy
of the family and farm still maintained the same creditable appearance. My
connection with Mrs. Gibbon was mellowed into a warm and solid attachment: =
my
growing years abolished the distance that might yet remain between a parent=
and
a son, and my behaviour satisfied my father, who was proud of the success,
however imperfect in his own life-time, of my literary talents. Our solitude
was soon and often enlivened by the visit of the friend of my youth, Mr.
Deyverdun, whose absence from Lausanne I had sincerely lamented. About three
years after my first departure, he had emigrated from his native lake to the
banks of the Oder in Germany. The res augusta domi, the waste of a decent
patrimony, by an improvident father, obliged him, like many of his countrym=
en,
to confide in his own industry; and he was entrusted with the education of a
young prince, the grandson of the Margrave of Schavedt, of the Royal Family=
of
Prussia. Our friendship was never cooled, our correspondence was sometimes
interrupted; but I rather wished than hoped to obtain Mr. Deyverdun for the
companion of my Italian tour. An unhappy, though honourable passion, drove =
him
from his German court; and the attractions of hope and curiosity were forti=
fied
by the expectation of my speedy return to England. During four successive
summers he passed several weeks or months at Beriton, and our free
conversations, on every topic that-could interest the heart or understandin=
g,
would have reconciled me to a desert or a prison. In the winter months of
London my sphere of knowledge and action was somewhat enlarged, by the many=
new
acquaintance which I had contracted in the militia and abroad; and I must
regret, as more than an acquaintance, Mr. Godfrey Clarke of Derbyshire, an
amiable and worthy young man, who was snatched away by an untimely death. A=
weekly
convivial meeting was established by myself and travellers, under the name =
of
the Roman Club.
The renewal, or
perhaps the improvement, of my English life was embittered by the alteratio=
n of
my own feelings. At the age of twenty-one I was, in my proper station of a
youth, delivered from the yoke of education, and delighted with the compara=
tive
state of liberty and affluence. My filial obedience was natural and easy; a=
nd
in the gay prospect of futurity, my ambition did not extend beyond the
enjoyment of my books, my leisure, and my patrimonial estate, undisturbed by
the cares of a family and the duties of a profession. But in the militia I =
was
armed with power; in my travels, I was exempt from controul; and as I appro=
ached,
as I gradually passed my thirtieth year, I began to feel the desire of being
master to my own house. The most gentle authority will sometimes frown with=
out
reason, the most cheerful submission will sometimes murmur without cause; a=
nd
such is the law of our imperfect nature, that we must either command or obe=
y;
that our personal liberty is supported by the obsequiousness of our own
dependants. While so many of my acquaintance were married or in parliament,=
or
advancing with a rapid step in the various roads of honour and fortune, I s=
tood
alone, immoveable and insignificant; for after the monthly meeting of 1770,=
I
had even withdrawn myself from the militia, by the resignation of an empty =
and
barren commission. My temper is not susceptible of envy, and the view of
successful merit has always excited my warmest applause. The miseries of a
vacant life were never known to a man whose hours were insufficient for the
inexhaustible pleasures of study. But I lamented that at the proper age I h=
ad
not embraced the lucrative pursuits of the law or of trade, the chances of
civil office or India adventure, or even the fat slumbers of the church; an=
d my
repentance became more lively as the loss of time was more irretrievable.
Experience shewed me the use of grafting my private consequence on the
importance of a great professional body; the benefits of those firm connect=
ions
which are cemented by hope and interest, by gratitude and emulation, by the
mutual exchange of services and favours. From the emoluments of a professio=
n I might
have derived an ample fortune, or a competent income, instead of being stin=
ted
to the same narrow allowance, to be increased only by an event which I
sincerely deprecated. The progress and the knowledge of our domestic disord=
ers
aggravated my anxiety, and I began to apprehend that I might be left in my =
old
age without the fruits either of industry or inheritance.
In the first summ=
er
after my return, whilst I enjoyed at Beriton the society of my friend
Deyverdun, our daily conversations expatiated over the field of ancient and
modern literature; and we freely discussed my studies, my first Essay, and =
my
future projects. The Decline and Fall of Rome I still contemplated at an aw=
ful
distance: but the two historical designs which had balanced my choice were
submitted to his taste: and in the parallel between the Revolutions of Flor=
ence
and Switzerland, our common partiality for a country which was his by birth,
and mine by adoption, inclined the scale in favour of the latter. According=
to
the plan, which was soon conceived and digested, I embraced a period of two=
hundred
years, from the association of the three peasants of the Alps to the plenit=
ude
and prosperity of the Helvetic body in the sixteenth century. I should have
described the deliverance and victory of the Swiss, who have never shed the
blood of their tyrants but in a field of battle; the laws and manners of the
confederate states; the splendid trophies of the Austrian, Burgundian, and
Italian wars; and the wisdom of a nation, which, after some sallies of mart=
ial
adventure, has been content to guard the blessings of peace with the sword =
of
freedom.
=
--Manus haec inimica tyrannis =
Ense
petit placidam sub libertate quietem.
My judgment, as w=
ell
as my enthusiasm, was satisfied with the glorious theme; and the assistance=
of
Deyverdun seemed to remove an insuperable obstacle. The French or Latin
memorials, of which I was not ignorant, are inconsiderable in number and
weight; but in the perfect acquaintance of my friend with the German langua=
ge,
I found the key of a more valuable collection. The most necessary books were
procured; he translated, for my use, the folio volume of Schilling, a copio=
us
and contemporary relation of the war of Burgundy; we read and marked the mo=
st
interesting parts of the great chronicle of Tschudi; and by his labour, or =
that
of an inferior assistant, large extracts were made from the History of Lauf=
fer
and the Dictionary of Lew: yet such was the distance and delay, that two ye=
ars
elapsed in these preparatory steps; and it was late in the third summer (17=
67)
before I entered, with these slender materials, on the more agreeable task =
of
composition. A specimen of my History, the first book, was read the followi=
ng
winter in a literary society of foreigners in London; and as the author was=
unknown,
I listened, without observation, to the free strictures, and unfavourable
sentence, of my judges. The momentary sensation was painful; but their
condemnation was ratified by my cooler thoughts. I delivered my imperfect
sheets to the flames,--and for ever renounced a design in which some expenc=
e,
much labour, and more time had been so vainly consumed. I cannot regret the
loss of a slight and superficial essay, for such the work must have been in=
the
hands of a stranger, uninformed by the scholars and statesmen, and remote f=
rom
the libraries and archives of the Swiss republics. My ancient habits, and t=
he
presence of Deyverdun, encouraged me to write in French for the continent o=
f Europe;
but I was conscious myself that my style, above prose and below poetry,
degenerated into a verbose and turgid declamation. Perhaps I may impute the
failure to the injudicious choice of a foreign language. Perhaps I may susp=
ect
that the language itself is ill adapted to sustain the vigour and dignity o=
f an
important narrative. But if France, so rich in literary merit, had produced=
a
great original historian, his genius would have formed and fixed the idiom =
to
the proper tone, the peculiar model of historical eloquence.
It was in search =
of
some liberal and lucrative employment that my friend Deyverdun had visited
England. His remittances from home were scanty and precarious. My purse was
always open, but it was often empty; and I bitterly felt the want of riches=
and
power, which might have enabled me to correct the errors of his fortune. His
wishes and qualifications solicited the station of the travelling governor =
of
some wealthy pupil; but every vacancy provoked so many eager candidates, th=
at
for a long time I struggled without success; nor was it till after much
application that I could even place him as a clerk in the office of the
secretary of state. In a residence of several years he never acquired the j=
ust pronunciation
and familiar use of the English tongue, but he read our most difficult auth=
ors
with ease and taste: his critical knowledge of our language and poetry was =
such
as few foreigners have possessed; and few of our countrymen could enjoy the
theatre of Shakspeare and Garrick with more exquisite feeling and discernme=
nt.
The consciousness of his own strength, and the assurance of my aid, embolde=
ned
him to imitate the example of Dr. Maty, whose Journal Britannique was estee=
med
and regretted; and to improve his model, by uniting with the transactions of
literature a philosophic view of the arts and manners of the British nation.
Our journal for the year 1767, under the title of Memoires Literaires de la
Grand Bretagne, was soon finished, and sent to the press. For the first
article, Lord Lyttelton's History of Henry II., I must own myself responsib=
le;
but the public has ratified my judgment of that voluminous work, in which s=
ense
and learning are not illuminated by a ray of genius. The next specimen was =
the
choice of my friend, the Bath Guide, a light and whimsical performance, of =
local,
and even verbal, pleasantry. I started at the attempt: he smiled at my fear=
s:
his courage was justified by success; and a master of both languages will
applaud the curious felicity with which he has transfused into French prose=
the
spirit, and even the humour, of the English verse. It is not my wish to deny
how deeply I was interested in these Memoirs, of which I need not surely be
ashamed; but at the distance of more than twenty years, it would be impossi=
ble
for me to ascertain the respective shares of the two associates. A long and
intimate communication of ideas had cast our sentiments and style in the sa=
me
mould. In our social labours we composed and corrected by turns; and the pr=
aise
which I might honestly bestow, would fall perhaps on some article or passage
most properly my own. A second volume (for the year 1768) was published of
these Memoirs. I will presume to say, that their merit was superior to thei=
r reputation;
but it is not less true, that they were productive of more reputation than =
emolument.
They introduced my friend to the protection, and myself to the acquaintance=
, of
the Earl of Chesterfield, whose age and infirmities secluded him from the
world; and of Mr. David Hume, who was under-secretary to the office in which
Deyverdun was more humbly employed. The former accepted a dedication,(April=
12,
1769,) and reserved the author for the future education of his successor: t=
he latter
enriched the Journal with a reply to Mr. Walpole's Historical Doubts, which=
he
afterwards shaped into the form of a note. The materials of the third volume
were almost completed, when I recommended Deyverdun as governor to Sir Rich=
ard
Worsley, a youth, the son of my old Lieutenant-colonel, who was lately
deceased. They set forwards on their travels; nor did they return to England
till some time after my father's death.
My next publicati=
on
was an accidental sally of love and resentment; of my reverence for modest
genius, and my aversion for insolent pedantry. The sixth book of the AEneid=
is
the most pleasing and perfect composition of Latin poetry. The descent of
AEneas and the Sibyl to the infernal regions, to the world of spirits, expa=
nds
an awful and boundless prospect, from the nocturnal gloom of the Cumaean gr=
ot,
=
Ibant obscuri sola sub nocte per umbram,
to the meridian
brightness of the Elysian fields;
=
Largior hic campos aether et lumine vestit =
Purpureo---
from the dreams of
simple Nature, to the dreams, alas! of Egyptian theology, and the philosoph=
y of
the Greeks. But the final dismission of the hero through the ivory gate, wh=
ence
=
Falsa ad coelum mittunt insomnia manes,
seems to dissolve=
the
whole enchantment, and leaves the reader in a state of cold and anxious
scepticism. This most lame and impotent conclusion has been variously imput=
ed
to the taste or irreligion of Virgil; but, according to the more elaborate
interpretation of Bishop Warburton, the descent to hell is not a false, but=
a
mimic scene; which represents the initiation of AEneas, in the character of=
a law-giver,
to the Eleusinian mysteries. This hypothesis, a singular chapter in the Div=
ine
Legation of Moses, had been admitted by many as true; it was praised by all=
as
ingenious; nor had it been exposed, in a space of thirty years, to a fair a=
nd
critical discussion. The learning and the abilities of the author had raised
him to a just eminence; but he reigned the dictator and tyrant of the world=
of
literature. The real merit of Warburton was degraded by the pride and
presumption with which he pronounced his infallible decrees; in his polemic
writings he lashed his antagonists without mercy or moderation; and his ser=
vile
flatterers, (see the base and malignant Essay on the Delicacy of Friendship=
,) exalting
the master critic far above Aristotle and Longinus, assaulted every modest
dissenter who refused to consult the oracle, and to adore the idol. In a la=
nd
of liberty, such despotism must provoke a general opposition, and the zeal =
of
opposition is seldom candid or impartial. A late professor of Oxford, (Dr. =
Lowth,)
in a pointed and polished epistle, (Aug. 31, 1765,) defended himself, and
attacked the Bishop; and, whatsoever might be the merits of an insignificant
controversy, his victory was clearly established by the silent confusion of
Warburton and his slaves. I too, without any private offence, was ambitious=
of breaking
a lance against the giant's shield; and in the beginning of the year 1770, =
my
Critical Observations on the Sixth Book of the AEneid were sent, without my
name, to the press. In this short Essay, my first English publication, I ai=
med
my strokes against the person and the hypothesis of Bishop Warburton. I pro=
ved,
at least to my own satisfaction, that the ancient lawgivers did not invent =
the
mysteries, and that AEneas was never invested with the office of lawgiver: =
that
there is not any argument, any circumstance, which can melt a fable into al=
legory,
or remove the scene from the Lake Avernus to the Temple of Ceres: that such=
a
wild supposition is equally injurious to the poet and the man: that if Virg=
il
was not initiated he could not, if he were, he would not, reveal the secret=
s of
the initiation: that the anathema of Horace (vetabo qui Cereris sacrum
vulgarit, &c.) at once attests his own ignorance and the innocence of h=
is
friend. As the Bishop of Gloucester and his party maintained a discreet
silence, my critical disquisition was soon lost among the pamphlets of the =
day;
but the public coldness was overbalanced to my feelings by the weighty
approbation of the last and best editor of Virgil, Professor Heyne of
Gottingen, who acquiesces in my confutation, and styles the unknown author,
doctus - - - et elegantissimus Britannus. But I cannot resist the temptatio=
n of
transcribing the favourable judgment of Mr. Hayley, himself a poet and a sc=
holar
"An intricate hypothesis, twisted into a long and laboured chain of
quotation and argument, the Dissertation on the Sixth Book of Virgil, remai=
ned
some time unrefuted. - - - At length, a superior, but anonymous, critic aro=
se,
who, in one of the most judicious and spirited essays that our nation has
produced, on a point of classical literature, completely overturned this
ill-founded edifice, and exposed the arrogance and futility of its assuming
architect." He even condescends to justify an acrimony of style, which=
had
been gently blamed by the more unbiassed German; "Paullo acrius quam v=
elis
- - -,perstrinxit." But I cannot forgive myself the contemptuous treat=
ment
of a span who, with all his faults, was entitled to my esteem; [Note: The
Divine Legation of Moses is a monument, already crumbling in the dust, of t=
he
vigour and weakness of the human mind. If Warburton's new argument proved
anything, it would be a demonstration against the legislator, who left his
people without the knowledge of a future state. But some episodes of the wo=
rk, on
the Greek philosophy, the hieroglyphics of Egypt, &c. are entitled to t=
he
praise of learning, imagination, and discernment.] and I can less forgive, =
in a
personal attack, the cowardly concealment of my name and character.
In the fifteen ye=
ars
between my Essay on the Study of Literature and the first volume of the Dec=
line
and Fall, (1761-1776,) this criticism on Warburton, and some articles in the
journal, were my sole publications. It is more especially incumbent on me to
mark the employment, or to confess the waste of time, from my travels to my
father's death, an interval in which I was not diverted by any professional
duties from the labours and pleasures of a studious life. 1. As soon as I w=
as
released from the fruitless task of the Swiss revolutions, (1768,) I began =
gradually
to advance from the wish to the hope, from the hope to the design, from the
design to the execution, of my historical work, of whose limits and extent I
had yet a very inadequate notion. The Classics, as low as Tacitus, the youn=
ger
Pliny, and Juvenal, were my old and familiar companions. I insensibly plung=
ed
into the ocean of the Augustan history; and in the descending series I
investigated, with my pen almost always in my hand, the original records, b=
oth Greek
and Latin, from Dion Cassius to Ammianus Marcellinus, from the reign of Tra=
jan
to the last age of the Western Caesars. The subsidiary rays of medals, and
inscriptions of geography and chronology, were thrown on their proper objec=
ts;
and I applied the collections of Tillemont, whose inimitable accuracy almost
assumes the character of genius, to fix and arrange within my reach the loo=
se
and scattered atoms of historical information. Through the darkness of the
middle ages I explored my way in the Annals and Antiquities of Italy of the
learned Muratori; and diligently compared them with the parallel or transve=
rse
lines of Sigonius and Maffei, Baronius and Pagi, till I almost grasped the
ruins of Rome in the fourteenth century, without suspecting that this final=
chapter
must be attained by the labour of six quartos and twenty years. Among the b=
ooks
which I purchased, the Theodocian Code, with the commentary of James Godefr=
oy,
must be gratefully remembered. I used it (and much I used it) as a work of
history, rather than of jurisprudence: but in every light it may be conside=
red
as a full and capacious repository of the political state of the empire in =
the
fourth and fifth centuries. As I believed, and as I still believe, that the
propagation of the Gospel, and the triumph of the church, are inseparably
connected with the decline of the Roman monarchy, I weighed the causes and
effects of the revolution, and contrasted the narratives and apologies of t=
he Christians
themselves, with the glances of candour or enmity which the Pagans have cas=
t on
the rising sects, The Jewish and Heathen testimonies, as they are collected=
and
illustrated by Dr. Lardner, directed, without superseding, my search of the
originals; and in an ample dissertation on the miraculous darkness of the
passion, I privately withdrew my conclusions from the silence of an unbelie=
ving
age. I have assembled the preparatory studies, directly or indirectly relat=
ive
to my history; but, in strict equity, they must be spread beyond this perio=
d of
my life, over the two summers (1771 and 1772) that elapsed between my fathe=
r's
death and my settlement in London. 2. In a free conversation with books and
men, it would be endless to enumerate the names and characters of all who a=
re
introduced to our acquaintance; but in this general acquaintance we may sel=
ect
the degrees of friendship and esteem, according to the wise maxim, Multum
legere potius quam multa. I reviewed, again and again, the immortal works of
the French and English, the Latin and Italian classics. My Greek studies
(though less assiduous than I designed) maintained and extended my knowledg=
e of
that incomparable idiom. Homer and Xenophon were still my favourite authors=
; and
I had almost prepared for the press an Essay on the Cyropoedia, which, in my
own judgment, is not unhappily laboured. After a certain age, the new
publications of merit are the sole food of the many; and the must austere
student will be often tempted to break the line, for the sake of indulging =
his
own curiosity, and of providing the topics of fashionable currency. A more
respectable motive maybe assigned for the third perusal of Blackstone's
Commentaries, and a copious and critical abstract of that English work was =
my
first serious production in my native language. 3. My literary leisure was =
much
less complete and independent than it might appear to the eye of a stranger=
. In
the hurry of London I was destitute of books; in the solitude of Hampshire I
was not master of my time. My quiet was gradually disturbed by our domestic=
anxiety,
and I should be ashamed of my unfeeling philosophy, had I found much time or
taste for study in the last fatal summer (1770) of my father's decay and
dissolution.
The disembodying =
of
the militia at the close of the war (1763) had restored the Major (a new Ci=
ncinnatus)
to a life of agriculture. His labours were useful, his pleasures innocent, =
his
wishes moderate; and my father seemed to enjoy the state of happiness which=
is
celebrated by poets and philosophers, as the most agreeable to nature, and =
the
least accessible to fortune.
=
Beatus ille, qui procul negotiis =
(Ut
prisca gens mortalium) =
Paterna
rura bubus exercet suis, =
Solutus
omni foenore. =
HOR.
Epod. ii.
=
Like the first mortals, blest is he, =
From
debts, and usury, and business free, =
With
his own team who ploughs the soil, =
Which
grateful once confessed his father's toil. =
FRANCIS.
But the last
indispensable condition, the freedom from debt, was wanting to my father's
felicity; and the vanities of his youth were severely punished by the
solicitude and sorrow of his declining age. The first mortgage, on my return
from Lausanne, (1758,) had afforded him a partial and transient relief. The
annual demand of interest and allowance was a heavy deduction from his inco=
me;
the militia was a source of expence, the farm in his hands was not a profit=
able
adventure, he was loaded with the costs and damages of an obsolete law-suit;
and each year multiplied the number, and exhausted the patience, of his
creditors. Under these painful circumstances, I consented to an additional
mortgage, to the sale of Putney, and to every sacrifice that could alleviate
his distress. But he was no longer capable of a rational effort, and his re=
luctant
delays postponed not the evils themselves, but the remedies of those evils
(remedia malorum potius quam mala differebat). The pangs of shame, tenderne=
ss,
and self-reproach, incessantly preyed on his vitals; his constitution was
broken; he lost his strength and his sight; the rapid progress of a dropsy
admonished him of his end, and he sunk into the grave on Nov. 10, 1770, in =
the
sixty-fourth year of his age. A family tradition insinuates that Mr. William
Law had drawn his pupil in the light and inconstant character of Flatus, wh=
o is
ever confident, and ever disappointed in the chace of happiness. But these
constitutional failing were happily compensated by the virtues of the head =
and
heart, by the warmest sentiments of honour and humanity. His graceful perso=
n, polite
address, gentle manners, and unaffected cheerfulness, recommended him to the
favour of every company; and in the change of times and opinions, his liber=
al
spirit had long since delivered him from the zeal and prejudice of a Tory e=
ducation.
I submitted to the order of Nature; and my grief was soothed by the conscio=
us
satisfaction that I had discharged all the duties of filial piety.
As soon as I had =
paid
the last solemn duties to my father, and obtained, from time and reason, a =
tolerable
composure of mind, I began to form the plan of an independent life, most
adapted to my circumstances and inclination. Yet so intricate was the net, =
my
efforts were so awkward and feeble, that nearly two years (Nov. 1770-Oct. 1=
772)
were suffered to elapse before I could disentangle myself from the manageme=
nt
of the farm, and transfer my residence from Beriton to a house in London. D=
uring
this interval I continued to divide my year between town and the country; b=
ut
my new situation was brightened by hope; my stay in London was prolonged in=
to
the summer; and the uniformity of the summer was occasionally broken by vis=
its
and excursions at a distance from home. The gratification of my desires (th=
ey
were not immoderate) has been seldom disappointed by the want of money or
credit; my pride was never insulted by the visit of an importunate tradesma=
n;
and my transient anxiety for the past or future has been dispelled by the
studious or social occupation of the present hour. My conscience does not
accuse me of any act of extravagance or injustice, and the remnant of my es=
tate
affords an ample and honourable provision for my declining age. I shall not
expatiate on my oeconomical affairs, which cannot be instructive or amusing=
to
the reader. It is a rule of prudence, as well as of politeness, to reserve =
such
confidence for the ear of a private friend, without exposing our situation =
to
the envy or pity of strangers; for envy is productive of hatred, and pity
borders too nearly on contempt. Yet I may believe, and even assert, that in
circumstances more indigent or more wealthy, I should never have accomplish=
ed
the task, or acquired the fame, of an historian; that my spirit would have =
been
broken by poverty and contempt, and that my industry might have been relaxe=
d in
the labour and luxury of a superfluous fortune.
I had now attained
the first of earthly blessings, independence: I was the absolute master of =
my
hours and actions: nor was I deceived in the hope that the establishment of=
my
library in town would allow me to divide the day between study and society.
Each year the circle of my acquaintance, the number of my dead and living
companions, was enlarged. To a lover of books, the shops and sales of London
present irresistible temptations; and the manufacture of my history require=
d a
various and growing stock of materials. The militia, my travels, the House =
of Commons,
the fame of an author, contributed to multiply my connections: I was chosen=
a
member of the fashionable clubs; and, before I left England in 1783, there =
were
few persons of any eminence in the literary or political world to whom I wa=
s a
stranger. [Note: From the mixed, though polite, company of Boodle's, White'=
s,
and Brooks's, I must honourably distinguish a weekly society, which was
instituted in the year 1764, and which still continues to flourish, under t=
he
title of the Literary Club. (Hawkins's Life of Johnson, p.415. Boswell's To=
ur
to the Hebrides, p 97.) The names of Dr. Johnson, Mr. Burke, Mr. Topham Bea=
uclerc,
Mr. Garrick, Dr. Goldsmith, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Mr. Colman, Sir William Jo=
nes,
Dr. Percy, Mr. Fox, Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Adam Smith, Mr. Steevens, Mr. Dunning,
Sir Joseph Banks, Dr. Warton, and his brother Mr. Thomas Warton, Dr. Burney,
&c., form a large and luminous constellation of British stars.] It would
most assuredly be in my power to amuse the reader with a gallery of portrai=
ts
and a collection of anecdotes. But I have always condemned the practice of
transforming a private memorial into a vehicle of satire or praise. By my o=
wn
choice I passed in town the greatest part of the year; but whenever I was
desirous of breathing the air of the country, I possessed an hospitable ret=
reat
at Sheffield-place in Sussex, in the family of my valuable friend Mr. Holro=
yd,
whose character, under the name of Lord Sheffield, has since been more
conspicuous to the public.
No sooner was I
settled in my house and library, than I undertook the composition of the fi=
rst
volume of my History. At the outset all was dark and doubtful; even the tit=
le
of the work, the true aera of the Decline and Fall of the Empire, the limit=
s of
the introduction, the division of the chapters, and the order of the narrat=
ive;
and I was often tempted to cast away the labour of seven years. The style o=
f an
author should be the image of his mind, but the choice and command of langu=
age
is the fruit of exercise. Many experiments were made before I could hit the
middle tone between a dull chronicle and a rhetorical declamation: three ti=
mes
did I compose the first chapter, and twice the second and third, before I w=
as
tolerably satisfied with their effect. In the remainder of the way I advanc=
ed
with a more equal and easy pace; but the fifteenth and sixteenth chapters h=
ave
been reduced by three successive revisals, from a large volume to their pre=
sent
size; and they might still be compressed, without any loss of facts or
sentiments. An opposite fault may be imputed to the concise and superficial
narrative of the first reigns from Commodus to Alexander; a fault of which I
have never heard, except from Mr. Hume in his last journey to London. Such =
an oracle
might have been consulted and obeyed with rational devotion; but I was soon
disgusted with the modest practice of reading the manuscript to my friends.=
Of
such friends some will praise from politeness, and some will criticise from
vanity. The author himself is the best judge of his own performance; no one=
has
so deeply meditated on the subject; no one is so sincerely interested in the
event.
By the friendship=
of
Mr. (now Lord) Eliot, who had married my first cousin, I was returned at the
general election for the borough of Liskeard. I took my seat at the beginni=
ng
of the memorable contest between Great Britain and America, and supported, =
with
many a sincere and silent vote, the rights, though not, perhaps, the intere=
st,
of the mother country. After a fleeting illusive hope, prudence condemned m=
e to
acquiesce in the humble station of a mute. I was not armed by Nature and ed=
ucation
with the intrepid energy of mind and voice.
Vincentem strepi=
tus,
et natum rebus agendis.
Timidity was
fortified by pride, and even the success of my pen discouraged the trial of=
my
voice. But I assisted at the debates of a free assembly; I listened to the
attack and defence of eloquence and reason; I had a near prospect of the
characters, views, and passions of the first men of the age. The cause of
government was ably vindicated by Lord North, a statesman of spotless
integrity, a consummate master of debate, who could wield, with equal
dexterity, the arms of reason and of ridicule. He was seated on the
Treasury-bench between his Attorney and Solicitor General, the two pillars =
of
the law and state, magis pares quam similes; and the minister might indulge=
in
a short slumber, whilst he was upholden on either hand by the majestic sens=
e of
Thurlow, and the skilful eloquence of Wedderburne. From the adverse side of=
the
house an ardent and powerful opposition was supported, by the lively
declamation of Barre, the legal acuteness of Dunning, the profuse and
philosophic fancy of Burke, and the argumentative vehemence of Fox, who in =
the conduct
of a party approved himself equal to the conduct of an empire. By such men
every operation of peace and war, every principle of justice or policy, eve=
ry
question of authority and freedom, was attacked and defended; and the subje=
ct
of the momentous contest was the union or separation of Great Britain and
America. The eight sessions that I sat in parliament were a school of civil
prudence, the first and most essential virtue of an historian.
The volume of my
History, which had been somewhat delayed by the novelty and tumult of a fir=
st
session, was now ready for the press. After the perilous adventure had been
declined by my friend Mr. Elmsly, I agreed, upon easy terms, with Mr. Thomas
Cadell, a respectable bookseller, and Mr. William Strahan, an eminent print=
er;
and they undertook the care and risk of the publication, which derived more
credit from the name of the shop than from that of the author. The last rev=
isal
of the proofs was submitted to my vigilance; and many blemishes of style, w=
hich
had been invisible in the manuscript, were discovered and corrected in the =
printed
sheet. So moderate were our hopes, that the original impression had been
stinted to five hundred, till the number was doubled by the prophetic taste=
of
Mr. Strahan. During this awful interval I was neither elated by the ambitio=
n of
fame, nor depressed by the apprehension of contempt. My diligence and accur=
acy
were attested by my own conscience. History is the most popular species of
writing, since it can adapt itself to the highest or the lowest capacity. I=
had
chosen an illustrious subject. Rome is familiar to the school-boy and the s=
tatesman;
and my narrative was deduced from the last period of classical reading. I h=
ad
likewise flattered myself, that an age of light and liberty would receive,
without scandal, an inquiry into the human causes of the progress and
establishment of Christianity.
I am at a loss ho= w to describe the success of the work, without betraying the vanity of the write= r. The first impression was exhausted in a few days; a second and third edition were scarcely adequate to the demand; and the bookseller's property was twi= ce invaded by the pirates of Dublin. My book was on every table, and almost on every toilette; the historian was crowned by the taste or fashion of the da= y; nor was the general voice disturbed by the barking of any profane critic. T= he favour of mankind is most freely bestowed on a new acquaintance of any orig= inal merit; and the mutual surprise of the public and their favourite is product= ive of those warm sensibilities, which at a second meeting can no longer be rekindled. If I listened to the music of praise, I was more seriously satis= fied with the approbation of my judges. The candour of Dr. Robertson embraced his disciple. A letter from Mr. Hume overpaid the labour of ten years, but I ha= ve never presumed to accept a place in the triumvirate of British historians.<= o:p>
That curious and
original letter will amuse the reader, and his gratitude should shield my f=
ree
communication from the reproach of vanity.
"DEAR SIR,
EDINBURGH, 18th March 1776. "As I ran through your volume of history w=
ith
great avidity and impatience, I cannot forbear discovering somewhat of the =
same
impatience in returning you thanks for your agreeable present, and expressi=
ng
the satisfaction which the performance has given me. Whether I consider the
dignity of your style, the depth of your matter, or the extensiveness of yo=
ur
learning, I must regard the work as equally the object of esteem; and I own
that if I had not previously had the happiness of your personal acquaintanc=
e,
such a performance from an Englishman in our age would have given me some s=
urprise.
You may smile at this sentiment; but as it seems to me that your countrymen,
for almost a whole generation, have given themselves up to barbarous and ab=
surd
faction, and have totally neglected all polite letters, I no longer expected
any valuable production ever to come from them. I know it will give you
pleasure (as it did me) to find that all the men of letters in this place
concur in the admiration of your work, and in their anxious desire of your
continuing it.
"When I hear=
d of
your undertaking, (which was some time ago,) I own I was a little curious to
see how you would extricate yourself from the subject of your two last
chapters. I think you have observed a very prudent temperament; but it was
impossible to treat the subject so as not to give grounds of suspicion agai=
nst
you, and you may expect that a clamour will arise. This, if anything, will
retard your success with the public; for in every other respect your work is
calculated to be popular. But among many other marks of decline, the preval=
ence
of superstition in England prognosticates the fall of philosophy and decay =
of taste;
and though nobody be more capable than you to revive them, you will probably
find a struggle in your first advances.
"I see you
entertain a great doubt with regard to the authenticity of the poems of Oss=
ian.
You are certainly right in so doing. It is indeed strange that any men of s=
ense
could have imagined it possible, that above twenty thousand verses, along w=
ith
numberless historical facts, could have been preserved by oral tradition du=
ring
fifty generations, by the rudest, perhaps, of all the European nations, the
most necessitous, the most turbulent, and the most unsettled. Where a
supposition is so contrary to common sense, any positive evidence of it oug=
ht
never to be regarded. Men run with great avidity to give their evidence in
favour of what flatters their passions and their national prejudices. You a=
re therefore
over and above indulgent to us in speaking of the matter with hesitation.
"I must info=
rm
you that we all are very anxious to hear that you have fully collected the
materials for your second volume, and that you are even considerably advanc=
ed
in the composition of it. I speak this more in the name of my friends than =
in
my own; as I cannot expect to live so long as to see the publication of it.
Your ensuing volume will be more delicate than the preceding, but I trust in
your prudence for extricating you from the difficulties; and, in all events,
you have courage to despise the clamour of bigots. I am, with great regard,
Dear Sir, &c. DAVID HUME."
Some weeks afterw=
ards
I had the melancholy pleasure of seeing Mr. Hume in his passage through Lon=
don;
his body feeble, his mind firm. On Aug. 25 of the same year (1776) he died,=
at
Edinburgh, the death of a philosopher.
My second excursi=
on
to Paris was determined by the pressing invitation of M. and Madame Necker,=
who
had visited England in the preceding summer. On my arrival I found M. Necker
Director-general of the finances, in the first bloom of power and popularit=
y.
His private fortune enabled him to support a liberal establishment, and his
wife, whose talents and virtues I had long admired, was admirably qualified=
to
preside in the conversation of her table and drawing-room. As their friend,=
I
was introduced to the best company of both sexes; to the foreign ministers =
of
all nations, and to the first names and characters of France; who distingui=
shed
me by such marks of civility and kindness, as gratitude will not suffer me =
to
forget, and modesty will not allow me to enumerate. The fashionable suppers
often broke into the morning hours; yet I occasionally consulted the Royal
Library, and that of the Abbey of St. Germain, and in the free use of their
books at home I had always reason to praise the liberality of those
institutions. The society of men of letters I neither courted nor declined;=
but
I was happy in the acquaintance of M. de Buffon, who united with a sublime =
genius
the most amiable simplicity of mind and manners. At the table of my old fri=
end,
M. de Foncemagne, I was involved in a dispute with the Abbe de Mably; and h=
is
jealous irascible spirit revenged itself on a work which he was incapable of
reading in the original.
As I might be par=
tial
in my own cause, I shall transcribe the words of an unknown critic, observi=
ng
only, that this dispute had been preceded by another on the English constit=
ution,
at the house of the Countess de Froulay, an old Jansenist lady.
"Vous etiez =
chez
M. de Foncemagne, mon cher Theodon, le jour que M. l'Abbe de Mably et M. Gi=
bbon
y dinerent en grande compagnie. La conversation roula presque entierement s=
ur
l'histoire. L'Abbe etant un profond politique, la tourna sur l'administrati=
on,
quand on fut au desert: et comme par caractere, par humeur, par l'habitude
d'admirer Tite Live, il ne prise que le systeme republicain, il se mit a va=
nter
l'excellence des republiques; bien persuade que le savant Anglois l'approuv=
eroit
en tout, et admireroit la profondeur de genie qui avoit fait deviner tous c=
es
avantages a un Francois. Mais M. Gibbon, instruit par l'experience des
inconveniens d'un gouvernement populaire, ne fut point du tout de son avis,=
et
il prit genereusement la defense du gouvernement monarchique. L'Abbe voulut=
le
convaincre par Tite Live, et par quelques argumens tires de Plutarque en fa=
veur
des Spartiates. M. Gibbon, doue de la memoire la plus heureuse, et ayant to=
us
les faits presens a la pensee, domina bien-tot la conversation; I'Abbe se
facha, il s'emporta, il dit des choses dures; l'Anglois, conservant le phle=
gme de
son pays, prenoit ses avantages, et pressoit l'Abbe avec d'autant plus de
succes que la colere le troubloit de plus en plus. La conversation
s'echauffoit, et M. de Foncemagne la rompit en se levant de table, et en
passant dans le salon, ou personne ne fut tente de la renouer."--
Supplement de la Maniere d'ecrire l'Histoire, p. 125, &c. [Note: Of the
voluminous writings of the Abbe de Mably, (see his Eloge by the Abbe Brizar=
d,)
the Principes du droit public de l'Europe, and the first part of the Observ.
sur l'Hist. de France, may be deservedly praised; and even the Maniere d'ec=
rire
l'Hist. contains several useful precepts and judicious remarks. Mably was a
lover of virtue and freedom; but his virtue was austere, and his freedom was
impatient of an equal. Kings, magistrates, nobles, and successful writers w=
ere
the objects of his contempt, or hatred, or envy; but his illiberal abuse of
Voltaire, Hume, Buffon, the Abbe Reynal, Dr. Robertson, and tutti quanti ca=
n be
injurious only to himself.]
Nearly two years =
had
elapsed between the publication of my first and the commencement of my seco=
nd
volume; and the causes must be assigned of this long delay. 1. After a short
holiday, I indulged my curiosity in some studies of a very different nature=
, a
course of anatomy, which was demonstrated by Doctor Hunter; and some lesson=
s of
chymistry, which were delivered by Mr. Higgins. The principles of these
sciences, and a taste for books of natural history, contributed to multiply=
my
ideas and images; and the anatomist and chymist may sometimes track me in t=
heir
own snow. 2. I dived, perhaps too deeply, into the mud of the Arian controv=
ersy;
and many days of reading, thinking, and writing were consumed in the pursui=
t of
a phantom. 3. It is difficult to arrange, with order and perspicuity, the
various transactions of the age of Constantine; and so much was I displeased
with the first essay, that I committed to the flames above fifty sheets. 4.=
The
six months of Paris and pleasure must be deducted from the account. But whe=
n I
resumed my task I felt my improvement; I was now master of my style and
subject, and while the measure of my daily performance was enlarged, I
discovered less reason to cancel or correct. It has always been my practice=
to
cast a long paragraph in a single mould, to try it by my ear, to deposit it=
in
my memory, but to suspend the action of the pen till I had given the last
polish to my work. Shall I add, that I never found my mind more vigorous, n=
ot
my composition more happy, than in the winter hurry of society and parliame=
nt?
Had I believed th=
at
the majority of English readers were so fondly attached even to the name and
shadow of Christianity; had I foreseen that the pious, the timid, and the
prudent, would feel, or affect to feel, with such exquisite sensibility; I
might, perhaps, have softened the two invidious chapters, which would create
many enemies, and conciliate few friends. But the shaft was shot, the alarm=
was
sounded, and I could only rejoice, that if the voice of our priests was
clamorous and bitter, their hands were disarmed from the powers of persecut=
ion.
I adhered to the wise resolution of trusting myself and my writings to the =
candour
of the public, till Mr. Davies of Oxford presumed to attack, not the faith,=
but
the fidelity, of the historian. My Vindication, expressive of less anger th=
an
contempt, amused for a moment the busy and idle metropolis; and the most
rational part of the laity, and even of the clergy, appear to have been
satisfied of my innocence and accuracy. I would not print this Vindication =
in
quarto, lest it should be bound and preserved with the history itself. At t=
he
distance of twelve years, I calmly affirm my judgment of Davies, Chelsum,
&c. A victory over such antagonists was a sufficient humiliation. They,
however, were rewarded in this world. Poor Chelsum was indeed neglected; an=
d I
dare not boast the making Dr. Watson a bishop; he is a prelate of a large m=
ind
and liberal spirit: but I enjoyed the pleasure of giving a Royal pension to=
Mr.
Davies, and of collating Dr. Apthorpe to an archiepiscopal living. Their
success encouraged the zeal of Taylor the Arian, [Note: The stupendous titl=
e,
Thoughts on the Causes of the grand Apostacy, at first agitated my nerves, =
till
I discovered that it was the apostacy of the whole church, since the Counci=
l of
Nice, from Mr. Taylor's private religion. His book is a thorough mixture of
high enthusiasm and low buffoonery, and the Millennium is a fundamental art=
icle
of his creed.] and Milner the Methodist, [Note: From his grammar-school at
Kingston upon Hull, Mr. Joseph Milner pronounces an anathema against all
rational religion. His faith is a divine taste, a spiritual inspiration; hi=
s church
is a mystic and invisible body: the natural Christians, such as Mr. Locke, =
who
believe and interpret the Scriptures, are, in his judgment, no better than
profane infidels.] with many others, whom it would be difficult to remember,
and tedious to rehearse. The list of my adversaries, however, was graced wi=
th
the more respectable names of Dr. Priestley, Sir David Dalrymple, and Dr.
White; and every polemic, of either university, discharged his sermon or
pamphlet against the impenetrable silence of the Roman historian. In his
History of the Corruptions of Christianity, Dr. Priestley threw down his two
gauntlets to Bishop Hurd and Mr. Gibbon. I declined the challenge in a lett=
er, exhorting
my opponent to enlighten the world by his philosophical discoveries, and to
remember that the merit of his predecessor Servetus is now reduced to a sin=
gle
passage, which indicates the smaller circulation of the blood through the
lungs, from and to the heart. Instead of listening to this friendly advice,=
the
dauntless philosopher of Birmingham continued to fire away his double batte=
ry
against those who believed too little, and those who believed too much. Fro=
m my
replies he has nothing to hope or fear: but his Socinian shield has repeate=
dly
been pierced by the spear of Horsley, and his trumpet of sedition may at le=
ngth
awaken the magistrates of a free country. The profession and rank of Sir Da=
vid
Dalrymple (now a Lord of Session) has given a more decent colour to his sty=
le. But
he scrutinized each separate passage of the two chapters with the dry
minuteness of a special pleader; and as he was always solicitous to make, he
may have succeeded sometimes in finding, a flaw. In his Annals of Scotland,=
he has
shewn himself a diligent collector and an accurate critic. I have praised, =
and
I still praise, the eloquent sermons which were preached in St. Mary's pulp=
it
at Oxford by Dr. White. If he assaulted me with some degree of illiberal
acrimony, in such a place, and before such an audience, he was obliged to s=
peak
the language of the country. I smiled at a passage in one of his private
letters to Mr. Badcock; "The part where we encounter Gibbon must be
brilliant and striking." In a sermon preached before the university of
Cambridge, Dr. Edwards complimented a work, "which can only perish with
the language itself;" and esteems the author a formidable enemy. He is,
indeed, astonished that more learning and ingenuity has not been shewn in t=
he
defence of Israel; that the prelates and dignitaries of the church (alas, g=
ood
man!) did not vie with each other, whose stone should sink the deepest in t=
he
forehead of this Goliath.
"But the for=
ce
of truth will oblige us to confess, that in the attacks which have been
levelled against our sceptical historian, we can discover but slender trace=
s of
profound and exquisite erudition, of solid criticism and accurate
investigation; but we are too frequently disgusted by vague and inconclusive
reasoning; by unseasonable banter and senseless witticisms; by imbittered
bigotry and enthusiastic jargon; by futile cavils and illiberal invectives.
Proud and elated by the weakness of his antagonists, he condescends not to
handle the sword of controversy."--Monthly Review, Oct. 1790.
Let me frankly own
that I was startled at the first discharge of ecclesiastical ordnance; but =
as
soon as I found that this empty noise was mischievous only in the intention=
, my
fear was converted into indignation; and every feeling of indignation or
curiosity has long since subsided in pure and placid indifference.
The prosecution o=
f my
history was soon afterwards checked by another controversy of a very differ=
ent
kind. At the request of the Lord Chancellor, and of Lord Weymouth, then
Secretary of State, I vindicated, against the French manifesto, the justice=
of
the British arms. The whole correspondence of Lord Stormont, our late
ambassador at Paris, was submitted to my inspection, and the Memoire
Justificatif, which I composed in French, was first approved by the Cabinet
Ministers, and then delivered as a State paper to the courts of Europe. The
style and manner are praised by Beaumarchais himself, who, in his private
quarrel, attempted a reply; but he flatters me, by ascribing the memoir to =
Lord
Stormont; and the grossness of his invective betrays the loss of temper and=
of
wit; he acknowledged, Oeuv. de Beaumarchais, iii. 299, 355, that le style ne
seroit pas sans grace, ni la logique sans justesse, &c. if the facts we=
re
true which he undertakes to disprove. For these facts my credit is not pled=
ged;
I spoke as a lawyer from my brief, but the veracity of Beaumarchais may be
estimated from the assertion that France, by the treaty of Paris (1763) was
limited to a certain number of ships of war. On the application of the Duke=
of
Choiseul, he was obliged to retract this daring falsehood.
Among the honoura=
ble
connections which I had formed, I may justly be proud of the friendship of =
Mr.
Wedderburne, at that time Attorney-General, who now illustrates the title of
Lord Loughborough, and the office of Chief Justice of the Common Pleas. By =
his
strong recommendation, and the favourable disposition of Lord North, I was =
appointed
one of the Lords Commissioners of Trade and Plantations; and my private inc=
ome
was enlarged by a clear addition of between seven and eight hundred pounds
a-year. The fancy of an hostile orator may paint, in the strong colours of
ridicule, "the perpetual virtual adjournment, and the unbroken sitting
vacation of the Board of Trade." [Note: I can never forget the delight
with which that diffusive and ingenious orator, Mr. Burke, was heard by all
sides of the house, and even by those whose existence he proscribed. (Speec=
h on
the Bill of Reform, p. 72-80.) The Lords of Trade blushed at their
insignificancy, and Mr. Eden's appeal to the 2,500 volumes of our Reports,
served only to excite a general laugh. I take this opportunity of certifying
the correctness of Mr. Burke's printed speeches, which I have heard and rea=
d.]
But it must be allowed that our duty was not intolerably severe, and that I
enjoyed many days and weeks of repose, without being called away from my
library to the office. My acceptance of a place provoked some of the leader=
s of
opposition, with whom I had lived in habits of intimacy; and I was most unj=
ustly
accused of deserting a party, in which I had never enlisted.
The aspect of the
next session of parliament was stormy and perilous; county meetings, petiti=
ons,
and committees of correspondence, announced the public discontent; and inst=
ead
of voting with a triumphant majority, the friends of government were often
exposed to a struggle, and sometimes to a defeat. The House of Commons adop=
ted
Mr. Dunning's motion, "That the influence of the Crown had increased, =
was
increasing, and ought to be diminished:" and Mr. Burke's bill of reform
was framed with skill, introduced with eloquence, and supported by numbers.=
Our
late president, the American Secretary of State, very narrowly escaped the
sentence of proscription; but the unfortunate Board of Trade was abolished =
in
the committee by a small majority (207 to 199) of eight votes. The storm,
however, blew over for a time; a large defection of country gentlemen eluded
the sanguine hopes of the patriots: the Lords of Trade were revived;
administration recovered their strength and spirit; and the flames of Londo=
n,
which were kindled by a mischievous madman, admonished all thinking men of =
the
danger of an appeal to the people. In the premature dissolution which follo=
wed
this session of parliament I lost my seat. Mr. Elliot was now deeply engage=
d in
the measures of opposition, and the electors of Leskeard are commonly of th=
e same
opinion as Mr. Elliot.
In this interval =
of
my senatorial life, I published the second and third volumes of the Decline=
and
Fall. My ecclesiastical history still breathed the same spirit of freedom; =
but
protestant zeal is more indifferent to the characters and controversies of =
the
fourth and fifth centuries. My obstinate silence had damped the ardour of t=
he
polemics. Dr. Watson, the most candid of my adversaries, assured me that he=
had
no thoughts of renewing the attack, and my impartial balance of the virtues=
and
vices of Julian was generally praised. This truce was interrupted only by s=
ome
animadversions of the Catholics of Italy, and by some angry letters from Mr.
Travis, who made me personally responsible for condemning, with the best
critics, the spurious text of the three heavenly witnesses.
The piety or prud=
ence
of my Italian translator has provided an antidote against the poison of his
original. The 5th and 7th volumes are armed with five letters from an anony=
mous
divine to his friends, Foothead and Kirk, two English students at Rome: and
this meritorious service is commended by Monsignor Stoner, a prelate of the
same nation, who discovers much venom in the fluid and nervous style of Gib=
bon.
The critical essay at the end of the third volume was furnished by the Abba=
te
Nicola Spedalieri, whose zeal has gradually swelled to a more solid confuta=
tion
in two quarto volumes.--Shall I be excused for not having read them?
The brutal insole=
nce
of Mr. Travis's challenge can only be excused by the absence of learning,
judgment, and humanity; and to that excuse be has the fairest or foulest
pretension. Compared with Archdeacon Travis, Chelsum and Davies assume the =
title
of respectable enemies.
The bigoted advoc=
ate
of popes and monks may be turned over even to the bigots of Oxford; and the
wretched Travis still smarts under the lash of the merciless Porson. I cons=
ider
Mr. Porson's answer to Archdeacon Travis as the most acute and accurate pie=
ce
of criticism which has appeared since the days of Bentley. His strictures a=
re
founded in argument, enriched with learning, and enlivened with wit; and hi=
s adversary
neither deserves nor finds any quarter at his hands. The evidence of the th=
ree
heavenly witnesses would now be rejected in any court of justice: but preju=
dice
is blind, authority is deaf, and our vulgar bibles will ever be polluted by
this spurious text, "sedet aeternumqne sedebit." The more learned
ecclesiastics will indeed have the secret satisfaction of reprobating in the
closet what they read in the church.
I perceived, and
without surprise, the coldness and even prejudice of the town; nor could a
whisper escape my ear, that, in the judgment of many readers, my continuati=
on
was much inferior to the original attempts. An author who cannot ascend will
always appear to sink; envy was now prepared for my reception, and the zeal=
of
my religious, was fortified by the motive of my political, enemies. Bishop
Newton, in writing his own life, was at full liberty to declare how much he=
himself
and two eminent brethren were disgusted by Mr. G.'s prolixity, tediousness,=
and
affectation. But the old man should not have indulged his zeal in a false a=
nd
feeble charge against the historian, who had faithfully and even cautiously
rendered Dr. Burnet's meaning by the alternative of sleep or repose. That
philosophic divine supposes, that, in the period between death and the
resurrection, human souls exist without a body, endowed with internal
consciousness, but destitute of all active or passive connection with the
external world. "Secundum communem dictionem sacrae scripturae, mors
dicitur somnus, et morientes dicuntur abdormire, quod innuere mihi videtur
statum mortis esse statum quietis, silentii, et {Greek expression}." (=
De
Statu Mortuorum, ch. v. p. 98.)
I was however
encouraged by some domestic and foreign testimonies of applause; and the se=
cond
and third volumes insensibly rose in sale and reputation to a level with the
first. But the public is seldom wrong; and I am inclined to believe that,
especially in the beginning, they are more prolix and less entertaining than
the first: my efforts had not been relaxed by success, and I had rather
deviated into the opposite fault of minute and superfluous diligence. On the
Continent, my name and writings were slowly diffused; a French translation =
of
the first volume had disappointed the booksellers of Paris; and a passage in
the third was construed as a personal reflection on the reigning monarch.
[Note: It may not be generally known that Louis XVI. is a great reader, and=
a reader
of English books. On perusing a passage of my History which seems to compare
him to Arcadius or Honorius, he expressed his resentment to the Prince of
B------, from whom the intelligence was conveyed to me. I shall neither
disclaim the allusion, nor examine the likeness; but the situation of the l=
ate
King of France excludes all suspicion of flattery; and I am ready to declare
that the concluding observations of my third volume were written before his
accession to the throne.]
Before I could ap=
ply
for a seat at the general election the list was already full; but Lord Nort=
h's
promise was sincere, his recommendation was effectual, and I was soon chose=
n on
a vacancy for the borough of Lymington, in Hampshire. In the first session =
of
the new parliament, administration stood their ground; their final overthrow
was reserved for the second. The American war had once been the favourite of
the country: the pride of England was irritated by the resistance of her co=
lonies,
and the executive power was driven by national clamour into the most vigoro=
us
and coercive measures. But the length of a fruitless contest, the loss of
armies, the accumulation of debt and taxes, and the hostile confederacy of
France, Spain, and Holland, indisposed the public to the American war, and =
the
persons by whom it was conducted; the representatives of the people, follow=
ed,
at a slow distance, the changes of their opinion; and the ministers who ref=
used
to bend, were broken by the tempest. As soon as Lord North had lost, or was
about to lose, a majority in the House of Commons, he surrendered his offic=
e,
and retired to a private station, with the tranquil assurance of a clear
conscience and a cheerful temper: the old fabric was dissolved, and the pos=
ts of
government were occupied by the victorious and veteran troops of opposition.
The lords of trade were not immediately dismissed, but the board itself was
abolished by Mr. Burke's bill, which decency had compelled the patriots to
revive; and I was stripped of a convenient salary, after having enjoyed it
about three years.
So flexible is the
title of my History, that the final aera might be fixed at my own choice; a=
nd I
long hesitated whether I should be content with the three volumes, the fall=
of
the Western empire, which fulfilled my first engagement with the public. In
this interval of suspense, nearly a twelvemonth, I returned by a natural
impulse to the Greek authors of antiquity; I read with new pleasure the Ili=
ad
and the Odyssey, the Histories of Herodotus, Thucydides, and Xenophon, a la=
rge portion
of the tragic and comic theatre of Athens, and many interesting dialogues of
the Socratic school. Yet in the luxury of freedom I began to wish for the d=
aily
task, the active pursuit, which gave a value to every book, and an object to
every inquiry; the preface of a new edition announced my design, and I drop=
ped
without reluctance from the age of Plato to that of Justinian. The original
texts of Procopius and Agathias supplied the events and even the characters=
of
his reign: but a laborious winter was devoted to the Codes, the Pandects, a=
nd
the modern interpreters, before I presumed to form an abstract of the civil
law. My skill was improved by practice, my diligence perhaps was quickened =
by the
loss of office; and, excepting the last chapter, I had finished the fourth
volume before I sought a retreat on the banks of the Leman Lake.
It is not the pur=
pose
of this narrative to expatiate on the public or secret history of the times:
the schism which followed the death of the Marquis of Rockingham, the
appointment of the Earl of Shelburne, the resignation of Mr. Fox, and his
famous coalition with Lord North. But I may assert, with some degree of
assurance, that in their political conflict those great antagonists had nev=
er
felt any personal animosity to each other, that their reconciliation was ea=
sy
and sincere, and that their friendship has never been clouded by the shadow=
of
suspicion or jealousy. The most violent or venal of their respective follow=
ers embraced
this fair occasion of revolt, but their alliance still commanded a majority=
in
the House of Commons; the peace was censured, Lord Shelburne resigned, and =
the
two friends knelt on the same cushion to take the oath of secretary of stat=
e.
From a principle of gratitude I adhered to the coalition: my vote was count=
ed
in the day of battle, but I was overlooked in the division of the spoil. Th=
ere
were many claimants more deserving and importunate than myself: the board o=
f trade
could not be restored; and, while the list of places was curtailed, the num=
ber
of candidates was doubled. An easy dismission to a secure seat at the board=
of
customs or excise was promised on the first vacancy: but the chance was dis=
tant
and doubtful; nor could I solicit with much ardour an ignoble servitude, wh=
ich
would have robbed me of the most valuable of my studious hours: at the same
time the tumult of London, and the attendance on parliament, were grown more
irksome; and, without some additional income, I could not long or prudently
maintain the style of expence to which I was accustomed.
From my early
acquaintance with Lausanne I had always cherished a secret wish, that the
school of my youth might become the retreat of my declining age. A moderate
fortune would secure the blessings of ease, leisure, and independence: the
country, the people, the manners, the language, were congenial to my taste;=
and
I might indulge the hope of passing some years in the domestic society of a
friend. After travelling with several English, Mr. Deyverdun was now settle=
d at
home, in a pleasant habitation, the gift of his deceased aunt: we had long =
been
separated, we had long been silent; yet in my first letter I exposed, with =
the
most perfect confidence, my situation, my sentiments, and my designs. His
immediate answer was a warm and joyful acceptance: the picture of our future
life provoked my impatience; and the terms of arrangement were short and
simple, as he possessed the property, and I undertook the expence of our co=
mmon
house. Before I could break my English chain, it was incumbent on me to
struggle with the feelings of my heart, the indolence of my temper, and the
opinion of the world, which unanimously condemned this voluntary banishment=
. In
the disposal of my effects, the library, a sacred deposit, was alone except=
ed:
as my post-chaise moved over Westminster-bridge I bid a long farewell to the
"fumum et opes strepitumque Romae." My journey by the direct road=
through
France was not attended with any accident, and I arrived at Lausanne nearly
twenty years after my second departure. Within less than three months the
coalition struck on some hidden rocks: had I remained on board, I should ha=
ve
perished in the general shipwreck.
Since my
establishment at Lausanne, more than seven years have elapsed; and if every=
day
has not been equally soft and serene, not a day, not a moment, has occurred=
in
which I have repented of my choice. During my absence, a long portion of hu=
man
life, many changes had happened: my elder acquaintance had left the stage;
virgins were ripened into matrons, and children were grown to the age of
manhood. But the same manners were transmitted from one generation to anoth=
er:
my friend alone was an inestimable treasure; my name was not totally forgot=
ten,
and all were ambitious to welcome the arrival of a stranger and the return =
of a
fellow-citizen. The first winter was given to a general embrace, without any
nice discrimination of persons and characters. After a more regular settlem=
ent,
a more accurate survey, I discovered three solid and permanent benefits of =
my
new situation. 1. My personal freedom had been somewhat impaired by the Hou=
se
of Commons and the Board of Trade; but I was now delivered from the chain of
duty and dependence, from the hopes and fears of political adventure: my so=
ber
mind was no longer intoxicated by the fumes of party, and I rejoiced in my
escape, as often as I read of the midnight debates which preceded the
dissolution of parliament. 2. My English oeconomy had been that of a solita=
ry
bachelor, who might afford some occasional dinners. In Switzerland I enjoye=
d at
every meal, at every hour, the free and pleasant conversation of the friend=
of
my youth; and my daily table was always provided for the reception of one or
two extraordinary guests. Our importance in society is less a positive than=
a
relative weight: in London I was lost in the crowd; I ranked with the first
families of Lausanne, and my style of prudent expence enabled me to maintai=
n a
fair balance of reciprocal civilities. 3. Instead of a small house between a
street and a stable-yard, I began to occupy a spacious and convenient mansi=
on, connected
on the north side with the city, and open on the south to a beautiful and
boundless horizon. A garden of four acres had been laid out by the taste of=
Mr.
Deyverdun: from the garden a rich scenery of meadows and vineyards descends=
to
the Leman Lake, and the prospect far beyond the Lake is crowned by the
stupendous mountains of Savoy. My books and my acquaintance had been first
united in London; but this happy position of my library in town and country=
was
finally reserved for Lausanne. Possessed of every comfort in this triple
alliance, I could not be tempted to change my habitation with the changes of
the seasons.
My friends had be=
en
kindly apprehensive that I should not be able to exist in a Swiss town at t=
he
foot of the Alps, after having so long conversed with the first men of the
first cities of the world. Such lofty connections may attract the curious, =
and
gratify the vain; but I am too modest, or too proud, to rate my own value by
that of my associates; and whatsoever may be the fame of learning or genius=
, experience
has shown the that the cheaper qualifications of politeness and good sense =
are
of more useful currency in the commerce of life. By many, conversation is
esteemed as a theatre or a school: but, after the morning has been occupied=
by
the labours of the library, I wish to unbend rather than to exercise my min=
d;
and in the interval between tea and supper I am far from disdaining the
innocent amusement of a game at cards. Lausanne is peopled by a numerous
gentry, whose companionable idleness is seldom disturbed by the pursuits of
avarice or ambition: the women, though confined to a domestic education, are
endowed for the most part with more taste and knowledge than their husbands=
and
brothers: but the decent freedom of both sexes is equally remote from the
extremes of simplicity and refinement. I shall add as a misfortune rather t=
han a
merit, that the situation and beauty of the Pays de Vaud, the long habits of
the English, the medical reputation of Dr. Tissot, and the fashion of viewi=
ng
the mountains and Glaciers, have opened us on all sides to the incursions of
foreigners. The visits of Mr. and Madame Necker, of Prince Henry of Prussia,
and of Mr. Fox, may form some pleasing exceptions; but, in general, Lausanne
has appeared most agreeable in my eyes, when we have been abandoned to our =
own
society. I had frequently seen Mr. Necker, in the summer of 1784, at a coun=
try
house near Lausanne, where he composed his Treatise on the Administration of
the Finances. I have since, in October 1790, visited him in his present
residence, the castle and barony of Copet, near Geneva. Of the merits and
measures of that statesman various opinions may be entertained; but all
impartial men must agree in their esteem of his integrity and patriotism.
In August 1784,
Prince Henry of Prussia, in his way to Paris, passed three days at Lausanne.
His military conduct has been praised by professional men; his character has
been vilified by the wit and malice of a daemon (Mem. Secret de la Cour de
Berlin); but I was flattered by his affability, and entertained by his
conversation.
In his tour of
Switzerland (Sept. 1788) Mr. Fox gave me two days of free and private socie=
ty.
He seemed to feel, and even to envy, the happiness of my situation; while I
admired the powers of a superior man, as they are blended in his attractive
character with the softness and simplicity of a child. Perhaps no human bei=
ng
was ever more perfectly exempt from the taint of malevolence, vanity, or
falsehood.
My transmigration
from London to Lausanne could not be effected without interrupting the cour=
se
of my historical labours. The hurry of my departure, the joy of my arrival,=
the
delay of my tools, suspended their progress; and a full twelvemonth was lost
before I could resume the thread of regular and daily industry. A number of
books most requisite and least common had been previously selected; the
academical library of Lausanne, which I could use as my own, contained at l=
east
the fathers and councils; and I have derived some occasional succour from t=
he
public collections of Berne and Geneva. The fourth volume was soon terminat=
ed, by
an abstract of the controversies of the Incarnation, which the learned Dr.
Prideaux was apprehensive of exposing to profane eyes. It had been the orig=
inal
design of the learned Dean Prideaux to write the history of the ruin of the
Eastern Church. In this work it would have been necessary, not only to unra=
vel
all those controversies which the Christians made about the hypostatical un=
ion,
but also to unfold all the niceties and subtle notions which each sect
entertained concerning it. The pious historian was apprehensive of exposing
that incomprehensible mystery to the cavils and objections of unbelievers: =
and
he durst not, "seeing the nature of this book, venture it abroad in so
wanton and lewd an age" (Preface to the Life of Mahomet, p. 10).
In the fifth and
sixth volumes the revolutions of the empire and the world are most rapid,
various, and instructive; and the Greek or Roman historians are checked by =
the
hostile narratives of the barbarians of the East and the West. [Note: I have
followed the judicious precept of the Abbe de Mably, (Maniere d'ecrire l'Hi=
st.,
p. 110,) who advises the historian not to dwell too minutely on the decay of
the eastern empire; but to consider the barbarian conquerors as a more wort=
hy
subject of his narrative. "Fas est et ab hoste doceri."]
It was not till a=
fter
many designs, and many trials, that I preferred, as I still prefer, the met=
hod
of grouping my picture by nations; and the seeming neglect of chronological
order is surely compensated by the superior merits of interest and perspicu=
ity.
The style of the first volume is, in my opinion, somewhat crude and elabora=
te;
in the second and third it is ripened into ease, correctness, and numbers; =
but
in the three last I may have been seduced by the facility of my pen, and th=
e constant
habit of speaking one language and writing another may have infused some
mixture of Gallic idioms. Happily for my eyes, I have always closed my stud=
ies
with the day, and commonly with the morning; and a long, but temperate, lab=
our
has been accomplished, without fatiguing either the mind or body; but when I
computed the remainder of my time and my task, it was apparent that, accord=
ing
to the season of publication, the delay of a month would be productive of t=
hat
of a year. I was now straining for the goal, and in the last winter many
evenings were borrowed from the social pleasures of Lausanne. I could now w=
ish that
a pause, an interval, had been allowed for a serious revisal.
I have presumed to
mark the moment of conception: I shall now commemorate the hour of my final
deliverance. It was on the day, or rather night, of the 27th of June, 1787,
between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last lines of the =
last
page, in a summer house in my garden. After laying down my pen, I took seve=
ral
turns in a berceau, or covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of
the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, the sky wa=
s serene,
the silver orb of the moon was reflected from the waters, and all nature was
silent. I will not dissemble the first emotions of joy on the recovery of my
freedom, and, perhaps, the establishment of my fame. But my pride was soon
humbled, and a sober melancholy was spread over my mind, by the idea that I=
had
taken an everlasting leave of an old and agreeable companion, and that
whatsoever might be the future fate of my History, the life of the historian
must be short and precarious. I will add two facts, which have seldom occur=
red
in the composition of six, or at least of five quartos. 1. My first rough
manuscript, without any intermediate copy, has been sent to the press. 2. N=
ot a
sheet has been seen by any human eyes, excepting those of the author and the
printer: the faults and the merits are exclusively my own.
I cannot help
recollecting a much more extraordinary fact, which is affirmed of himself by
Retif de la Bretorme, a voluminous and original writer of French novels. He
laboured, and may still labour, in the humble office of corrector to a
printing-house; but this office enabled him to transport an entire volume f=
rom
his mind to the press; and his work was given to the public without ever ha=
ving
been written with a pen.
After a quiet
residence of four years, during which I had never moved ten miles from
Lausanne, it was not without some reluctance and terror, that I undertook, =
in a
journey of two hundred leagues, to cross the mountains and the sea. Yet this
formidable adventure was achieved without danger or fatigue; and at the end=
of
a fortnight I found myself in Lord Sheffield's house and library, safe, hap=
py,
and at home. The character of my friend (Mr. Holroyd) had recommended him t=
o a
seat in parliament for Coventry, the command of a regiment of light dragoon=
s, and
an Irish peerage. The sense and spirit of his political writings have decid=
ed
the public opinion on the great questions of our commercial interest with
America and Ireland.
The sale of his
Observations on the American States was diffusive, their effect beneficial;=
the
Navigation Act, the palladium of Britain, was defended, and perhaps saved, =
by
his pen; and he proves, by the weight of fact and argument, that the
mother-country may survive and flourish after the loss of America. My friend
has never cultivated the arts of composition; but his materials are copious=
and
correct, and he leaves on his paper the clear impression of an active and
vigorous mind. His "Observations on the Trade, Manufactures, and prese=
nt
State of Ireland," were intended to guide the industry, to correct the
prejudices, and to assuage the passions of a country which seemed to forget
that she could be free and prosperous only by a friendly connection with Gr=
eat
Britain. The concluding observations are written with so much ease and spir=
it, that
they may be read by those who are the least interested in the subject.
He fell (in 1784)
with the unpopular coalition; but his merit has been acknowledged at the la=
st
general election, 1790, by the honourable invitation and free choice of the
city of Bristol. During the whole time of my residence in England I was
entertained at Sheffield-Place and in Downing-Street by his hospitable
kindness; and the most pleasant period was that which I passed in the domes=
tic
society of the family. In the larger circle of the metropolis I observed the
country and the inhabitants with the knowledge, and without the prejudices,=
of
an Englishman; but I rejoiced in the apparent increase of wealth and prospe=
rity,
which might be fairly divided between the spirit of the nation and the wisd=
om
of the minister. All party-resentment was now lost in oblivion: since I was=
no
man's rival, no man was my enemy. I felt the dignity of independence, and a=
s I
asked no more, I was satisfied with the general civilities of the world. The
house in London which I frequented with most pleasure and assiduity was tha=
t of
Lord North. After the loss of power and of sight, he was still happy in him=
self
and his friends; and my public tribute of gratitude and esteem could no lon=
ger
be suspected of any interested motive. Before my departure from England, I =
was
present at the august spectacle of Mr. Hastings's trial in Westminster Hall=
. It
is not my province to absolve or condemn the Governor of India; but Mr.
Sheridan's eloquence demanded my applause; nor could I hear without emotion=
the
personal compliment which he paid me in the presence of the British nation.=
From this display=
of
genius, which blazed four successive days, I shall stoop to a very mechanic=
al
circumstance. As I was waiting in the managers' box, I had the curiosity to
inquire of the short-hand writer, how many words a ready and rapid orator m=
ight
pronounce in an hour? From 7000 to 7500 was his answer. The medium of 7200 =
will
afford 120 words in a minute, and two words in each second. But this
computation will only apply to the English language.
As the publicatio=
n of
my three last volumes was the principal object, so it was the first care of=
my
English journey. The previous arrangements with the bookseller and the prin=
ter
were settled in my passage through London, and the proofs, which I returned
more correct, were transmitted every post from the press to Sheffield-Place.
The length of the operation, and the leisure of the country, allowed some t=
ime
to review my manuscript. Several rare and useful books, the Assises de
Jerusalem, Ramusius de Bello Constantinopolitano, the Greek Acts of the Syn=
od
of Florence, the Statuta Urbis Romae, &c. were procured, and introduced=
in their
proper places the supplements which they afforded. The impression of the fo=
urth
volume had consumed three months. Our common interest required that we shou=
ld
move with a quicker pace; and Mr. Strahan fulfilled his engagement, which f=
ew
printers could sustain, of delivering every week three thousand copies of n=
ine
sheets. The day of publication was, however, delayed, that it might coincide
with the fifty-first anniversary of my own birthday; the double festival wa=
s celebrated
by a cheerful literary dinner at Mr. Cadell's house; and I seemed to blush
while they read an elegant compliment from Mr. Hayley, whose poetical talen=
ts
had more than once been employed in the praise of his friend. Before Mr. Ha=
yley
inscribed with my name his epistles on history, I was not acquainted with t=
hat
amiable man and elegant poet. He afterwards thanked me in verse for my seco=
nd
and third volumes; and in the summer of 1781, the Roman Eagle, (a proud tit=
le)
accepted the invitation of the English Sparrow, who chirped in the groves of
Eartham, near Chichester. As most of the former purchasers were naturally d=
esirous
of completing their sets, the sale of the quarto edition was quick and easy;
and an octavo size was printed, to satisfy at a cheaper rate the public dem=
and.
The conclusion of my work was generally read, and variously judged. The sty=
le
has been exposed to much academical criticism; a religious clamour was revi=
ved,
and the reproach of indecency has been loudly echoed by the rigid censors of
morals. I never could understand the clamour that has been raised against t=
he
indecency of my three last volumes. 1. An equal degree of freedom in the fo=
rmer
part, especially in the first volume, had passed without reproach. 2. I am
justified in painting the manners of the times; the vices of Theodora form =
an
essential feature in the reign and character of Justinian. 3. My English te=
xt
is chaste, and all licentious passages are left in the obscurity of a learn=
ed
language. Le Latin dans ses mots brave l'honnetete, says the correct Boilea=
u,
in a country and idiom more scrupulous than our own. Yet, upon the whole, t=
he
History of the Decline and Fall seems to have struck root, both at home and
abroad, and may, perhaps, a hundred years hence still continue to be abused=
. I
am less flattered by Mr. Porson's high encomium on the style and spirit of =
my
history, than I am satisfied with his honourable testimony to my attention,
diligence, and accuracy; those humble virtues, which religious zeal had most
audaciously denied. The sweetness of his praise is tempered by a reasonable
mixture of acid. As the book may not be common in England, I shall transcri=
be
my own character from the Bibliotheca Historica of Meuselius, a learned and
laborious German. "Summis aevi nostri historicis Gibbonus sine dubio
adnumerandus est. Inter capitolii ruinas stans primum hujus operis scribendi
concilium cepit. Florentissimos vitae annos colligendo et laborando eidem i=
mpendit.
Enatum inde monumentum aere perennius, licet passim appareant sinistre dict=
a,
minus perfecta, veritati non satis consentanea. Videmus quidem ubique fere
studium scrutandi veritatemque scribendi maximum: tamen sine Tillemontio du=
ce
ubi scilicet hujus historia finitur saepius noster titubat atque hallucinat=
ur.
Quod vel maxime fit ubi de rebus Ecclesiasticis vel de juris prudentia Roma=
na
(tom. iv.) tradit, et in aliis locis. Attamen naevi hujus generis haud
impediunt quo minus operis summam et {Greek} praedare dispositam, delectum
rerum sapientissimum, argutum quoque interdum, dictionemque seu stylum
historico aeque ac philosopho dignissimum, et vix a quoque alio Anglo, Humi=
o ac
Robertsono haud exceptis (praereptum?) vehementer laudemus, atque saeculo
nostro de hujusmodi historia gratulemur. .... Gibbonus adversaries cum in t=
um extra
patriam nactus est, quia propogationem religionis Christianae, non, tit vul=
go,
fieri solet, cut more Theologorum, sed ut Historicum et Philosophum decet,
exposuerat."
The French, Itali=
an,
and German translations have been executed with various success; but, inste=
ad
of patronizing, I should willingly suppress such imperfect copies, which in=
jure
the character, while they propagate the name of the author. The first volume
had been feebly, though faithfully, translated into French by M. Le Clerc de
Septchenes, a young gentleman of a studious character and liberal fortune.
After his decease the work was continued by two manufacturers of Paris, M. =
M. Desmuniers
and Cantwell: but the former is now an active member in the national assemb=
ly,
and the undertaking languishes in the hands of his associate. The superior
merit of the interpreter, or his language, inclines me to prefer the Italian
version: but I wish that it were in my power to read the German, which is
praised by the best judges. The Irish pirates are at once my friends and my
enemies, But I cannot be displeased with the too numerous and correct
impressions which have been published for the use of the continent at Basil=
in
Switzerland. [Note: Of their 14 8vo. vols. the two last include the whole b=
ody
of the notes. The public importunity had forced me to remove them from the =
end
of the volume to the bottom of the page; but I have often repented of my
compliance.] The conquests of our language and literature are not confined =
to
Europe alone, and a writer who succeeds in London, is speedily read on the
banks of the Delaware and the Ganges.
In the preface of=
the
fourth volume, while I gloried in the name of an Englishman, I announced my
approaching return to the neighbourhood of the Lake of Lausanne. This last
trial confirmed my assurance that I had wisely chosen for my own happiness;=
nor
did I once, in a year's visit, entertain a wish of settling in my native
country. Britain is the free and fortunate island; but where is the spot in
which I could unite the comforts and beauties of my establishment at Lausan=
ne?
The tumult of London astonished my eyes and ears; the amusements of public
places were no longer adequate to the trouble; the clubs and assemblies were
filled with new faces and young men; and our best society, our long and lat=
e dinners,
would soon have been prejudicial to my health. Without any share in the
political wheel, I must be idle and insignificant: yet the most splendid
temptations would not have enticed me to engage a second time in the servit=
ude
of Parliament or office. At Tunbridge, some weeks after the publication of =
my
History, I reluctantly quitted Lord and Lady Sheffield, and, with a young S=
wiss
friend, M. Wilhelm. de Severy, whom I had introduced to the English world, I
pursued the road of Dover and Lausanne. My habitation was embellished in my
absence, and the last division of books, which followed my steps, increased=
my
chosen library to the number of between six and seven thousand volumes. My =
seraglio
was ample, my choice was free, my appetite was keen. After a full repast on=
Homer
and Aristophanes, I involved myself in the philosophic maze of the writings=
of
Plato, of which the dramatic is, perhaps, more interesting than the
argumentative part: but I stepped aside into every path of inquiry which
reading or reflection accidentally opened.
Alas! the joy of =
my
return, and my studious ardour, were soon damped by the melancholy state of=
my
friend Mr. Deyverdun. His health and spirits had long suffered a gradual
decline, a succession of apoplectic fits announced his dissolution; and bef=
ore
he expired, those who loved him could not wish for the continuance of his l=
ife.
The voice of reason might congratulate his deliverance, but the feelings of
nature and friendship could be subdued only by time: his amiable character =
was still
alive in my remembrance; each room, each walk, was imprinted with our common
footsteps; and I should blush at my own philosophy, if a long interval of s=
tudy
had not preceded and followed the death of my friend. By his last will he l=
eft
to me the option of purchasing his house and garden, or of possessing them
during my life, on the payment either of a stipulated price, or of an easy
retribution to his kinsman and heir. I should probably have been tempted by=
the
daemon of property, if some legal difficulties had not been started against=
my
title; a contest would have been vexatious, doubtful, and invidious; and the
heir most gratefully subscribed an agreement, which rendered my life-posses=
sion
more perfect, and his future condition more advantageous. Yet I had often
revolved the judicious lines in which Pope answers the objections of his
longsighted friend:
=
Pity to build without or child or wife; =
Why,
you'll enjoy it only all your life =
Well,
if the use be mine, does it concern one, =
Whether
the name belong to Pope or Vernon?
The certainty of =
my
tenure has allowed me to lay out a considerable sum in improvements and
alterations: they have been executed with skill and taste; and few men of
letters, perhaps, in Europe, are so desirably lodged as myself. But I feel,=
and
with the decline of years I shall more painfully feel, that I am alone in
Paradise. Among the circle of my acquaintance at Lausanne, I have gradually
acquired the solid and tender friendship of a respectable family, the famil=
y of
de Severy: the four persons of whom it is composed are all endowed with the
virtues best adapted to their age and situation; and I am encouraged to love
the parents as a brother, and the children as a father. Every day we seek a=
nd
find the opportunities of meeting: yet even this valuable connection cannot
supply the loss of domestic society.
Within the last t=
wo
or three years our tranquillity has been clouded by the disorders of France:
many families at Lausanne were alarmed and affected by the terrors of an
impending bankruptcy; but the revolution, or rather the dissolution of the
kingdom has been heard and felt in the adjacent lands.
I beg leave to
subscribe my assent to Mr. Burke's creed on the revolution of France. I adm=
ire
his eloquence, I approve his politics, I adore his chivalry, and I can almo=
st
excuse his reverence for church establishments. I have sometimes thought of
writing a dialogue of the dead, in which Lucian, Erasmus, and Voltaire shou=
ld
mutually acknowledge the danger of exposing an old superstition to the cont=
empt
of the blind and fanatic multitude.
A swarm of emigra=
nts
of both sexes, who escaped from the public ruin, has been attracted by the
vicinity, the manners, and the language of Lausanne; and our narrow habitat=
ions
in town and country are now occupied by the first names and titles of the
departed monarchy. These noble fugitives are entitled to our pity; they may
claim our esteem, but they cannot, in their present state of mind and fortu=
ne,
much contribute to our amusement. Instead of looking down as calm and idle
spectators on the theatre of Europe, our domestic harmony is somewhat
embittered by the infusion of party spirit: our ladies and gentlemen assume=
the
character of self-taught politicians; and the sober dictates of wisdom and
experience are silenced by the clamour of the triumphant democrates. The
fanatic missionaries of sedition have scattered the seeds of discontent in =
our
cities and villages, which had flourished above two hundred and fifty years
without fearing the approach of war, or feeling the weight of government. M=
any
individuals, and some communities, appear to be infested with the Gallic
phrenzy, the wild theories of equal and boundless freedom; but I trust that=
the
body of the people will be faithful to their sovereign and to themselves; a=
nd I
am satisfied that the failure or success of a revolt would equally terminat=
e in
the ruin of the country. While the aristocracy of Berne protects the happin=
ess,
it is superfluous to enquire whether it be founded in the rights of man: the
oeconomy of the state is liberally supplied without the aid of taxes; and t=
he
magistrates must reign with prudence and equity, since they are unarmed in =
the
midst of an armed nation.
The revenue of Be=
rne,
excepting some small duties, is derived from church lands, tithes, feudal
rights, and interest of money. The republic has nearly 500,000 pounds sterl=
ing
in the English funds, and the amount of their treasure is unknown to the
citizens themselves. For myself (may the omen be averted) I can only declar=
e,
that the first stroke of a rebel drum would be the signal of my immediate
departure.
When I contemplate
the common lot of mortality, I must acknowledge that I have drawn a high pr=
ize
in the lottery of life. The far greater part of the globe is overspread with
barbarism or slavery: in the civilized world, the most numerous class is
condemned to ignorance and poverty; and the double fortune of my birth in a
free and enlightened country, in an honourable and wealthy family, is the l=
ucky
chance of an unit against millions. The general probability is about three =
to
one, that a new-born infant will not live to complete his fiftieth year. [N=
ote:
Buffon, Supplement a l'Hist. naturelle, vii. p, 158-164, of a given number =
of
new-born infants, one half, by the fault of nature or man, is extinguished
before the age of puberty and reason,--a melancholy calculation!] I have now
passed that age, and may fairly estimate the present value of my existence =
in
the three-fold division of mind, body, and estate.
1. The first and
indispensable requisite of happiness is a clear conscience, unsullied by the
reproach or remembrance of an unworthy action.
=
--Hic murus aheneus esto, =
Nil
conscire sibi, nulla pallescere culpa.
I am endowed with=
a
cheerful temper, a moderate sensibility, and a natural disposition to repose
rather than to activity: some mischievous appetites and habits have perhaps
been corrected by philosophy or time. The love of study, a passion which
derives fresh vigour from enjoyment, supplies each day, each hour, with a
perpetual source of independent and rational pleasure; and I am not sensibl=
e of
any decay of the mental faculties. The original soil has been highly improv=
ed
by cultivation; but it may be questioned, whether some flowers of fancy, so=
me
grateful errors, have not been eradicated with the weeds of prejudice. 2. S=
ince
I have escaped from the long perils of my childhood, the serious advice of a
physician has seldom been requisite. "The madness of superfluous healt=
h"
I have never known; but my tender constitution has been fortified by time, =
and
the inestimable gift of the sound and peaceful slumbers of infancy may be
imputed both to the mind and body. 3. I have already described the merits o=
f my
society and situation; but these enjoyments would be tasteless or bitter if
their possession were not assured by an annual and adequate supply. Accordi=
ng
to the scale of Switzerland, I am a rich man; and I am indeed rich, since my
income is superior to my expence, and my expence is equal to my wishes. My
friend Lord Sheffield has kindly relieved me from the cares to which my tas=
te and
temper are most adverse: shall I add, that since the failure of my first
wishes, I have never entertained any serious thoughts of a matrimonial
connection?
I am disgusted wi= th the affectation of men of letters, who complain that they have renounced a substance for a shadow; and that their fame (which sometimes is no insupportable weight) affords a poor compensation for envy, censure, and persecution. [Note: M. d'Alembert relates, that as he was walking in the gardens of Sans Souci with the King of Prussia, Frederic said to him, "= ;Do you see that old woman, a poor weeder, asleep on that sunny bank? she is probably a more happy being than either of us." The king and the philosopher may speak for themselves; for my part I do not envy the old wom= an.] My own experience, at least, has taught me a very different lesson: twenty happy years have been animated by the labour of my History; and its success= has given me a name, a rank, a character, in the world, to which I should not otherwise have been entitled. The freedom of my writings has indeed provoke= d an implacable tribe; but, as I was safe from the stings, I was soon accustomed= to the buzzing of the hornets: my nerves are not tremblingly alive, and my literary temper is so happily framed, that I am less sensible of pain than of pleasu= re. The rational pride of an author may be offended, rather than flattered, by vague indiscriminate praise; but he cannot, he should not, be indifferent to the fair testimonies of private and public esteem. Even his moral sympathy = may be gratified by the idea, that now, in the present hour, he is imparting so= me degree of amusement or knowledge to his friends in a distant land: that one= day his mind will be familiar to the grand-children of those who are yet unborn= . I cannot boast of the friendship or favour of princes; the patronage of Engli= sh literature has long since been devolved on our booksellers, and the measure of their liberality is the least ambiguous test of our common success. Perhaps the golden mediocrity of my fortune has contributed to fortify my application.<= o:p>
The present is a
fleeting moment, the past is no more; and our prospect of futurity is dark =
and
doubtful. This day may possibly be my last: but the laws of probability, so
true in general, so fallacious in particular, still allow about fifteen yea=
rs.
[Mr. Buffon, from our disregard of the possibility of death within the four=
and
twenty hours, concludes that a chance, which falls below or rises above ten
thousand to one, will never affect the hopes or fears of a reasonable man. =
The fact
is true, but our courage is the effect of thoughtlessness, rather than of
reflection. If a public lottery were drawn for, the choice of an immediate
victim, and if our name were inscribed on ore of the ten thousand tickets,
should we be perfectly easy?] I shall soon enter into the period which, as =
the
most agreeable of my long life, was selected by the judgment and experience=
of
the sage Fontenelle. His choice is approved by the eloquent historian of
nature, who fixes our moral happiness to the mature season in which our
passions are supposed to be calmed, our duties fulfilled, our ambition
satisfied, our fame and fortune established on a solid basis (see Buffon). =
In
private conversation, that great and amiable man added the weight of his ow=
n experience;
and this autumnal felicity might be exemplified in the lives of Voltaire, H=
ume,
and many other men of letters. I am far more inclined to embrace than to
dispute this comfortable doctrine. I will not suppose any premature decay of
the mind or body; but I must reluctantly observe that two causes, the
abbreviation of time, and the failure of hope, will always tinge with a bro=
wner
shade the evening of life.
[POSTSCRIPT by Lord Sheffield] WHEN=
I
first undertook to prepare Mr. Gibbon's Memoirs for the Press, I supposed t=
hat
it would be necessary to introduce some continuation of them, from the time
when they cease, namely, soon after his return to Switzerland in the year 1=
788;
but the examination of his correspondence with me suggested, that the best =
continuation
would be the publication of his letters from that time to his death. I shall
thus give more satisfaction, by employing the language of Mr. Gibbon, inste=
ad
of my own; and the public will see him in a new and (I think) an admirable
light, as a writer of letters. By the insertion of a few occasional sentenc=
es,
I shall obviate the disadvantages that are apt to arise from an interrupted
narration. A prejudiced or a fastidious critic may condemn, perhaps, some p=
arts
of the letters as trivial; but many readers, I flatter myself, will be
gratified by discovering even in these my friend's affectionate feelings, a=
nd
his character in familiar life. His letters in general bear a strong
resemblance to the style and turn of his conversation; the characteristics =
of
which were vivacity, elegance, and precision, with knowledge astonishingly
extensive and correct. He never ceased to be instructive and entertaining; =
and
in general there was a vein of pleasantry in his conversation which prevent=
ed
its becoming languid, even during a residence of many months with a family =
in
the country.
It has been suppo=
sed
that he always arranged what he intended to say, before he spoke; his quick=
ness
in conversation contradicts this notion: but it is very true, that before he
sat down to write a note or letter, he completely arranged in his mind what=
he
meant to express. He pursued the same method in respect to other compositio=
n;
and he occasionally would walk several times about his apartment before he =
had
rounded a period to his taste. He has pleasantly remarked to me, that it so=
metimes
cost him many a turn before he could throw a sentiment into a form that gra=
tified
his own criticism. His systematic habit of arrangement in point of style,
assisted, in his instance, by an excellent memory and correct judgment, is =
much
to be recommended to those who aspire to any perfection in writing.
Although the Memo=
irs
extend beyond the time of Mr. Gibbon's return to Lausanne, I shall insert a=
few
Letters, written immediately after his arrival there, and combine them so f=
ar
as to include even the last note which he wrote a few days previously to his
death. Some of them contain few incidents; but they connect and carry on the
account either of his opinions or of his employment.