MEMOIRS OF MY LIFE AND WRITINGS.

IN the fifty-ſecond year of my age, after the completion of an arduous and ſucceſsful work, I now 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 this 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 till the author ſhall be removed beyond the reach of criticiſm or ridicule^*.

[2] A lively deſire of knowing and of recording our anceſtors ſo gene⯑rally prevails, that it muſt depend on the influence of ſome common principle in the minds of men. We ſeem to have lived in the per⯑ſons of our forefathers; it is the labour and reward of vanity to ex⯑tend 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 forwards beyond death with ſuch hopes as religion and philo⯑ſophy 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 antient and worthy race. The ſatyriſt may laugh, the philoſopher may preach; but Reaſon herſelf will reſpect the pre⯑judices 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 diſhonour by their own and the public eſteem. If we read of ſome illuſtrious line ſo antient that it has no beginning, ſo worthy that it ought to have no end, we ſym⯑pathize in its various fortunes; nor can we blame the generous en⯑thuſiaſm, or even the harmleſs vanity, of thoſe who are allied to the honours of its name. For my own part, could I draw my pedi⯑gree from a general, a ſtateſman, or a celebrated author, I ſhould ſtudy their lives with the diligence of filial love. In the inveſtiga⯑tion of paſt events, our curioſity is ſtimulated by the 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 [3] or delight the lateſt poſterity. The family of Confucius is, in my opinion, the moſt illuſtrious in the world. After 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 the em⯑pire of China, the poſterity of Confucius have maintained, above two thouſand two hundred years, their peaceful honours and perpetual ſucceſſion. The chief of the family is ſtill revered, by the ſovereign and the people, as the lively image of the wiſeſt of mankind. The nobility of the Spencers has been illuſtrated and enriched by the tro⯑phies of Marlborough; but I exhort them to conſider the Fairy Queen as the moſt precious jewel of their coronet. I have expoſed my pri⯑vate feelings, as I ſhall always do, without ſcruple or reſerve. That theſe ſentiments are juſt, or at leaſt natural, I am inclined 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 judge, however, from the ex⯑perience both of paſt and of the preſent times, that the public are always curious to know the men, who have left behind them any image 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 Biographia Britannica; 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 antients 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 [4] be ſincere, we ſeldom complain of the minuteneſs or prolixity of theſe perſonal memorials. The lives of the younger Pliny, of Pe⯑trarch, and of Eraſmus, are expreſſed in the epiſtles, which they themſelves have given to the world. The eſſays of Montagne and Sir William Temple bring 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 con⯑feſſions of St. Auſtin and Rouſſeau diſcloſe the ſecrets of the human heart: the commentaries of the learned Huet have ſurvived his evan⯑gelical 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 effects 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 foreſt 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; and 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 Mar⯑morarius or architect of King Edward the Third: the ſtrong and ſtately caſtle of Queenſborough, which guarded the entrance of the Medway, was a monument of his ſkill; and the grant of an here⯑ditary toll on the paſſage from Sandwich to Stonar, in the Iſle of [5] Thanet, is the reward of no vulgar artiſt. In the viſitations of the heralds, the Gibbons are frequently mentioned: they held the rank of Eſquire in an age, when that title was leſs promiſcuouſly aſſumed: one of them, under the reign of Queen Elizabeth, was captain of the militia of Kent; and a free ſchool, in the neighbouring town of Be⯑nenden, proclaims the charity and opulence of its founder. But time, or their own obſcurity, has caſt a veil of oblivion over the virtues and vices 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—

So recent is the inſtitution of our pariſh regiſters. In the beginning of the ſeventeenth century, a younger branch of the Gibbons of Rol⯑venden migrated from the country to the city; and from this branch I do not bluſh to deſcend. The law requires 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. Our moſt reſpectable families have not diſ⯑dained the counting-houſe, or even the ſhop; their names are in⯑rolled in the Livery and Companies of London; and in England, as well as in the Italian commonwealths, heralds have been com⯑pelled to declare, that gentility is not degraded by the exerciſe of trade.

The armorial enſigns which, in the times of chivalry, adorned the creſt and ſhield of the ſoldier, are now become an empty decoration, which every man, who has money to build a carriage, may paint ac⯑cording to his fancy on the pannels. My family arms are the ſame, which were borne by the Gibbons of Kent in an age, when the College of Heralds religiouſly guarded the diſtinctions of blood and [6] 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 mode 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 proper and heredi⯑tary place.

Our alliances by marriage it is not diſgraceful to mention. The chief honour of my anceſtry is James Fiens, Baron Say and Seale, 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 be⯑headed (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 tyrant. 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 traiterouſly 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 cauſed printing to be uſed; and, [7] 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 abo⯑minable words, as no chriſtian ear can endure to hear.’ Our dra⯑matic 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 Rol⯑venden 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 produced 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 character, and his family. He was born on the 3d of November in the year 1629; his education was liberal, at a grammar-ſchool, and afterwards in Jeſus College at Cambridge; and he celebrates the retired content which he enjoyed at Alleſborough in Worceſterſhire, in the houſe of Thomas Lord Co⯑ventry, 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 the 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 [8] gratification at a war-dance of the native Indians. As they moved in meaſured ſteps, brandiſhing their tomahawks, his curious eye con⯑templated their little ſhields of bark, and their naked bodies, which were painted with the colours and ſymbols of his favourite ſcience. ‘At which I exceedingly wondered; and concluded that heraldry was ingrafted naturally into the ſenſe of human race. If ſo, it deſerves a greater eſteem than now-a-days is put upon it.’ His return to England after the Reſtoration was ſoon followed by his marraige—his ſettlement in a houſe in St. Catherine's Cloyſter, near the Tower, which devolved to my grandfather—and his introduc⯑tion 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 uniting, 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 cha⯑racters of the age, Sir William Dugdale, Mr. Aſhmole, Dr. John 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 aſtrological 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 deteſted; 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 at London his Introductio ad Latinam Blafoniam, an original attempt, [9] which Camden had deſiderated, to define, in a Roman idiom, the terms and attributes of a Gothic 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 proper ſtation of Librarian to the Ducal Library of Wolfen⯑buttel, he accidentally found among 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 might 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 ab⯑ſurd, he is never languid. An Engliſh text is perpetually inter⯑ſperſed with Latin ſentences in proſe and verſe; but in his own poetry he claims an exemption from the laws of proſody. Amidſt a profuſion of genealogical knowledge, my kinſman could not be for⯑getful 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 (a duodecimo of one hundred and ſixty-five pages) the author expected immortal fame: and at the concluſion of his labour he ſings, in a ſtrain of ſelf-exultation;

Such are the hopes 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 brother Matthew Gibbon, the [10] draper, had one daughter and two ſons—my grandfather Edward, who was born in the year 1666, and Thomas, afterwards Dean of Carliſle. According to the mercantile creed, that the beſt book is a profitable ledger, the writings of John the herald would be much leſs precious, than thoſe of his 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 only, 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 per⯑haps at a cheaper rate, 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 ſecond huſband was a widower, of the name of Acton: they united the children of their 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 Aldenham; and I am thus connected, by a triple alliance, with that ancient and loyal family of Shropſhire ba⯑ronets. It conſiſted about that time of ſeven brothers, all of gigan⯑tic ſtature; one of whom, a pigmy of ſix feet two inches, confeſſed himſelf the laſt and leaſt of the ſeven; adding, in the true ſpirit of party, that ſuch men were not born ſince the Revolution. Under the Tory adminiſtration of the four laſt years of Queen Anne (1710—1714) Mr. Edward Gibbon was appointed one of the Com⯑miſſioners 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 with a man, who more clearly underſtood the commerce and finances of England. In the year 1716 he was elected one of the Directors of the South Sea Company; and his books exhibited the proof that, [11] before his acceptance of this fatal office, he had acquired an inde⯑pendent fortune of ſixty thouſand pounds.

But his fortune was 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 inno⯑cence of my grandfather and his brother Directors, 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 odious. No ſooner had the nation awakened from its golden dream, than a popular and even a parliamentary clamour demanded their victims: but it was acknolwedged on all ſides that the South Sea Directors, however guilty, could not be touched by any known laws of the lands. The ſpeech of Lord Moleſworth, the author of the State of Denmark, may ſhew the temper, or rather the intemperance, of the Houſe of Commons. ‘Extraordinary crimes (exclaimed that ardent Whig) call aloud for extraordinary remedies. The Roman lawgivers had not foreſeen the poſſible exiſtence of a parricide: but as ſoon as the firſt monſter appeared, he was ſown 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 motion was not literally adopted; but a bill of pains and penalties was intro⯑duced, 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 only by the moſt imperious neceſ⯑ſity; nor could it be defended on this occaſion by the plea of impend⯑ing danger or uſeful example. The legiſlature reſtrained the perſons of the Directors, impoſed an exorbitant ſecurity for their appearance, and marked their characters with a previous note of ignominy: they were compelled 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 [12] 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 op⯑preſſors, 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 urged, 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 Eng⯑liſhmen were made the topic of haſty converſation, the ſport of a lawleſs majority; and the baſeſt member of the committee, by a ma⯑licious word or a ſilent vote, might indulge his general ſpleen or per⯑ſonal animoſity. Injury was aggravated by inſult, and inſult was em⯑bittered by pleaſantry. Allowances of twenty pounds, or one ſhilling, were facetiouſly moved. A vague report that a Director had for⯑merly been concerned in another project, by which ſome unknown perſons had loſt their money, was admitted as a proof of his actual guilt. One man was ruined becauſe he had dropt a fooliſh ſpeech, that his horſes ſhould 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 un⯑heard, in arbitrary fines and forfeitures, which ſwept away the greateſt part of their ſubſtance. Such bold oppreſſion can ſcarcely be ſhielded by the omnipotence of parliament: and yet it may be 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 thre years: the term had elapſed, their truſt was expired; and the four additional years (1718—1722), during which they continued to ſit, were de⯑rived not from the people, but from themſelves; from the ſtrong meaſure of the ſeptennial bill, which can only be paralleled by il ſerar [13] di conſiglio of the Venetian hiſtory. Yet candour will own that to the ſame parliament every Engliſhman is deeply indebted: the ſeptennial act, ſo vicious 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 its 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 reported in a ſuſ⯑picious ſecret; and his well-known abilities could not plead the ex⯑cuſe of ignorance or error. In the firſt proceedings againſt the South Sea Directors, 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 one hundred and ſix thouſand five hundred and forty-three pounds five ſhillings and ſix⯑pence, excluſive of antecedent ſettlements. Two different allow⯑ances of fifteen and of ten thouſand pounds were moved for Mr. Gibbon; but, on the queſtion being put, it was carried without a diviſion for the ſmaller ſum. On theſe ruins, with the ſkill and credit, of which parliament 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 houſe^*, with gardens and lands, at Putney, in Surry, where he reſided in decent hoſpitality. He died in December 1736, [14] at the age of ſeventy; and by his laſt will, at the expence of Edward, his only ſon, (with whoſe marriage he was not perfectly reconciled,) enriched his two daughters, Catherine and Heſter. The former became the wife of Mr. Edward Elliſton, an Eaſt India captain: their daugh⯑ter and heireſs Catherine was married in the year 1756 to Edward Eliot eſq. (now 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 celibacy was the choice of my aunt, Mrs. Heſter Gibbon, who, at the age of eighty-five, ſtill reſides in a her⯑mitage at Cliffe, in Northamptonſhire; having long ſurvived her ſpiritual guide and faithful companion Mr. William Law, who, at 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 profeſſed, and practiſed all that he enjoined. The character of a nonjuror, which he maintained to the laſt, is a ſufficient evidence of his principles in church and ſtate; and the ſa⯑crifice of intereſt to conſicence will be always reſpectable. His the⯑ological writings, which our domeſtic connection has tempted me to peruſe, preſerve an imperfect ſort of life, and I can pronounce 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-entertainments is ſometimes quoted for a ridiculous intempe⯑rance of ſentiment and language.—‘The actors and ſpectators muſt all be damned: the playhouſe 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 phrenſy muſt not extinguiſh the praiſe, which is due to Mr. William Law as a wit and a ſcholar. His argument on topics of leſs abſurdity is ſpecious and acute, his manner is lively, his ſtyle forcible and clear; and, had not his vigorous mind been [15] clouded by enthuſiaſm, he might be ranked with the moſt agreeable and ingenious writers of the times. While the Bangorian controverſy was a faſhionable theme, he entered the liſts on the ſubject of Chriſt's kingdom, and the authority of the prieſthood: againſt the plain ac⯑count of the ſacrament of the Lord's Supper he reſumed the com⯑bat with Biſhop Hoadley, the object of Whig idolatry, and Tory ab⯑horrence; and at every weapon of attack and defence the nonjuror, on the ground which 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 ap⯑plauſe. Mr. Law's maſter-work, the Serious Call, is ſtill read as a popular and powerful book of devotion. His precepts are rigid, but they are founded on the goſpel: his ſatire is ſharp, but it is drawn from 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 will ſoon kindle it to a flame; and a philoſopher muſt allow that he expoſes, with equal ſeverity and truth, the ſtrange contradiction between the faith and practice of the Chriſ⯑tian world. Under the names of Flavia and Miranda he has ad⯑mirably deſcribed my two aunts—the heathen and the chriſtian ſiſter.

My father, Edward Gibbon, was born in October 1707: at the age of thriteen he could ſcarcely feel that he was diſinherited by act of parliament; and, as he advanced towards 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 conſcious in himſelf: my grandfather's knowledge was derived from a ſtrong under⯑ſtanding, and the experience of the ways of men; but my father enjoyed the benefits of a liberal education as a ſcholar and a gentle⯑man. At Weſtminſter School, and afterwards at Emanuel College in Cambridge, he paſſed through a regular courſe of academical diſ⯑cipline; [16] and the care of his leanring and morals was entruſted to his private tutor, the ſame Mr. William Law. But the mind of a ſaint is above or below the preſent world; and while the pupil proceeded on his travels, the tutor remained at Putney, the much-honoured friend and ſpiritual director of the whole family. My father reſided ſome time 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 gained of the French language, was gradually obliterated. His paſſage through Beſançon is marked by a ſingular conſequence in the chain of human events. In a dangerous illneſs Mr. Gibbon was at⯑tended, 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 pa⯑tient, the phyſician himſelf was attacked by the malady of love: he married his miſtreſs, renounced his country and religion, ſettled at Beſançon, and became the father of three 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 Tuſcan frigates protected the retreat of the Spaniards from Al⯑giers. 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 grandfather 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 [17] many a bottle. Without acquiring the fame of an orator or a ſtateſ⯑man, he eagerly joined in the great oppoſition, which, after 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 family in the South Sea perſecution.

I was born at Putney, in the county of Surry, the 27th of April, 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^*. 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 found 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 ſiſter, whoſe life was ſomewhat prolonged, and whom I remember to have ſeen an amiable infant. The relation of a brother and a ſiſter, eſpe⯑cially 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, but pure from any mixture of ſenſual deſire, the ſole ſpecies of Platonic love that can be indulged with truth, and without danger.

[18] At the general election of 1741, Mr. Gibbon and Mr. Delmé ſtood an expenſive and ſucceſsful conteſt at Southampton, againſt Mr. Dum⯑mer and Mr. Henly, afterwards Lord Chancellor and Earl of North⯑ington. The Whig candidates had a majority of the 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 ſupply 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 Walpole perceived that he could no longer lead a majority in the Houſe of Commons, and pru⯑dently 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 millenium of happineſs and virtue: ſome courtiers loſt their places, ſome pa⯑triots loſt their characters, Lord Orford'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 does 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 bulk 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 oppoſi⯑tion. 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 his 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.

[19] 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 ac⯑cuſing the profuſe waſte or imperfect workmanſhiop 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 pru⯑dence ſucceſſively repeated my chriſtian name of Edward, that, in caſe of the departure of the eldeſt ſon, this patronymick 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; and my mother's attention was ſomewhat diverted by her frequent pregnancies, by an excluſive paſſion for her huſband, and by the diſſipation of the world, in which his taſte and authority obliged her to mingle. But the maternal office was ſupplied by my aunt, Mrs. Catherine Porten; at whoſe name I feel a tear of grati⯑tude 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 rejoice that I live, to that dear and excellent woman they muſt hold themſelves indebted. 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 bed-ſide in trembling expectation that each hour would be my laſt. Of the various and frequent diſorders of my childhood my own recollection is dark; nor do I wiſh to expatiate on ſo diſ⯑guſting a topic. Suffice it to ſay, that while every practitioner, from Sloane and Ward to the Chevalier Taylor, was ſucceſſively ſum⯑moned to torture or relieve me, the care of my mind was too fre⯑quently neglected for that of my health: compaſſion always ſuggeſted [20] an excuſe for the indulgence of the maſter, or the idleneſs of the pupil; and the chain of my education was broken, as often as I was recalled from the ſchool of learning to the bed of ſickneſs.

As ſoon as the uſe 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 di⯑vide, by memory alone, two ſums of ſeveral figures: ſuch praiſe en⯑couraged my growing talent; and had I perſevered in this line of application, I might have acquired ſome fame in mathematical ſtudies.

After this previous inſtitution at home, or at a day-ſchool at Put⯑ney, I was delivered at the age of ſeven into the hands of Mr. John Kirkby, who exerciſed about eighteen months the office of my do⯑meſtic tutor. His own words, which I ſhall here tranſcribe, inſpire in his favour a ſentiment of pity and eſteem.—‘During my abode in my native county of Cumberland, in quality of an indigent curate, I uſed now-and-then in a Summer, when the pleaſantneſs of the ſeaſon invited, to take a ſolitary walk to the ſea-ſhore, which lies about two miles from the town where I lived. Here I would amuſe myſelf, one while in viewing at large the agreeable proſpect which ſurrounded me, and another while (confining my ſight to nearer objects) in admiring the vaſt variety of beautiful ſhells, thrown upon the beach; ſome of the choiceſt of which I always picked up, to divert my little ones upon my return. One time among the reſt, taking ſuch a journey in my head, I ſat down upon the de⯑clivity of the beach with my face to the ſea, which was now come up within a few yards of my feet; when immediately the ſad thoughts of the wretched condition of my family, and the un⯑ſucceſsfulneſs of all endeavours to amend it, came crowding into [21] my mind, which drove me into a deep melancholy, and ever and anon forced tears from my eyes.’ Diſtreſs at laſt forced him to leave the country. 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 again driven him into the world. One day reading prayers in the pariſh church, he moſt un⯑luckily forgot the name of King George: his patron, a loyal ſub⯑ject, diſmiſſed him with ſome reluctance, and a decent reward; and how the poor man ended his days I have never been able to learn. Mr. John Kirkby 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 gratitude, he dedicated (November 5th, 1745) to my father. The books are before me: from them the pupil may judge the preceptor; and, upon the whole, his judgment will not 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 ſtory of a youth, the ſon of a ſhipwrecked exile, who lives alone on a deſert iſland from infancy to the age of manhood. A hind is his nurſe; he inherits a cottage, with many uſeful and curious inſtruments; ſome ideas re⯑main of the education of his two firſt years; ſome arts are bor⯑rowed from the beavers of a neighbouring lake; ſome truths are re⯑vealed in ſupernatural viſions. With theſe helps, and his own in⯑duſtry, Automathes becomes a ſelf-taught thought ſpeechleſs philoſo⯑pher, who had inveſtigated with ſucceſs his own mind, the natural world, the abſtract ſciences, and the great principles of morality and religion. The author is not entitled to the merit of invention, ſince he has blended the Engliſh ſtory of Robinſon Cruſoe with the Ara⯑bian romance of Hai Ebn Yokhdan, 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 [22] of entertainment or inſtruction; and among ſeveral intereſting paſ⯑ſages, I would ſelect the diſcovery of fire, which produces by acci⯑dental miſchief the diſcovery of conſcience. A man who had though ſo much on the ſubjects of language and education was ſurely no or⯑dinary preceptor: my childiſh years, and his haſty departure, pre⯑vented me from enjoying the full benefit of his leſſons; but they en⯑larged my knowledge of arithmetic, and left me a clear impreſſion of the Engliſh and Latin rudiments.

In my ninth year (January 1746), in a lucid interval of compa⯑rative 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 Com⯑mon, 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 learn 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 and ſtrict ſubordina⯑tion of a ſchool; from the tenderneſs of parents, and the obſequiouſ⯑neſs of ſervants, to the rude familiarity of his equals, the inſolent ty⯑ranny 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 reviled and buffetted 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 dirty volumes of Phaedrus and Cornelius Nepos, which I pain⯑fully conſtrued and darkly underſtood. The choice of theſe authors [23] is not injudicious. The lives of Cornelius Nepos, the friend of At⯑ticus 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 in⯑deed qualified to give, this claſſic biographer may initiate a young ſtudent in the hiſtory of Greece and Rome. The uſe of fables or apologues has been approved in every age from antient India to mo⯑dern 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 ani⯑mals; and ſkilful maſter might extract from Pliny and Buffon ſome pleaſing leſſons of natural hiſtory, a ſcience well adapted to the taſte and capacity of children. The Latinity of Phaedrus is not exempt from an alloy of the ſilver age; but his manner is conciſe, terſe, and ſententious: the Thracian ſlave diſcreetly breathes the ſpirit of a free⯑man; and when the text 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 whipt for miſapprehending a paſſage, which Bentley could not reſtore, and which Burman could not explain.

My ſtudies were too frequently interrupted by ſickneſs; and after a real or nominal reſidence at Kingſton-ſchool of near two years, I was finally recalled (December 1747) by my mother's death, which was occaſioned, in her thirty-eighth year, by the conſequences of her laſt labour. I was too young to feel the importance of my loſs; and the image of her perſon and converſation is faintly 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. [24] I can never forget the ſeene 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 that I would cheriſh her memory and imitate her virtues; and the fervor with which he kiſſed and bleſſed me as the ſole ſurviving pledge of their loves. The ſtorm of paſſion inſenſibly ſubſided into calmer melancholy. At a convivial meeting of his friends, Mr. Gibbon might affect or enjoy a gleam of cheerfulneſs; but 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 rural or rather ruſtic ſolitude of Buriton; from which, during ſeveral years, he ſeldom emerged.

As far back as I can remember, the houſe, near Putney-bridge and church-yard, of my maternal grandfather appears in the light of my prper and native home. It was there that I was allowed to ſpend the greateſt part of my time, in ſickneſs or in health, 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 1748, the commercial ruin of her father, Mr. James Por⯑ten, was accompliſhed and declared. 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 feel a melan⯑choly pleaſure in repeating my obligations to that excellent woman, Mrs. 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 Engliſh language; and if her reaſon was ſome⯑times clouded by prejudice, her ſentiments were never diſguiſed by hypocriſy or affectation. Her indulgent tenderneſs, the frankneſs of [25] her temper, and my innate riſing curioſity, ſoon removed all diſtance between us: like friends of an equal age, we freely converſed on every topic, familiar or abſtruſe; and it was her delight and reward to obſerve the 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 early and invincible love of read⯑ing, which I would not exchange for the treaſures of India. I ſhould perhaps be aſtoniſhed, were it poſſible to aſcertain the date, at which a favourite tale was engraved, by frequent repetition, in my memory: the Cavern of the Winds; the Palace of Felicity; and the fatal moment, at the 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 Kingſton ſchool I was well ac⯑quainted with Pope's Homer and the Arabian Nights Entertainments, two books which will always pleaſe by the moving picture of human manners and ſpecious miracles: nor was I then capable of diſcerning that Pope's tranſlation is a portrait endowed with every merit, except⯑ing that of likeneſs to the original. The verſes of Pope accuſtomed my ear to the ſound of poetic harmony: in the death of Hector, and the ſhipwreck of Ulyſſes, I taſted the new emotions of terror and pity; and ſeriouſly diſputed with my aunt on the vices and virtues 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, eſpecially in the fall of Phaeton, and the ſpeeches of Ajax and Ulyſſes. My grandfather's flight unlocked the door of a tolerable library; and I turned over many Engliſh pages of poetry and romance, of hiſtory and travels. Where a title attracted my eye, without fear or awe I ſnatched the volume from the ſhelf; and Mrs. Porten, who indulged herſelf in moral and religious ſpeculations, was more prone to encourage than to check a curioſity above the [26] 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 ſtatue.

The relies 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 ſe⯑veral ſchemes, ſhe preferred the humble induſtry of keeping a board⯑ing-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 houſe in College-ſtreet; and was immediately en⯑tered in the ſchool, of which Dr. John 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 numerous and active: in the courſe of ſome years ſhe became the mother of forty or fifty boys, for the moſt part of family and fortune; and as her primitive habitation was too narrow, ſhe built and occupied a ſpacious man⯑ſion in Dean's Yard. I ſhall always be ready to join in the common opinion, that our public ſchools, which have produced ſo many emi⯑nent 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. Birth and riches are meaſured by the ſtandard of per⯑ſonal merit; and the mimic ſcene of a rebellion has diſplayed, in their true colours, the miniſters and patriots of the riſing generation. Our ſeminaries of learning do not exactly correſpond with the [27] precept of a Spartan king, ‘that the child ſhould be inſtructed 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 lan⯑guages: they depoſit in the hands of a diſciple the keys of two valu⯑able cheſts; nor can he complain, if they are afterwards loſt or ne⯑glected by his own fault. The neceſſity of leading in equal ranks ſo many unequal powers of capacity and application, will prolong to eight or ten years the juvenile ſtudies, which might be diſpatched 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 ſcience 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 auda⯑ciouſly 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 aunt; and my removal from Weſtminſter long preceded the approach of manhood.

The violence and variety of my complaints, which had excuſed my frequent abſence from Weſtminſter-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 quitted me with reluctance, and I remained ſeveral months under the care of a truſty maid-ſervant. A ſtrange nervous affection, which alternately con⯑tracted my legs, and produced, without any viſible ſymptoms, the [28] moſt excruciating pain, was ineffectually oppoſed by the various methods of bathing and pumping. From 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 the Bath waters. During the intervals of theſe fits, I moved with my father to Buriton 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 domeſtic tutor, who might have watched the favourable moments, and gently advanced the progreſs of my learning, my father was too eaſily content with ſuch occaſional teachers, as the dif⯑ferent 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 conſti⯑tution was fortified and fixed; and my diſorders, inſtead of growing with my growth and ſtrengthening with my ſtrength, moſt wonder⯑fully vaniſhed. I have never poſſeſſed or abuſed the inſolence of health: but ſince that time few perſons have been more exempt from real or imaginary ills; and, till I am admoniſhed by the gout, the reader will no more be troubled with the hiſtory of my bodily com⯑plaints. My unexpected recovery again encouraged the hope of my education; and I was placed at Eſher, in Surry, 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 (January 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 em⯑brace [29] a ſingular and deſperate meaſure. Without preparation or de⯑lay he carried me to Oxford; and I was matriculated in the univer⯑ſity as a gentleman commoner of Magdalen college, before I had ac⯑compliſhed the fifteenth year of my age (April 3, 1752).

The curioſity, which had been implanted in my infant mind, was ſtill alive and active; but my reaſon was not ſufficiently informed to underſtand the value, or to lament the loſs, of three precious years from my entrance at Weſtminſter to my admiſſion at Oxford. In⯑ſtead of repining at my long and frequent confinement to the cham⯑ber or the couch, I ſecretly rejoiced in thoſe infirmities, which deli⯑vered 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 Buriton 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 aſſidu⯑ous peruſal of the Univerſal Hiſtory, as the octavo volumes ſucceſ⯑ſively 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 acquiſition of ſo much knowledge confirmed my diſlike to the ſtudy of languages; and I argued with Mrs. Porten, that, were I maſter of Greek and Latin, I muſt inter⯑pret to myſelf in Engliſh the thoughts of the original, and that ſuch extemporary verſions muſt be inferior to the elaborate tranſlations of [30] profeſſed ſcholars; a ſilly ſophiſm, which could not eaſily be con⯑futed by a perſon ignorant of any other 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 introduction to the hiſtoric ſcenes, which have ſince en⯑gaged 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 beauties of Stourhead, than with diſcovering in the library a common book, the Continuation of Echard's Roman Hiſtory, which is indeed exe⯑cuted 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 Da⯑nube, 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 ſecond and third volumes of Howel's Hiſtory of the World, which exhibit the Byzantine 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 was 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 the French of D'Herbelot, and to conſtrue the barbarous Latin of Pocock's Abulfaragius. Such vague and multifarious reading could not teach me to think, 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 [31] 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 ages I overleaped the bounds of modeſty and uſe. In my childiſh balance I preſumed to weigh the ſyſtems of Scaliger and Petavius, of Marſham and New⯑ton, 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 arrived 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 trite and laviſh praiſe of the happineſs of our boyiſh years, which is echoed with 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 teſti⯑mony to the early and conſtant uniformity of my ſentiments. It will indeed 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,

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.

[32] 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, Ger⯑many, and Italy, the ſtudents, who ſwarm from different countries, are looſely diſperſed in private lodgings at the houſes of the burghers: they dreſs according to their fancy and fortune; and in the intempe⯑rate 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 expence, or that of the founders; and the ſtated hours of the hall and chapel repreſent the diſcipline of a regu⯑lar, and, as it were, a religious community. The eyes of the travel⯑ler are attracted by the ſize or beauty of the public edifices; and the principal colleges appear to be ſo many palaces, which a liberal nation has erected and endowed for the habitation of ſcience. My own introduction to the univerſity of Oxford forms a new aera in my life; and at the diſtance of forty years I ſtill remember my firſt emotions of ſurpriſe and ſatisfaction. In my fifteenth year I felt myſelf ſud⯑denly raiſed from a boy to a man: the perſons, whom I reſpected as 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 ſilk gown, which diſtinguiſh a gentleman commoner from a plebeian ſtudent. A decent allowance, more money than a ſchool-boy had ever ſeen, was at my own diſpoſal; and I might command, among the tradeſmen of Oxford, an indefinite and dangerous lati⯑tude of credit. A key was delivered into my hands, which gave me [33] the free uſe of a numerous and learned library: my apartment con⯑ſiſted of three elegant and well-furniſhed rooms in the new building, a ſtately pile, of Magdalen College; 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 prelate, whoſe taſte and erudition muſt reflect honour on the ſociety in which they were formed, has drawn a very intereſt⯑ing picture of his academical life.—‘I was educated (ſays Biſhop Lowth) in the UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD. I enjoyed all the ad⯑vantages, both public and private, which that famous ſeat of learn⯑ing ſo largely affords. I ſpent many years in that illuſtrious ſo⯑ciety, 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 of knowledge, and a genuine freedom of thought, was raiſed, encouraged, and puſhed forward by example, by commendation, and by authority. I breathed the ſame atmoſphere that the HOOKERS, the CHILLING⯑WORTHS, and the LOCKES had breathed before; whoſe benevo⯑lence 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 ho⯑nour?’ 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 [34] inquiring, whether in this angry controverſy the ſpirit of Lowth him⯑ſelf is purified from the intolerant zeal, which Warburton had aſcribed to the genius of the place. It may indeed be obſerved, that the at⯑moſphere of Oxford did not agree with Mr. Locke's conſtitution, and that the philoſopher juſtly deſpiſed the academical bigots, who ex⯑pelled 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 memory 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 imagi⯑nary debt, to aſſume the merit of a juſt or generous 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 mother. 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 Nature had diſqualified me for all literary purſuits. The ſpecious and ready excuſe of my ten⯑der 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 diſci⯑pline of a well-conſtituted academy, under the guidance of ſkilful and vigilant profeſſors, I ſhould gradually have riſen from tranſ⯑lations to originals, from the Latin to the Greek claſſics, from dead languages to living ſcience: my hours would have been oc⯑cupied by uſeful and agreeable ſtudies, the wanderings of fancy would have been reſtrained, and I ſhould have eſcaped the tempta⯑tions of idleneſs, which finally precipitated my departure from Oxford.

[35] Perhaps in a ſeparate annotation I may coolly examine the fabu⯑lous and real antiquities of our ſiſter univerſities, a queſtion which has kindled ſuch fierce and fooliſh diſputes among their fanatic ſons. In the mean while it will be acknolwedged, that theſe venerable bodies are ſufficiently old to partake of all the prejudices and infirmi⯑ties of age. The ſchools of Oxford and Cambridge were founded in a dark age of falſe and barbarous ſcience; and they are ſtill tainted with the vices of their origin. Their primitive diſcipline was adapted to the education of prieſts and monks; and the government ſtill re⯑mains in the hands of the clergy, 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 the 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 thoſe 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; and ſo deeply are they rooted in law and prejudice, that even the omnipotence of par⯑liament would ſhrink from an inquiry into the ſtate and abuſes of the two univerſities.

The uſe of academical degrees, as old as the thirteenth century, is viſibly borrowed from the mechanic corporations; in which an ap⯑prentice, after ſerving his time, obtains a teſtimonial of his ſkill, and a licence to practiſe his trade and myſtery. It is not my deſign to de⯑preciate thoſe honours, which could never gratify or diſappoint my ambition; and I ſhould applaud the inſtitution, if the degrees of ba⯑chelor or licentiate were beſtowed as the reward of manly and ſuc⯑ceſsful ſtudy: if the name and rank of doctor or maſter were ſtrictly [36] reſerved for the profeſſors of ſcience, who have approved their title to the public eſteem.

In all the univerſities of Europe, excepting our own, the languages and ſciences and diſtributed among a numerous liſt of effective pro⯑feſſors: the ſtudents, according to their taſte, their calling, and their diligence, apply themſelves 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 the three faculties, and how many are left for the liberal arts? what is the form, 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, and 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 obſervation abſurd, that excepting in expe⯑rimental ſciences, which demand a coſtly apparatus 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 in⯑ſtruction. 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 [37] difference between a book and a profeſſor; the hour of the lecture inforces attendance; attention is fixed by the preſence, the voice, and the occaſional queſtions of the teacher; the moſt idle will carry ſomething away; and the more diligent will compare the inſtruc⯑tions, 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 courſe 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 il⯑luſtrate 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 univerſity 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 acade⯑mical 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 ſines, 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 that 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 editions of the fathers, and the collections [38] of the middle ages, which have iſſued from the ſingle abbey of St. Germain de Préz at Paris. A compoſition of genius muſt be the offspring of one mind; but ſuch works of induſtry, as may be di⯑vided 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 ex⯑tend the inquiry to the other colleges of Oxford and Cambridge, a ſilent bluſh, or a ſcornful frown, will be the only reply. The fel⯑lows 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 chapel 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 thinking, 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 ad⯑mitted to the ſociety 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 ap⯑proaching: 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 pronounced, than thoſe of Cicero and Chryſoſtom. The example of the ſenior fellows could not inſpire the under-gra⯑duates with a liberal ſpirit or ſtudious emulation; and I cannot de⯑ſcribe, as I never knew, the diſcipline of college. Some duties may poſſibly have been impoſed on the poor ſcholars, whoſe am⯑bition aſpired to the peaceful honours of a fellowſhip (aſcribi [39] quietis ordinibus—Deorum); but no independent members were admitted below the rank of a gentleman 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 oeconomy 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 teach, either hiſtory or ma⯑thematics, 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 private 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 diſpoſition, ſtrict morals, and abſtemious life, who ſeldom mingled in the po⯑litics or the jollity of the college. But his knowledge of the world was confined to the univerſity; his learning was of the laſt, rather than of the preſent age; his temper was indolent; his faculties, which were not of the firſt rate, had been relaxed by the climate, and he was ſatisfied, like his fellows, with the ſlight and ſuperficial diſ⯑charge of an important truſt. As ſoon as my tutor had ſounded the inſufficiency of his diſciple in ſchool-learning, he propoſed that we ſhould read every morning from ten to eleven the comedies of Te⯑rence. [40] 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 in⯑terpretation of the author's text. During the firſt weeks I con⯑ſtantly 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 experiment of a formal apology. The apology was ac⯑cepted with a ſmile. I repeated the offence with leſs ceremony; the excuſe was admitted with the ſame indulgence: 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 account. 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 Hyde, 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 neglected the fair occaſion of directing the ardour of a curious mind. During my abſence in the Summer vacation, Dr. Walde⯑grave accepted a college living at Waſhington 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 to a healthy old age.

[41] The long receſs between the Trinity and Michaelmas terms empties the colleges of Oxford, as well as the courts of Weſt⯑minſter. I ſpent, at my father's houſe at Buriton 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 re⯑ſolved—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 inveſtigate 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 ſpecious, though narrow plan, I ſettled my hero about the time of Solomon, in the tenth century before the Chriſtian aera. It was therefore incumbent on me, unleſs I would adopt Sir Iſaac Newton's ſhorter chronology, to remove a formi⯑dable objection; and my ſolution, for a youth of fifteen, is not de⯑void of ingenuity. In his verſion of the Sacred Books, Manetho the high prieſt has identified Sethoſis, or Seſoſtris, with the elder brother of Danaus, who landed in Greece, according 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 ille⯑gitimate pedigree from the Macedonian kings of the race of Her⯑cules. Danaus is the anceſtor of Hercules; and after the failure of the elder branch, his deſcendants, the Ptolemies, are the ſole re⯑preſentatives 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 [42] Greek, the Jewiſh, and the Egyptian antiquities, which are loſt in a diſtant cloud. Nor is this the only inſtance, in which the belief and knowledge of the child are ſuperſeded by the more rational ignorance of the man. During my ſtay at Buriton, 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 twenty years at the bottom of a drawer, till, in a general clearance of papers, (November 1772,) they were committed to the flames.

After the departure of Dr. Waldgrave, I was transferred, with his other pupils, to his academical 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 per⯑form. 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 impro⯑prieties of conduct, ill-choſen company, late hours, and inconſider⯑ate expence. My growing debts might be ſecret; but my frequent abſence was viſible and ſcandalous: and a tour to Bath, a viſit into Buckinghamſhire, and four excurſions to Lodon in the ſame winter, were coſtly and dangerous frolics. They were, indeed, without a meaning, as without an excuſe. The irkſomeneſs of a cloiſtered life repeatedly tempted me to wander; but my chief pleaſure was that of travelling; and I was too young and baſhful 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 eloped again, as if I had been an independent ſtranger in a [43] hired lodging, without once hearing the voice of admonition, with⯑out once feeling the hand of control. Yet my time was loſt, my expences 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, was 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 univerſity, 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 per⯑formance of this legal ceremony; and the vice-chancellor directed me to return, as ſoon as I ſhould have accompliſhed my fifteenth year; recommending me, in the mean while, to the inſtruction of my col⯑lege. My college forgot to inſtruct: I forgot to return, and was myſelf forgotten by the firſt magiſtrate of the univerſity. Without a ſingle lecture, either public or private, either chriſtian or proteſtant, without any academical ſubſcription, without any epiſcopal confirm⯑ation, I was left by the dim light 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 qualified 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 believe; nor had the elaſtic ſpring been totally broken by the weight of the atmoſphere of Oxford. The blind acti⯑vity of idleneſs urged me to advance without armour into the dan⯑gerous [44] 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 ſounded 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 writings, and thoſe of his antagoniſts. His bold criticiſm, which ap⯑proaches 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 the prediction of the Sybil,

The elegance of ſtyle and freedom of argument were repelled by a ſhield of prejudice. I ſtill revered 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 hiſtorical evi⯑dence, that within the ſame period moſt of the leading doctrines of popery were already introduced in theory and practice: nor was my concluſion abſurd, that miracles are the teſt of truth, and that the church muſt be orthodox and 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 worſhip of relics, the rudiments of purgatory in prayers for the dead, and [45] the tremendous myſtery of the ſacrifice of the body and blood of Chriſt, which inſenſibly ſwelled into the prodigy of tranſubſtantia⯑tion. In theſe diſpoſitions, and already more than half a convert, I formed an unlucky intimacy with a young 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 fa⯑mous works of Boſſuet Biſhop of Meaux, the Expoſition of the Ca⯑tholic Doctrine, and the Hiſtory of the Proteſtant Variations, at⯑chieved 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 ſim⯑plicity; and the ten-horned monſter is tranſformed, at his magic touch, into the milk-white 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 argument, the faults and follies, the changes and contradictions of our firſt reformers; whoſe variations (as he dexterouſly contends) are the mark of hiſto⯑rical error, while the perpetual unity of the catholic church is the ſign and teſt of infallible truth. To my preſent feelings it ſeems in⯑credible that I ſhould ever believe that I believed in tranſubſtantia⯑tion. But my conqueror oppreſſed me with the ſacramental words, "Hoc eſt corpus meum," and daſhed againſt each other the figura⯑tive half-meanings of the proteſtant ſects: every objection was re⯑ſolved into omnipotence; and after repeating at St. Mary's the Atha⯑naſian [46] creed, I humbly acquieſced in the myſtery of the real preſence.

No ſooner had I ſettled my new religion than I reſolved to profeſs myſelf a catholic. Youth is ſincere and impetuous; and a moment⯑ary glow of enthuſiaſm had raiſed me above all temporal conſider⯑ations^*.

By the keen proteſtants, who would gladly retaliate the example of perſecution, a clamour 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 reli⯑gion and allegiance. On the preſent occaſion, 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 va⯑rious diſguiſes, to introduce themſelves into the colleges of Oxford. But juſtice obliges me to declare, that, as far as relates to myſelf, 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 ſoon diſcovered that per⯑ſuaſion was needleſs. After ſounding the motives and merits of my [47] 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 pri⯑vately, abjured the errors of hereſy. The ſeduction of an Engliſh youth of family and fortune was 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 reconciled 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 re⯑lation. An elaborate controverſial epiſtle, 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 Gib⯑bon was become as notorious as that of Middleton, it was induſtri⯑ouſly whiſpered at Oxford, that the hiſtorian had formerly "turned papiſt:" my character ſtood expoſed to the reproach of inconſtancy; and this invidious topic would have been handled without mercy 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 en⯑tangled in the ſophiſtry that ſeduced the acute and manly underſtand⯑ings of CHILLINGWORTH and BAYLE, who afterwards emerged from ſuperſition to ſcepticiſm.

While Charles the Firſt goverened England, and was himſelf go⯑verned by a catholic queen, it cannot be denied that the miſſionaries [48] of Rome laboured with impunity and ſucceſs in the court, the coun⯑try, and even the univerſities. One of the ſheep,

is Mr. William Chillingworth, Maſter of Arts, and Fellow of Tri⯑nity 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 yielded to his own victorious argument, ‘that there muſt be ſomewhere an in⯑fallible judge; and that the church of Rome is the only chriſtian ſociety which either does or can pretend to that character.’ After a ſhort trial of a few months, Mr. Chillingworth was again tormented by religious ſcruples: he returned home, reſumed his ſtudies, unra⯑velled his miſtakes, and delivered his mind from the yoke of autho⯑rity 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 virtue, the recent merits of the author, entitled him to fair preferment: but the ſlave had now bróken his fetters; and the more he weighed, the leſs was he diſpoſed to ſubſcribe to the thirty-nine articles of the church of England. In a private letter he declares, with all the energy of language, that he could not ſubſcribe 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 aſcertain the num⯑ber of weeks or months that elapſed between this paſſionate abhor⯑rence and the Saliſbury Regiſter, which is ſtill extant. ‘Ego Gu⯑lielmus Chillingworth,...omnibus hiſce articulis,...et ſin⯑gulis [49] in iiſdem contentis volens, et ex animo ſubſcribo, et conſenſum meum iiſdem praebeo. 20 die Julii 1638.’ But, alas! the chan⯑cellor and prebendary of Sarum ſoon deviated from his own ſubſcrip⯑tion: 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 a truth, or at leaſt no damnable hereſy.’ From this middle region of the air, the deſcent of his reaſon would naturally reſt on the firmer ground 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 can⯑dour of his nature and the innocence of his heart, that this appa⯑rent levity did not affect the reputation of Chillingworth. His fre⯑quent changes proceeded from too nice an inquiſition into truth. His doubts grew out of himſelf; he aſſiſted them with all the ſtrength 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 fallies 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 Thoulouſe. He remained about ſeventeen months (19th March 1669—19th Au⯑guſt 1670) in their hands, a voluntary captive; and a letter to his parents, which the new convert compoſed or ſubſcribed (15th April 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 tranſubſtantia⯑tion, which is abundantly refuted by the teſtimony of our ſenſes. [50] His return to the communion of a falling ſect was a bold and diſin⯑tereſted 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 value 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 ſuch a proſelyte might have aſpired to wealth and honours in his native country: but 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. With⯑out a country, or a patron, or a prejudice, he claimed the liberty and ſubſiſted by the labours of his pen: the inequality of his voluminous works is explained and excuſed by his alternately writing for him⯑ſelf, for the bookſellers, and for poſterity; and if a ſevere critic would reduce him to a ſingle folio, that relic, like the books of the Sybil, 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 re⯑publican maxims of the Calviniſts; their vain prophecies, and the in⯑tolerant bigotry which ſometimes vexed his ſolitary retreat. In re⯑viewing 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 teſt of reli⯑gious truth; and dexterouſly concludes that cuſtom and education muſt be the ſole grounds of popular belief. The ancient paradox of Plu⯑tarch, that atheiſm is leſs pernicious than ſuperſtition, acquires a ten⯑fold vigor, when it is adorned with the colours of his wit, and pointed with the acuteneſs of his logic. His critical dictionary is a vaſt repo⯑ſitory 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 [51] ſo boldly exerciſed, of aſſembling doubts and objections, had tempted him jocoſely to aſſume the title of the [...], the cloud-compelling Jove; and in a converſation with the ingenious Abbé (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 plain narrative of my ſtudies, or rather of my idleneſs; and of the unfortunate event 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 im⯑provements 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 than 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, whoſe maxims he had adopted, and whoſe life he had publiſhed. The biographer indeed preferred the ſchool-logic to the new philoſophy, Bugurſdicius to Locke; and the hero appears, in his own writings, a ſtiff and conceited pedant. Yet even 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 knew; ſome Latin, ſome Greek, ſome ethics and metaphyſics; referring them to proper maſters for the lan⯑guages and ſciences of which he was ignorant. At a more recent period, many ſtudents have been attracted by the merit and reputa⯑tion of Sir William Scott, then a tutor in Univerſity College, and now conſpicuous in the profeſſion of the civil law: my perſonal ac⯑quaintance with that gentleman has inſpired me with a juſt eſteem for his abilities and knowledge; and I am aſſured that his lectures on hiſ⯑tory would compoſe, were they given to the public, a moſt valuable treatiſe. Under the auſpices of the preſent Archbiſhop of York, [52] 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 ſeminary: 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; the laws of his country are the firſt ſcience of an Eng⯑liſhman [53] of rank and fortune, 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 rather ſcandalized than reclaimed, it was neceſſary for my father to form a new plan of education, and to de⯑viſe 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, during ſome years, at Lauſanne in Switzerland. Mr. Frey, a Swiſs gentleman of Baſil, 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 Beſançon, 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 of my father's diſpleaſure rather aſtoniſhed than afflicted me: when he threatened to baniſh, and diſown, and diſin⯑herit a rebellious ſon, I cheriſhed a ſecret hope 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 of my journey, the new and various ſcenes of the Continent, and the civility of Mr. 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 con⯑template [54] the ſtrange and melancholy proſpect before me. My firſt complaint aroſe from my ignorance of the language. In my child⯑hood I had once ſtudied the French grammar, and I could imper⯑fectly 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, during ſome weeks, incapable not only of enjoying the pleaſures of converſation, but even of aſking or anſwering a queſtion in the common intercourſe of life. To 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 ex⯑changed my elegant apartment in Magdalen College, for a narrow, gloomy ſtreet, the moſt unfrequented of an unhandſome town, for an old inconvenient houſe, and for a ſmall chamber ill-contrived and ill-furniſhed, which, on the approach of Winter, inſtead of a com⯑panionable fire, muſt be warmed by the dull inviſible heat of a ſtove. From a man I was again degraded to the dependance of a ſchool-boy. Mr. Pavilliard managed my expences, which had been reduced to a diminutive ſtate: I received a ſmall monthly allowance for my pocket-money; and helpleſs and awkward as I have ever been, I no longer enjoyed the indiſpenſable comfort of a ſervant. My condition ſeemed as deſtitute of hope, as it was devoid of plea⯑ſure: I was ſeparated for an indefinite, which appeared an infinite term from my native country; and I had loſt all connection with my catholic friends. I have ſince reflected with ſurpriſe, that as the Romiſh clergy of every part of Europe maintain a cloſe correſpond⯑ence with each other, they never attempted, by letters or meſſages, 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 com⯑pulſion, and which I have finally ſelected as the moſt grateful retreat for the decline of my life.

[55] But it is the peculiar felicity of youth that the moſt unpleaſing ob⯑jects and events ſeldom 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, which our countrymen uſually import from the Continent. An exile and a priſoner as I was, their example be⯑trayed me into ſome irregularities of wine, of play, and of idle ex⯑curſions: but I ſoon felt the impoſſibility of aſſociating with them 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 provinces of France: in Pavilliard's fa⯑mily, 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 in my memory: eaſe and freedom were obtained by practice; correctneſs and elegance by labour; and before I was re⯑called home, French, in which I ſpontaneouſly thought, 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 read⯑ing, which had been chilled at Oxford; and I ſoon turned over, without much choice, almoſt all the French books in my tutor's li⯑brary. 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 [56] and opinions, my views were enlarged, my prejudices were corrected, and a copious voluntary abſtract of the Hiſtoire de l'Egliſe at de l'Em⯑pire, 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 awk⯑ward timidity was poliſhed and emboldened; and I frequented, for the firſt time, aſſemblies of men and women. The acquaintance 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 Mr. 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 months 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 aſſuaged 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, gain the affection, and open the mind of his Engliſh pupil^*. As ſoon as [57] 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 hiſtory 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 fallies; and as ſoon as I was confirmed in the habits of induſtry and temperance, he gave the reins into my own hands. His favourable report of my beha⯑viour and progreſs gradually 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, has 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 profound 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 di⯑vinity [58] in that of Limborch and Le Clerc; in a long and laborious life, ſeveral generations of pupils were taught to think, and even to write; his leſſons reſcued the academy of Lauſanne from Calviniſtic prejudice; and he had the rare merit of diffuſing a more liberal ſpirit among the clergy and people of the Pays de Vaud. His ſyſtem of logic, which in the laſt editions 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 opera⯑tions of the human underſtanding. This ſyſtem I ſtudied, and medi⯑tated, and abſtracted, till I have obtained the free command of an univerſal inſtrument, which I ſoon preſumed to exerciſe on my ca⯑tholic 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 rendered 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, and I am now willing, to allow him a handſome ſhare of the honour of my converſion: yet I muſt obſerve, that it was principally effected by my private reflections; and I ſtill remember my ſolitary tranſport at the diſcovery of a philoſophical 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 three of our ſenſes—the ſight, the touch, and the taſte. The various articles of the Romiſh creed diſ⯑appeared like a dream; and after a full conviction, on Chriſtmas-day 1754, I received the ſacrament in the church of Lauſanne. It was [59] here that I ſuſpended my religious inquiries, acquieſcing with im⯑plicit belief in the tenets and myſteries, which are adopted by the ge⯑neral conſent of catholics and proteſtants^*.

[60] Such, from my arrival 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 himſelf. 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 its proper form and dimenſions. My worthy tutor had the good ſenſe and modeſty to diſcorn how far he could be uſeful: as ſoon as he felt that I advanced beyond his ſpeed and meaſure, he wiſely left me to my genius; and the hours of leſſon [61] were ſoon loſt in the voluntary labour of the whole morning, and ſometimes of the whole day. The deſire of prolonging my time, gradually confirmed the ſalutary habit 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 ſerious and ſolid application; but I am tempted to diſtinguiſh the laſt eight months of the year 1755, as the period of the moſt extra⯑ordinary diligence and rapid progreſs^*. In my French and Latin tranſlations I adopted an excellent method, which, from my own ſuc⯑ceſs, 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 the 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, returned them [62] 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 my⯑ſelf; and I perſevered in the practice of theſe double tranſlations, which filled ſeveral books, till I had acquired the knowledge of both idioms, and the command at leaſt of a correct ſtyle. This uſeful exerciſe of writing was accompanied and ſucceeded by the more pleaſing occupation of reading the beſt authors. The peruſal of the Roman claſſics was at once my exerciſe and reward. Dr. Middle⯑ton's Hiſtory, which I then appreciated above its true value, natu⯑rally directed me to the writings of Cicero. The moſt perfect edi⯑tions, that of Olivet, which may adorn 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 comment⯑ary of Biſhop Roſs: but my general edition was that of Verburgius, publiſhed at Amſterdam in two large volumes in folio, with an in⯑different choice of various notes. I read, with application and plea⯑ſure, all the epiſtles, all the orations, and the moſt important trea⯑tiſes of rhetoric and philoſophy; and as I read, I applauded the ob⯑ſervation of Quintillian, that 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 breathed the ſpirit of freedom, and I imbibed from his precepts and examples the public and private ſenſe of a man. Cicero in Latin, and Xenophon in Greek, are indeed 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, which may be applied almoſt to every ſituation of public and private life. Cicero's Epiſtles may in parti⯑cular afford the models of every form of correſpondence, from the careleſs effuſions of tenderneſs and friendſhip, to the well-guarded declaration of diſcreet and dignified reſentment. After finiſhing this [63] great author, a library of eloquence and reaſon, I formed a more extenſive plan of reviewing the Latin claſſics^*, under the four divi⯑ſions 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 Rome: and this plan, in the laſt twenty-ſeven months of my reſidence at Lauſanne (January 1756—April 1758), I nearly accompliſhed. Nor was this review, however rapid, either haſty or ſuperſicial. 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 com⯑mentators, 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 often 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 cu⯑rioſity to be long converſant with the Latin claſſics, without aſpiring [64] to know the Greek originals, whom they celebrate as their maſters, and of whom they ſo warmly recommend the ſtudy and imitation;

It was now that I regretted the early years which had been waſted in ſickneſs or idleneſs, or mere idle reading; that I con⯑demned the perverſe method of our ſchoolmaſters, 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 leſſons of Pavilliard again contributed to ſmooth the entrance of the way, the Greek alphabet, the grammar, and the pronunci⯑ation 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 af⯑terwards interpreted alone a large portion of Xenophon and Hero⯑dotus. But my ardour, deſtitute of aid and emulation, was gra⯑dually cooled, and, from the barren taſk of ſearching words 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, which enabled me, in a more propitious ſeaſon, to pro⯑ſecute the ſtudy of Grecian literature.

From a blind idea of the uſefulneſs of ſuch abſtract ſcience, my father had been deſirous, and even preſſing, that I ſhould devote ſome time to the mathematics^*; nor could I refuſe to comply with [65] ſo reaſonable a wiſh. During two winters I attended the private lectures of Monſieur de Traytorrens, who explained the elements of algebra and geometry, as far as the conic ſections of the Marquis de l'Hôpital, and appeared ſatisfied with my diligence and improve⯑ment^*. But as my childiſh propenſity for numbers and calculations [66] 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 ever 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 ſiner 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 leſſons 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 peace and war, which have had ſome influ⯑ence 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 delight was in the frequent peruſal of Monteſquieu, whoſe energy of ſtyle, and boldneſs of hypotheſis, were powerful to awaken and ſtimulate the genius of the age. The logic of De Crouſaz had prepared me to [67] 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 care⯑fully went through the Eſſay on Human Underſtanding, and occa⯑ſionally conſulted the moſt intereſting articles of the Philoſophic Dic⯑tionary. In the 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 novel into a deep and in⯑ſtructive train of thinking. But I cannot forbear to mention three particular books, ſince they may have remotely contributed to form the hiſtorian of the Roman empire. 1. From the Provincial Letters of Paſcal, which 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 Abbé de la Bleterie, firſt introduced 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 Jeru⯑ſalem. 3. In Giannone's Civil Hiſtory of Naples, I obſerved with a critical eye the progreſs and abuſe of ſacerdotal power, and the revolutions of Italy in the darker ages. This various reading, which I now conducted with diſcretion, 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 recom⯑mend. 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, (Idler, No. 74.) ‘that what is twice read, is commonly better remembered, than what is tranſcribed.’

[68] 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 ſum⯑mer, my father conſented that I ſhould make the tour of Switzerland with Pavilliard: and our ſhort abſence of one month (Septem⯑ber 21ſt—October 20th, 1755) was a reward and relaxation of my aſſiduous ſtudies^†. The faſhion of climbing the mountains and [69] reviewing the Glaciers, had not yet been introduced by foreign tra⯑vellers, 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 plea⯑ſure the new proſpects of men and manners; though my converſa⯑tion 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; Neufchâtel, Bienne, Soleurre, Arau, Baden, Zurich, Baſil, and Bern. In every 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 ſheets of a French journal, which I diſpatched to my father, as a proof that my time and his money had not been miſ-ſpent. Had I found this journal among his papers, 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, which left a deep and laſting impreſſion on my memory. From Zurich we proceeded to the Benedictine Abbey of Einfidlen, more com⯑monly ſtyled Our Lady of the Hermits. I was aſtoniſhed by the profuſe oſtentation of riches in the pooreſt 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 magic 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 church. About two years after this tour, I paſſed at Geneva a uſeful and agreeable month; but this excurſion, and ſome ſhort viſits in the Pais de Vaud, did not materially interrupt my ſtudious and ſedentary life at Lauſanne.

[70] 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 odio 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 ad⯑dreſſed myſelf to M. Crevier^*, the ſucceſſor of Rollin, and a pro⯑feſſor in the univerſity of Paris, who had publiſhed a large and va⯑luable edition of Livy. His anſwer was ſpeedy and polite; he praiſed my ingenuity, and adopted my conjecture. 2. I main⯑tained a Latin correſpondence, at firſt anonymous, and afterwards in my own name, with Profeſſor Breitinger^† of Zurich, the learned editor of a Septuagint Bible. In our frequent letters we diſcuſſed many queſtions of antiquity, many paſſages of the Latin claſſics. I propoſed my interpretations and amendments. His cenſures, for he did not ſpare my boldneſs of conjecture, were ſharp and ſtrong; and I was encouraged by the conſciouſneſs 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 cele⯑brated 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 half a ſheet of paper with the fooliſh enumeration of his titles and offices. 4. Theſe Profeſſors of Paris, Zurich, and Gottingen, were ſtrangers, whom I preſumed to [71] 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 in⯑difference, the adverſe ſides of every poſſible queſtion. His ſpirit was active, but his pen had been indolent. Mr. Allamand had ex⯑poſed himſelf to much ſcandal and reproach, by an anonymous letter (1745) to the Proteſtants of France; in which he labours to per⯑ſuade them that public worſhip is the excluſive right and duty of the ſtate, and that their numerous aſſemblies of diſſenters and rebels were not authoriſed by the law or the goſpel. His ſtyle is animated, his arguments ſpecious; and if the papiſt may ſeem to lurk under the maſk of a proteſtant, the philoſopher is concealed under the diſguiſe 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 deluded 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 edu⯑cation and prejudice. He had ſome meaſures to keep; and I much [72] ſuſpect that he never ſhewed me the true colours of his ſecret ſcepticiſm.

Before I was recalled from Switzerland, I had the ſatisfaction of ſeeing the moſt extraordinary man of the age; a poet, an hiſtorian, a philoſopher, who has filled thirty quartos, of proſe and verſe, with his various productions, often excellent, and always 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 reſided two winters (1757 and 1758) in the town or neigh⯑bourhood of Lauſanne. My deſire of beholding Voltaire, whom I then rated above his real magnitude, was eaſily gratified. He re⯑ceived me with civility as an Engliſh youth; but I cannot boaſt 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 the gentleman by whom I was in⯑troduced. 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 ſoon 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 grati⯑fication which I derived from Voltaire's reſidence at Lauſanne, was the uncommon circumſtance of hearing a great poet declaim his own productions on the ſtage. He had formed a company of gentle⯑men and ladies, 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 expence of the actors; and the author directed the rehearſals with the zeal and at⯑tention of paternal love. In two ſucceſſive winters his tragedies of Zayre, Alzire, Zulime, and his ſentimental comedy of the Enfant [73] Prodigue, were played at the theatre of Monrepos. Voltaire re⯑preſented the characters beſt adapted to his years, Luſignan, Al⯑varéz, 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 ticket. 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 amuſe⯑ments of ſociety. After the repreſentation of Monrepos I ſome⯑times ſupped with the actors. I was now familiar in ſome, and ac⯑quainted 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, without 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 bluſh at recollecting the object of my choice; and though my love was diſappointed of ſucceſs, I am rather proud that I was once capable of feeling ſuch a pure and exalted ſentiment. The perſonal attractions of Mademoiſelle Suſan Curchod were em⯑belliſhed 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 her religion to her country. The profeſſion [74] 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 Lauſanne, the wit, the beauty, and erudition of Mademoiſelle Curchod were the theme of univerſal ap⯑plauſe. The report of ſuch a prodigy awakened my curioſity; I ſaw and loved. I found her learned without pedantry, lively in converſation, pure 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 honourably encouraged the connection. In a calm retirement the gay vanity of [75] youth no longer fluttered in her boſom; ſhe liſtened to the voice of truth and paſſion, and I might preſume to hope that I had made ſome impreſſion on a virtuous heart. At Craſſy and Lauſanne I in⯑dulged my dream of felicity: but on my return 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 obeyed as a ſon^*; my wound was inſenſibly healed by time, ab⯑ſence, and the habits of a new life. My cure was accelerated by a faithful report of the tranquillity and cheerfulneſs of the lady her⯑ſelf, 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 ſhe reſiſted the temptations of wealth, as ſhe had ſuſtained the hardſhips of indigence. The ge⯑nius of her huſband has exalted him to the moſt conſpicuous ſtation in Europe. In every change of proſperity and diſgrace he has re⯑clined on the boſom of a faithful friend; and Mademoiſelle Curchod is now the wife of M. Necker, the miniſter, and perhaps the legi⯑ſlator, of the French monarchy.

Whatſoever have been the fruits of my education, they muſt be aſcribed to the fortunate baniſhment which placed me at Lauſanne. I have ſometimes applied to my own fate the verſes of Pindar, which remind an Olympic champion that his victory was the conſequence [76] of his exile; and that at home, like a domeſtic fowl, his days might have rolled away inactive or inglorious.

If my childiſh revolt againſt the religion of my country had not ſtripped me in time of my academic gown, the five important years, ſo liberally improved in the ſtudies and converſation of Lauſanne, would have been ſteeped in port and prejudice among 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 phi⯑loſophic freedom. I ſhould have grown to manhood ignorant of the life and language of Europe, and 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 diſgrace. The rigid courſe of diſcipline and abſtinence, to which I was con⯑demned, invigorated the conſtitution of my mind and body; poverty and pride eſtranged me from my countrymen. One miſchief, how⯑ever, and in their eyes a ſerious and irreparable miſchief, was de⯑rived from the ſucceſs of my Swiſs education: I had ceaſed to be an Engliſhman. At the flexible period of youth, from the age of ſix⯑teen to twenty-one, my opinions, habits, and ſentiments were caſt [77] in a foreign mould; the faint and diſtant remembrance of Eng⯑land 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 perpetual exile. By the good ſenſe and temper of Pavilliard my yoke was inſenſibly light⯑ened: 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 one thouſand ſeven hundred and fifty-eight, 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, had 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 ac⯑quaintance in the Dutch ſervice, who were returning to their gar⯑riſons, offered to conduct me through France as one of their com⯑panions; 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 the 11th of April 1758, with a mixture of joy and regret, in the firm reſolu⯑tion of reviſiting, as a man, the perſons and places which had been ſo dear to my youth. We travelled ſlowly, but pleaſantly, in a hired coach, over the hills of Franche-compté and the fertile pro⯑vince of Lorraine, and paſſed, without accident or inquiry, through ſeveral fortified towns of the French frontier: from thence we en⯑tered the wild Ardennes of the Auſtrian dutchy of Luxemburg; and after croſſing the Meuſe at Liege, we traverſed the heaths of Brabant, and reached, on the fifteenth day, our Dutch garriſon 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, [78] who, after the ſtorms of Poliſh royalty, repoſed in the love and gratitude of his new ſubjects 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 centuries of the Roman Hiſtory. After dropping my regimental companions, I ſtepped aſide 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 delay would have been ungraceful. I haſtened to embark at the Brill, landed the next 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 and 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 intereſt⯑ing to myſelf and to the public; and I may expatiate, without re⯑proach, on my private ſtudies; ſince they have produced the publc writings, which can alone entitle me to the eſteem and friendſhip of my readers. The experience of the world inculcates a diſcreet re⯑ſerve on the ſubject of our perſon and eſtate, and we ſoon learn that a free diſcloſure of our riches or poverty would 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 even⯑ing was ſpent in the effuſions of joy and confidence. 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 memory; nor could I form any notion of his cha⯑racter, or my probable reception. They were both more agreeable than I could expect. The domeſtic diſcipline of our anceſtors has [79] 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 equal 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 conſidered 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 miſ⯑taken in the firſt view of her underſtanding, her knowledge, and the elegant ſpirit of her converſation: her polite welcome, and her aſſiduous care to ſtudy and gratify my wiſhes, announced at leaſt that the ſurface would be ſmooth; and my ſuſpicions 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 aſſociated in confidence and friendſhip; and as Mrs. Gibbon had neither children nor the 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 procure me the employment of ſecretary to a foreign embaſſy; and I liſtened to a ſcheme which would again have tranſ⯑ported 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 [80] advice. Few men, without the ſpur of neceſſity, have reſolution to force their way through the thorns and thickets of that gloomy labyrinth. Nature had not 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 lite⯑rature, 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 Hampſhire 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 occur in the long circuit of a morning walk. I aſſiduouſly frequented the theatres at a very propitious aera of the ſtage, when a conſtellation of excellent actors, both in tragedy and comedy, was eclipſed by the meridian brightneſs of Garrick in the maturity of his judgement, and vigour of his performance. The pleaſures 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 ex⯑ample I was ſometimes 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 of 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 was no longer in the memory of the great with whom he had aſſociated. I found myſelf a ſtranger in [81] the midſt of a vaſt and unknown city; and at my entrance into life I was reduced to ſome dull family parties, and ſome ſcattered con⯑nections, which were not ſuch as I ſhould have choſen for myſelf. The moſt uſeful friends of my father were the Mallets: they re⯑ceived me with civility and kindneſs at firſt on his account, and af⯑terwards on my own; and (if I may uſe Lord Cheſterfield'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 elegance 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 ſelect; 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 ſlow. 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 com⯑plain of the juſt conſequences of my ſickly childhood, foreign edu⯑cation, and reſerved temper. While coaches were rattling through Bond-ſtreet, I have paſſed many a ſolitary evening in my lodging with my books. 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 without pleaſure. In each of the twenty-five years of my acquaintance with London (1758—1783) the proſpect gradually brightened; and this unfa⯑vourable picture moſt properly belongs to the firſt period after my return from Switzerland.

[82] My father's reſidence in Hampſhire, where I have paſſed many light, and ſome heavy hours, was at Buriton, near Petersſield, one mile from the Portſmouth road, and at the eaſy diſtance of fifty-eight miles from London^* An old manſion, in a ſtate of decay, 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 vil⯑lage and the bottom of the hill: 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 hands the whole of the eſtate, and even rented ſome additional land; and whatſoever might be the balance of profit and loſs, the farm ſupplied him with amuſement and plenty. The produce maintained a number of men and horſes, which were mul⯑tiplied 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 tranſ⯑ported to the daily neatneſs and luxury of an Engliſh table. Our immediate 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 with noble ſeats and hoſpitable families, with whom we cultivated a friendly, and might have enjoyed a very fre⯑quent, intercourſe. As my ſtay at Buriton was always voluntary, I was received and diſmiſſed with ſmilies; but the comforts of my retire⯑ment did not depend on the ordinary pleaſures of the country. My [83] father could never inſpire me with his love and knowledge of farm⯑ing. I never handled a gun, I ſeldom mounted an horſe; and my philoſophic walks were ſoon terminated by a ſhady bench, where I was long detained by the ſedentary amuſement of reading or me⯑ditation. At home I occupied a pleaſant and ſpacious apartment; the library on the ſame floor was ſoon conſidered as my peculiar do⯑main; and I might ſay with truth, that I was never leſs alone than when by myſelf. My ſole complaint, which I piouſly ſuppreſſed, aroſe from the kind reſtraint impoſed on the freedom of my time. By the habit of early riſing I always ſecured a ſacred 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 ſupper, were regular and long; after breakfaſt Mrs. Gibbon expected my company in her 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 not refuſe attending my father, in the ſummer of 1759, to the races at Stockbridge, Reading, and Odiam, where he had entered a horſe for the hunter's plate; and I was not diſpleaſed with the ſight of our Olympic games, the beauty of the ſpot, the fleetneſs of the horſes, and the gay tumult of the numerous ſpectators. As ſoon as the militia buſineſs was agi⯑tated, many days were tediouſly conſumed 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 Goſport laſted ſeveral days; but [84] the interruption of my ſtudies was compenſated in ſome degree by the ſpectacle of Engliſh manners, and the acquiſition of ſome prac⯑tical knowledge.

If in a more domeſtic 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 Buriton 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 ſhould 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 com⯑fort 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 Me⯑moirs of the Academy of Inſcriptions; nor would it have been eaſy, by any other expenditure of the ſame ſum, to have procured ſo large and laſting a fund of rational amuſement. At a time when I moſt aſſiduouſly frequented this ſchool of antient literature, I thus ex⯑preſſed my opinion of a learned and various collection, which ſince the year 1759 has been doubled in magnitude, though not in merit— ‘Une de ces ſocietés, qui ont mieux immortaliſé Louis XIV. qu'un ambition ſouvent pernicieuſe aux hommes, commençoit deja ces recherches qui réuniſſent la juſteſſe de l'eſprit, l'ameneté & l'eru⯑dition: où l'on voit tant des dècouvertes, et quelquefois, ce qui ne cede qu'à 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 ob⯑ſerve, that I am not conſcious of having ever bought a book from a [85] motive of oſtentation, that every volume, before it was depoſited on the ſhelf, was either read or ſufficiently examined, and that I ſoon adopted the tolerating maxim of the elder Pliny, ‘nullum eſſe librum tam malum ut non ex aliquâ parte prodeſſet.’ I could not yet find leiſure or courage to renew the purſuit of the Greek lan⯑guage, excepting 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 acquiſi⯑tion, 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 almoſt ſwelled into a work. The ſolution of a paſſage of Livy (xxxviii. 38.) involved me in the dry and dark treatiſes of Greaves, Arbuthnot, Hooper, Bernard, Eiſenſchmidt, Gronovius, La Barré, Freret, 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 terminated by the militia drum.

As I am now entering on a more ample field of ſociety and ſtudy, I can only hope to avoid a vain and prolix garrulity, by over⯑looking 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 im⯑preſſion which they have left on my mind. Yet I will embrace this occaſion 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, till 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 quali⯑fied to diſcern how much the author added to my original ſtock; and [86] I was ſometimes ſatisfied by the agreement, I was ſometimes armed by the oppoſition, of our ideas. The favourite companions of my leiſure were our Engliſh writers ſince the Revolution: they breathe the ſpirit of reaſon and liberty; and they 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 ſup⯑ported 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 the muſe of hiſtory, was recently diſ⯑proved by the firſt performances of Robertſon and Hume, the hiſ⯑tories 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 compoſi⯑tion, the nervous language, the well-turned periods of Dr. Robert⯑ſon, inflamed me to the ambitious hope that I might one day tread in his footſteps: the calm philoſophy, the careleſs inimitable beauties of his friend and rival, 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 refinement 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 language of Greece and Rome were neglected by a philoſophic age. The guardian of thoſe ſtudies, the Academy of Inſcriptions, was degraded to the loweſt rank among the three royal ſocieties of Paris: the new appellation of Erudits was contemptuouſly applied to the ſucceſſors of Lipſius and Caſau⯑bon; and I was provoked to hear (ſee M. d'Alembert Diſcours pre⯑liminaire à l'Encyclopedie) that the exerciſe of the memory, their ſole merit, had been ſuperſeded by the nobler faculties of the imagi⯑nation and the judgment. I was ambitious of proving by my own [87] example, as well as by my precepts, that all the faculties of the mind may be exerciſed and diſplayed by the ſtudy of ancient literature: I began to ſelect and adorn the various proofs and illuſtrations which had offered themſelves in reading the claſſics; and the firſt pages or chapters of my eſſay were compoſed before my departure from Lauſanne. The hurry of the journey, and of the firſt weeks of my Engliſh life, ſuſpended all thoughts of ſerious application: but my object 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 copy had been tranſcribed by one of the French priſoners at Petersſield, I looked round for a critic and judge of my firſt performance. A writer can ſeldom be content with the doubtful recompence of ſolitary approbation; but a youth igno⯑rant 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 London by the practice of phyſic, and an office in the Britiſh Muſeum. His repu⯑tation 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 digniſied 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 litera⯑ture in England during a period of ſix years (January 1750—De⯑cember 1755); and, far different from his angry ſon, he handles the rod of criticiſm with the tenderneſs and reluctance of a parent. The author of the Journal Britannique ſometimes aſpires to the character of a poet and philoſopher: his ſtyle is pure and elegant; and in his virtues, or even in his defects, he may be ranked as one of the laſt [88] diſciples of the ſchool of Fontenelle. His anſwer 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 ex⯑curſion to Buriton I reviewed my eſſay, according to his friendly ad⯑vice; and after ſuppreſſing a third, adding a third, and altering a third, I conſummated my firſt labour by a ſhort preface, which is dated February 3d, 1759. Yet I ſtill ſhrunk from the preſs 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 prematur in annum.’ Father Sirmond, a learned jeſuit, was ſtill more rigid, ſince he adviſed a young friend to expect the mature age of fifty, before he gave himſelf or his writ⯑ings to the public (Olivet Hiſtoire de l'Academie Françoiſe, tom. 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. Sir⯑mond was himſelf fifty-five years of age when he publiſhed (in 1614) his firſt work, an edition of Sidonius Apollinaris, with many valu⯑able annotations: (ſee his life, before the great edition of his works in five volumes folio, Paris, 1696, é Typographiâ Regiâ).

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 reſolves were influenced [89] by the ſtate of Europe. About this time the belligerent powers had made and accepted overtures of peace; our Engliſh plenipotentiaries were named to aſſiſt at the Congreſs of Augſbourg, which never met: I wiſhed to attend them as a gentleman or a ſecretary; and my father fondly believed that 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 de⯑livered it into thoſe of Becket, with whom he made an agreement in my name; an eaſy agreement: I required only a certain number of copies; and, without transferring my property, I devolved on the bookſeller the charges and profits of the edition. Dr. Maty under⯑took, in my abſence, to correct the ſheets: he inſerted, without my knowledge, an elegant and flattering epiſtle to the author; which is compoſed, however, with ſo much art, that, in caſe of a defeat, his favourable 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, under the title of Eſſai ſur l'Étude de la Litterature, à Londres, chez T. Becket et P. A. de Hondt, 1761, in a ſmall volume in duodecimo: my dedication to my father, a [90] proper and pious addreſs, was compoſed the twenty-eighth of May: Dr. Maty's letter is dated the 16th of June; and I received the firſt copy (June 23d) 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 York, who breakfaſted in Colonel Pitt's tent. By my father's direction, and Mallet'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 ſur⯑priſing that a work, of which the ſtyle and ſentiments were ſo totally foreign, ſhould have been more ſucceſsful abroad than at home. 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) ex⯑tended the fame, or at leaſt the circulation, of the work. In England it was received with cold indifference, little read, and ſpeedily for⯑gotten: a ſmall impreſſion was ſlowly diſperſed; the bookſeller mur⯑mured, 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 refuſed the permiſſion which Becket ſolicited of reprinting it: the public curioſity was imperfectly ſatisfied by a pirated copy of the bookſellers of Dublin; and 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 aera in the life of a ſtudent, when he [91] ventures to reveal the meaſure of his mind: his hopes and fears are multiplied by the idea of ſelf-importance, and he believes for a while that the eyes of mankind are ſixed on his perſon and performance. Whatever may be my preſent reputation, it no longer reſts on the merit of this firſt eſſay; and at the end of twenty-eight years I may appreciate my juvenile 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 admire, ‘les livres ſans nombre que Mr. Gibbon a lus et tres bien lus^*’. But, 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 perſonal acquaintance was conſined 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, critical, philoſophical, are heaped on each other without method or connection; and if we except ſome introductory pages, all the remaining chapters might indifferently be reverſed or tranſpoſed. The obſcurity of many paſſages is often affected, brevis eſſe laboro, obſcurus fio; the deſire of expreſſing perhaps a common idea with ſententious 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 and twenty years of age, who had read with taſte, who thinks with freedom, and who writes in a fo⯑reign language with ſpirit and elegance. The defence of the early Hiſtory of Rome and the new Chronology of Sir Iſaac Newton [92] form a ſpecious argument. The patriotic and political deſign of the Georgies 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 dawnings of a philoſophic ſpirit enlighten the general remarks on the ſtudy of hiſtory and of man. I am not diſpleaſed with the inquiry into the origin and na⯑ture of the gods of polytheiſm, which might deſerve the illuſtra⯑tion of a riper judgment. Upon the whole, I may apply to the firſt labour of my pen the ſpeech of a far ſuperior artiſt, when he ſurveyed the firſt productions of his pencil. After viewing ſome portraits which he had painted in his youth, my friend Sir Joſhua Reynolds acknowledged to me, that he was rather humbled than flattered by the compariſon with his preſent works; and that after ſo much time and ſtudy, 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 af⯑fectation, 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 conſe⯑crated by the ſervice of the church, it was refined by the imitation of the ancients; and in the fifteenth and ſixteenth centuries the ſcholars [93] of Europe enjoyed the advantage, which they have gradually re⯑ſigned, of converſing and writing in a common and learned idiom. As that idiom was no longer in any country the vulgar ſpeech, they all 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 attempted a more perilous taſk, of writing in a living language, and appealing to the taſte and judgment of the natives. The vanity of Tully was doubly intereſted in the 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 Greece, (ad Atticum, i. 19. ii. 1.) 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 the monarchy, and the exile of the proteſtants. Several foreigners have ſeized the oppor⯑tunity of ſpeaking to Europe in this common dialect, and Germany may plead the authority of Leibnitz and Frederic, 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 ſide of the Alps, my country⯑men 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 letters will not be quoted as models of compoſition. Lord Bolingbroke may [94] 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 Caro⯑line, and his Eſſay on Epic Poetry, it ſhould ſeem that Voltaire himſelf wiſhed to deſerve a return of the ſame compliment. The exception of Count Hamilton cannot fairly be urged; 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 do⯑meſtic converſation, did not affect the eaſe and purity of his inimi⯑table ſtyle; and I regret the omiſſion of his Engliſh verſes, which might have afforded an amuſing object of compariſon. I might therefore aſſume the primus ego in patriam, &c.; but with what ſuc⯑ceſs I have explored this untrodden path muſt be left to the deciſion of my French readers. Dr. Maty, who might himſelf be queſtioned as a foreigner, has ſecured his retreat at my expence. ‘Je ne crois pas que vous vous piquiez d'être moins facile à 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 friends and Pariſians^*. The defects which Maty inſinuates, ‘Ces traits ſaillans, ces figures hardies, ce ſacrifice de la régle au ſentiment, et de la cadence à la force,’ are the faults of the youth, rather than of the ſtranger: and after the long and laborious exerciſe of my own language, I am conſcious that my French ſtyle has been ripened and improved.

I have already hinted, that the publication of my Eſſay was de⯑layed 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.

[95] In the outſet of a glorious war, the Engliſh people had been de⯑fended 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 their 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 Hampſhire regiment, (June 12th, 1759,) we had not ſup⯑poſed that we ſhould be dragged away, my father from his farm, myſelf from my books, and condemned, during two years 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 pro⯑vincials 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 lieute⯑nant, 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 dictatig the orders, and exerciſing the battalion. With the help of our original journal, I could write the hiſtory of my bloodleſs and inglorious campaigns; but as theſe events have loſt much of their importance in my own eyes, they ſhall be diſpatched in a few words. From Wincheſter, the firſt place of aſſembly, (June 4, 1760,) [96] we were removed, at our own requeſt, for the benefit of a foreign education. By the arbitrary, and often capricious, orders of the War-office, the battalion ſucceſſively marched to the pleaſant and hoſpitable Blandford (June 17); to Hilſea barracks, a ſeat of diſeaſe and diſcord (September 1); to Cranbrook in the weald of Kent (December 11); to the ſea-coaſt of Dover (December 27); to Win⯑cheſter camp (June 25, 1761); to the populous and diſorderly town of Devizes (October 23); to Saliſbury (February 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 till our final diſſolution (December 23). On the beach at Dover we had exerciſed in ſight of the Gallic ſhores. But the moſt ſplendid and uſeful ſcene of our life was a four months encampment on Wincheſter Down, under the command of the Earl of Effing⯑ham. Our army conſiſted of the thirty-fourth regiment of foot and ſix militia corps. The conſciouſneſs of our defects was ſtimu⯑lated by friendly emulation. We improved our time and opportu⯑nities in morning and evening field-days; and in the general re⯑views the South Hampſhire were rather a credit than a diſgrace to the line. In our ſubſequent quarters of the Devizes and Blandford, 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 many buſy and idle hours was not compenſated by any elegant pleaſure; and my temper was inſenſibly ſoured by the ſociety of our 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 health⯑ful exerciſe of the field I hunted with a battalion, inſtead of a pack; 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 [97] ſlighteſt call of private 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 reſerved 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, and 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 and a veteran. The diſcipline and evolutions of a modern battalion gave me a clearer notion of the phalanx and the legion; and the captain of the Hampſhire grenadiers (the reader may ſmile) has not been uſe⯑leſs to the hiſtorian of the Roman empire.

A youth of any ſpirit is fired even by the play of arms, and in the firſt ſallies of my enthuſiaſm I had ſeriouſly attempted to em⯑brace the regular profeſſion of a ſoldier. But this military fever was cooled by the enjoyment of our mimic Bellona, who ſoon un⯑veiled 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 bovi ſunt impoſitae. Eſt incredibile quam me negotii taedeat. Non habet ſatis magnum campum ille tibi non ignotus curſus animi; et induſtriae meae praeclara opera ceſſat. Lucem, libros, urbem, domum, vos deſidero. Sed feram, ut potero; ſit modo annuum. Si prorogatur, actum eſt^*’. From a ſervice without danger I might indeed have retired without diſ⯑grace; but as often as I hinted a wiſh of reſigning, my fetters were rivetted by the friendly intreaties of the colonel, the parental authority of the major, and my own regard for the honour and [98] 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^*.

[99] When I complain of the loſs of time, juſtice to myſelf and to the militia muſt throw the greateſt part of that reproach on the firſt [100] ſeven or eight months, while I was obliged to learn as well as to teach. The diſſipation of Blandford, and the diſputes of Portſmouth, [101] conſumed the hours which were not employed in the field; and amid the perpetual hurry of an inn, a barrack, or a guard-room, all [102] literary ideas were baniſhed from my mind. After this long faſt, the longeſt which I have ever known, I once more taſted at Dover [103] the pleaſures of reading and thinking; and the hungry appetite with which I opened a volume of Tully's philoſophical works is ſtill preſent to my memory. The laſt review of my Eſſay before its pub⯑lication, had prompted me to inveſtigate the nature of the gods; my inquiries led me to the Hiſtoire Critique du Manichèiſme of Beau⯑ſobre, [104] who diſcuſſes many deep queſtions of Pagan and Chriſtian theology: and from this rich treaſury of facts and opinions, I de⯑duced my own conſequences, beyond the holy circle of the author. After this recovery I never relapſed into indolence; and my ex⯑ample might prove, that in the life moſt averſe to ſtudy, ſome hours 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 South⯑ampton, I always ſecured a ſeparate lodging, and the neceſſary books; and in the ſummer of 1762, while the new militia was raiſing, I enjoyed at Beriton two or three months of literary repoſe^*. In forming a new plan of ſtudy, I heſitated between the mathematics and the Greek language; both of which I had neglected ſince my return from Lauſanne. I conſulted a learned and friendly mathe⯑matician, Mr. George Scott, a pupil of 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 [105] on the choice of Homer, the father of poetry, and the Bible of the ancients: but Scaliger ran through the Iliad in one and twenty days; and I was not diſſatisfied with my own diligence 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.

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 ſhall notice a life of Homer, in the Opuſcula Mythologica of Gale, ſeveral books of the geography of Strabo, and the entire treatiſe of Longinus, which, from the title and the ſtyle, is equally worthy of the epithet of ſublime. My grammatical ſkill was improved, my vocabulary was enlarged; and in the militia I acquired a juſt and indelible knowledge of the firſt of languages. On every march, in every journey, Horace was always in my pocket, and often in my hand: but I ſhould not mention his two critical epiſtles, the amuſement of a morning, had they not been accom⯑panied by the elaborate commentary of Dr. Hurd, now Biſhop of Wor⯑ceſter. On the intereſting ſubjects of compoſition and imitation of epic and dramatic poetry, I preſumed to think for myſelf; and thirty cloſe-written pages in folio could ſcarcely compriſe my full and free diſcuſ⯑ſion of the ſenſe of the maſter and the pedantry of the ſervant^†.

[106] After his oracle Dr. Johnſon, my friend Sir Joſhua Reynolds de⯑nies all original genius, any natural 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 idea 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, from a journal which I kept at that time.

[111] The youthful habits 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 education 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 [112] conveyed me to Dover, the packet to Boulogne, and ſuch was my diligence, that I reached Paris on the 28th of January 1763, only thirty-ſix 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.

[113] In this firſt viſit I paſſed three months and a half, (January 28 —May 9,) and a much longer ſpace might have been agreeably filled, without any intercourſe with the natives. At home we are content to move in the daily round of pleaſure and buſineſs; and a ſcene which is always preſent is ſuppoſed to be within our know⯑ledge, or at leaſt within our power. But in a foreign country, cu⯑rioſity is our buſineſs and our 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 de⯑voted 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 opu⯑lence of the French capital ariſes from the defects of its government and religion. In the abſence of Louis XIV. and his ſucceſſors, the Louvre has been left unfiniſhed: but the millions which have been laviſhed on the ſands of Verſailles, and the moraſs of Marli, could not be ſupplied by the legal allowance of a Britiſh king. The ſplen⯑dour of the French nobles is confined to their town reſidence; that of the Engliſh is more uſefully diſtributed in their country feats; and we ſhould be aſtoniſhed at our own riches, if the labours of architecture, the ſpoils of Italy and Greece, which are now ſcattered from Inverary to Wilton, were accumulated in a few ſtreets between Marybone and Weſtminſter. All ſuperfluous ornament is rejected by the cold frugality of the proteſtants; but the catholic ſuperſti⯑tion, 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. Sul⯑pice, one of the nobleſt ſtructures in Paris, was built and adorned [114] by the private induſtry of a late curé. In this outſet, and ſtill more in the ſequel of my tour, my eye was amuſed; but the pleaſing viſion cannot be fixed by the pen; the particular images are darkly ſeen through the medium of five-and-twenty years, and the nar⯑rative 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 cloſe of a ſucceſsful war the Britiſh name was reſpected on the continent.

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 philoſo⯑pher. For myſelf, I carried a perſonal recommendation; my name and my Eſſay were already known; the compliment of having written in [115] the 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 departure I had obtained from the Duke de Nivernois, Lady Hervey, the Mallets, Mr. Walpole, &c. many letters of recommendation to their private or literary friends. Of theſe epiſtles the reception and ſucceſs were determined by the character and 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 fold in the pro⯑duction of new ſhoots, ſpreading branches, and exquiſite fruit. But upon the whole, I had reaſon to praiſe the national urbanity, which from the court 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; Voltaire reſided on his own eſtate near Geneva; Rouſſeau in the preceding year had been driven from his hermitage of Montmorency; and I bluſh at my having neglected 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 leaſt in fame. I ſhall content myſelf with enumerating the well-known names of the Count de Caylus, of the Abbé de la Bleterie, Barthelemy, Reynal, Arnaud, of Meſſieurs de la Condamine, du Clos, de S^te Palaye, de Bougainville, Caperonnier, de Guignes, Suard, &c. without attempting to diſcri⯑minate the ſhades of their characters, or the degrees of our connec⯑tion. 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 a place, without invitation, at the hoſ⯑pitable tables of Meſdames Geoffrin and du Bocage, of the cele⯑brated Helvetius, and of the Baron d'Olbach. In theſe ſympoſia the pleaſures of the table were improved by lively and liberal con⯑verſation; [116] the company was ſelect, though various and volun⯑tary^*.

The ſociety of Madame du Bocage was more ſoft and moderate than that of her rivals, and the evening converſations of M. de Foncemagne were ſupported by the good ſenſe and learning of the principal members of the Academy of Inſcriptions. The opera and the Italians I occaſionally viſited; but the French theatre, both in [117] tragedy and comedy, was my daily and favourite amuſement. Two famous actreſſes then divided the public applauſe. For my own part, I preferred the conſummate art of the Clairon, to the intem⯑perate ſallies of the Dumeſnil, which were extolled by her admirers, as the genuine voice of nature and paſſion. Fourteen weeks in⯑ſenſibly ſtole away; but had I been rich and independent, I ſhould have prolonged, and perhaps have fixed, my reſidence at Paris.

Between the expenſive ſtyle of Paris and of Italy it was prudent to interpoſe ſome months of tranquil 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 Beſançon, 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 place, 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 voluntary 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, and among the ſtrangers I ſhall diſtinguiſh Prince Lewis of Wirtemberg, the brother of the reigning Duke, at whoſe country-houſe, near Lau⯑ſanne, I frequently dined: a wandering meteor, and at length a falling ſtar, his light and ambitious ſpirit had ſucceſſively dropped from the firmament of Pruſſia, of France, and of Auſtria; and his faults, which he ſtiled his misfortunes, had driven him into philoſo⯑phic exile in the Pais de Vaud. He could now moralize on the va⯑nity of the world, the equality of mankind, and the happineſs of a private ſtation. His addreſs was affable and polite, and as he had [118] ſhone in courts and armies, his memory could ſupply, and his elo⯑quence 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 pro⯑voked 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 theatre which he had founded, the actors whom he had formed, ſurvived the loſs of their maſter; and recent from Paris, I attended with pleaſure at the repreſentation of ſeveral tragedies and comedies. I ſhall not deſcend to ſpecify par⯑ticular names and characters; but I cannot forget a private inſtitu⯑tion, which will diſplay the innocent freedom of Swiſs manners. My favourite ſociety had aſſumed, from the age of its members, the proud denomination of the ſpring (la ſociété 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 ex⯑quiſite beauty. At each other's houſes they aſſembled almoſt every day, without the controul, or even the preſence, of a mother or an aunt; they were truſted to their own prudence, among a crowd of young men of every nation in Europe. They laughed, they ſung, 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 trangreſſed 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 the innocent ſimplicity of Swiſs man⯑ners. After having taſted the luxury of England and Paris, I could not have returned with ſatisfaction to the coarſe and homely table of Ma⯑dame [119] Pavilliard; nor was her huſband offended that I now entered my⯑ſelf 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 propriety of her con⯑duct, that of two or three hundred foreigners, none ever failed in 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 fallies 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 ſitu⯑ation, he appeared like a nobleman who ſpent his fortune and enter⯑tained his friends. In this agreeable ſociety I reſided nearly eleven months (May 1763—April 1764); and in this ſecond viſit to Lau⯑ſanne, among a crowd of my Engliſh companions, I knew and eſteemed Mr. Holroyd (now Lord Sheffield); and our mutual at⯑tachment was renewed and fortified in the ſubſequent ſtages of our Italian journey. Our lives are in the power of chance, and a ſlight variation on either ſide, in time or place, might have deprived me of a friend, whoſe activity in the ardour of youth was always [120] prompted by a benevolent heart, and directed by a ſtrong under⯑ſtanding^*.

[121] If my ſtudies at Paris had been conſined to the ſtudy of the world, three or four months would not have been unprofitably ſpent. My [122] viſits, however ſuperficial, to the Academy of Medals and the public libraries, opened a new field of inquiry; and the view of ſo many [123] manuſcripts of different ages and characters induced me to conſult the two great Benedictine works, the Diplomatica of Mabillon, and the Palaeographia of Montfaucon. I'ſtudied the theory without attain⯑ing the practice of the art: nor ſhould I complain of the intricacy of [124] Greek abbreviations and Gothic alphabets, ſince every day, in a fa⯑miliar language, I am at a loſs to decypher 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 em⯑ployed in literary labour. In the country, Horace and Virgil, Ju⯑venal and Ovid, were 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 ancient geography of Italy, and the ſcience of medals. 1. I diligently read, almoſt always with my pen in my hand, the elaborate treatiſes of Nardini, Donatus, &c. which 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 digeſted every paſſage of the ancient writers. Theſe paſſages in Greek or Latin authors 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 Catalogues of the Epic poets, the Itineraries of Weſſeling's Anto⯑ninus, and the coaſting Voyage of Rutilius Numatianus; and I ſtudied two kindred ſubjects in the Meſures Itineraires of d'Anville, and the copious work of Bergier, Hiſtoire des grands Chemins de l'Empire Romain. From theſe materials I formed a table of roads and diſtances reduced to our Engliſh meaſure; filled a folio common-place book with my collections and remarks on the geography of Italy; and in⯑ferted in my journal many long and learned notes on the inſulae and populouſneſs of Rome, the ſocial war, the paſſage of the Alps by Hannibal, &c. 3. After glancing my eye over Addiſon's agreeable dialogues, I more ſeriouſly read the great work of Ezechiel Spanheim de Praeſtantiâ et Uſù Numiſmatum, and applied with him the medals [125] of the kings and emperors, the families and colonies, to the illuſtration of ancient hiſtory. And thus was I armed for my Italian journey^*.

I ſhall advance with 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 wave the minute inveſtigation of the ſcenes which have been viewed by thouſands, and deſcribed by hundreds, of our modern travellers. ROME is the [126] great object of our pilgrimage: and 1ſt, the journey; 2d, the reſi⯑dence; and 3d, the return; will form the moſt proper and perſpi⯑cuous diviſion. 1. I climbed Mount Cenis, and 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 re⯑gulated with decent and ſplendid oeconomy; and I was introduced to his Sardinian majeſty^* Charles Emanuel, who, after the incom⯑parable Frederic, held the ſecond rank (proximus longo tamen inter⯑vallo) among the kings of Europe. The ſize and populouſneſs of Milan could 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 of a lake encompaſſed with moun⯑tains, and far removed from the haunts of men. I was leſs 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 military 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 Farneſe 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 June to September, during the heat of the ſummer months. In the Gallery, and eſpecially in the Tribune, I firſt acknowledged, at the feet of the Venus of Medicis, that the chiſſel 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 [127] 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 table^*. After leaving Florence, I com⯑pared 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 ſleep⯑leſs night, I trod, with a lofty ſtep, the ruins 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 in⯑veſtigation. My guide was Mr. Byers, a Scotch antiquary of experi⯑ence and taſte; but, in the daily labour of eighteen weeks, the powers of attention were ſometimes fatigued, till I was myſelf qua⯑lified, 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 luxu⯑rious inhabitants ſeem to dwell on the conſines of paradiſe and hell⯑ſire. I was preſented to the boy-king by our new envoy, Sir William Hamilton; who, wiſely diverting his correſpondence from the Se⯑cretary of State to the Royal Society and Britiſh Muſeum, has eluci⯑dated [128] a country of ſuch ineſtimable value to the naturaliſt and anti⯑quarian. On my return, I fondly embraced, for the laſt time, the miracles of Rome; but I departed without kiſſing the feet of Rezzo⯑nico (Clement XIII.), who neither poſſeſſed the wit of his prede⯑ceſſor 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 diſprove the paradox of Monteſquieu, that modern Italy is a deſert. Without adopting the excluſive pre⯑judice of the natives, I ſincerely admire the paintings of the Bologna ſchool. I haſtened to eſcape from the ſad ſolitude of Ferrara, which in the age of Caeſar was ſtill more deſolate. The ſpectacle of Ve⯑nice 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 Lyons.

The uſe of foreign travel has been often debated as a general queſtion; but the concluſion muſt 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 ſup⯑poſing the previous and indiſpenſable requiſites of age, judgment, a competent knowledge of men and books, and a freedom from do⯑meſtic 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, which can ſeize every mode of conveyance, and ſupport, with a careleſs ſmile, every hardſhip of the road, the weather, or the inn. The benefits of foreign travel will correſpond with the degrees of theſe qualifications; but, [129] in this ſketch, thoſe to whom I am known will not accuſe me of framing my own panegyric. It was at Rome, on the 15th of Octo⯑ber 1764, as I ſat muſing amidſt the ruins of the 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 re⯑flections began to point 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 impa⯑tience. Rome and Italy had ſatiared 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, embarked at Calais, again landed at Dover, after an interval of two years and five months, and haſtily drove through the ſummer duſt and ſolitude of London. On the 25th of June 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 ſpring I attended the monthly meeting and exerciſe of the militia at South⯑ampton; 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 commandant: but I was each year more diſ⯑guſted with the inn, the wine, the company, and the tireſome repe⯑tition of annual attendance and daily exerciſe. At home, the oeco⯑nomy of the family and farm ſtill maintained the ſame creditable ap⯑pearance. My connection with Mrs. Gibbon was mellowed into a warm and ſolid attachment: my growing years aboliſhed the diſtance [130] that might yet remain between a parent and a ſon, and my beha⯑viour ſatisfied my father, who was proud of the ſucceſs, however imperfect in his own life-time, of my literary talents. Our ſoli⯑tude 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 emi⯑grated from his native lake to the banks of the Oder in Germany. The res anguſta domi, the waſte of a decent patrimony, by an impro⯑vident father, obliged him, like many of his countrymen, to con⯑fide 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 for⯑tified by the expectation of my ſpeedy return to England. During four ſucceſſive ſummers he paſſed ſeveral weeks or months at Beri⯑ton, and our free converſations, on every topic that could intereſt the heart or underſtanding, would have reconciled me to a deſert or a priſon. In the winter months of London my ſphere of know⯑ledge and action was ſomewhat enlarged, by the many new ac⯑quaintance 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 eſta⯑bliſhed by myſelf and travellers, under the name of the Roman Club^*.

[131] The renewal, or perhaps the improvement, of my Engliſh life was embittered by the alteration 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 comparative ſtate of liberty and affluence. My ſilial obedience was natural and eaſy; and in the gay proſpect of futurity, my ambition did not ex⯑tend beyond the enjoyment of my books, my leiſure, and my pa⯑trimonial 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 approached, as I gradually paſſed my thirtieth year, I began to feel the deſire of being maſter in my own houſe. The moſt gentle authority will ſometimes frown without reaſon, the moſt cheerful ſubmiſſion will ſometimes murmur without cauſe; and ſuch is the law of our im⯑perfect nature, that we muſt either command or obey; that our perſonal liberty is ſupported by the obſequiouſneſs of our own de⯑pendants. 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 ſtood alone, immoveable and inſignificant; for after the monthly meeting of 1770, I had even withdrawn my⯑ſelf 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 had 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; and my repent⯑ance 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 connections which are cemented by hope and intereſt, by grati⯑tude [132] and emulation, by the mutual exchange of ſervices and favours. From the emoluments of a profeſſion I might have derived an ample fortune, or a competent income, inſtead of being ſtinted to the ſame narrow allowance, to be increaſed only by an event which I ſincerely deprecated. The progreſs and the knowledge of our domeſtic diſ⯑orders 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 ſummer after my return, whilſt I enjoyed at Beriton the ſociety of my friend Deyverdun, our daily converſations expa⯑tiated over the field of antient 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 awful diſtance: but the two hiſtorical deſigns which had balanced my choice were ſubmitted to his taſte; and in the parallel between the Revolutions of Florence 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 con⯑ceived and digeſted, I embraced a period of two hundred years, from the aſſociation of the three peaſants of the Alps to the plenitude 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 tro⯑phies of the Auſtrian, Burgundian, and Italian wars; and the wiſ⯑dom of a nation, who, after ſome ſallies of martial adventure, has been content to guard the bleſſings of peace with the ſword of freedom.

My judgment, as well as my enthuſiaſm, was ſatisfied with the glorious theme; and the aſſiſtance of Deyverdun ſeemed to remove [133] 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 language, 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 copious and contemporary relation of the war of Bur⯑gundy; we read and marked the moſt intereſting parts of the great chronicle of Tſchudi; and by his labour, or that of an inferior aſ⯑ſiſtant, large extracts were made from the Hiſtory of Lauffer and the Dictionary of Lew: yet ſuch was the diſtance and delay, that two years elapſed in theſe preparatory ſteps; and it was late in the third ſummer (1767) 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 following winter in a literary ſociety of foreigners in London; and as the author was unknown, I liſtened, without obſervation, to the free ſtrictures, and unfavour⯑able ſentence, of my judges^*. The momentary ſenſation was pain⯑ful; [134] but their condemnation was ratified by my cooler thoughts. I delivered my imperfect ſheets to the flames^†, and forever re⯑nounced a deſign in which ſome expence, 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 from the libraries and archives of the Swiſs republics. My antient habits, and the preſence of Deyverdun, encouraged me to write in French for the continent of 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 ſuſpect that the language itſelf is ill adapted to ſuſtain the vigour and dignity of 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 mode of hiſtorical eloquence.

[135] 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, that 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 juſt pronunciation and familiar uſe of the Engliſh tongue, but he read our moſt dif⯑ficult authors 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 Shakeſpeare and Garrick with more exquiſite feeling and diſcernment. The conſci⯑ouſneſs of his own ſtrength, and the aſſurance of my aid, embold⯑ened him to imitate the example of Dr. Maty, whoſe Journal Bri⯑tannique was eſteemed 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 reſponſible; but the public has ratified my judgment of that voluminous work, in which ſenſe 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, plea⯑ſantry. I ſtarted at the attempt: he ſmiled at my fears: his courage was juſtified by ſucceſs; and a maſter of both languages will ap⯑plaud the curious felicity with which he has transfuſed into French [136] 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 impoſſible for me to aſcertain the reſpective ſhares of the two aſſociates. A long and intimate com⯑munication of ideas had caſt our ſentiments and ſtyle in the ſame mould. In our ſocial labours we compoſed and corrected by turns; and the praiſe 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 pre⯑ſume to ſay, that their merit was ſuperior to their 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 12th, 1769,) and reſerved the author for the future educa⯑cation of his ſucceſſor: the 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 Richard Worſley, a youth, the ſon of my old Lieutenant-co⯑lonel, 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 publication was an accidental ſally of love and reſent⯑ment; of my reverence for modeſt genius, and my averſion for in⯑ſolent pedantry. The ſixth book of the Aeneid is the moſt pleaſing and perfect compoſition of Latin poetry. The deſcent of Aeneas and the Sybil to the infernal regions, to the world of ſpirits, expands [137] an awful and boundleſs proſpect, from the nocturnal gloom of the Cumaean grot, ‘Ibant obſcuri-ſolâ ſub nocte per umbram,’ to the meridian brightneſs of the Elyſian fields;

from the dreams of ſimple Nature, to the dreams, alas! of Egyptian theology, and the philoſophy of the Greeks. But the final diſ⯑miſſion of the hero through the ivory gate, whence ‘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 imputed 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 Divine 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 and critical diſ⯑cuſſion. 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 infal⯑lible decrees; in his polemic writings he laſhed his antagoniſts with⯑out mercy or moderation; and his ſervile flatterers, (ſee the baſe and malignant Eſſay on the Delicacy of Friendſhip,) exalting the maſter critic far above Ariſtotle and Longinus, aſſaulted every modeſt diſ⯑ſenter who refuſed to conſult the oracle, and to adore the idol. In a land of liberty, ſuch deſpotiſm muſt provoke a general oppoſition, [138] and the zeal of oppoſition is ſeldom candid or impartial. A late profeſſor of Oxford, (Dr. Lowth,) in a pointed and poliſhed epiſtle, (Auguſt 31ſt, 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 War⯑burton and his ſlaves. I too, without any private offence, was am⯑bitious of breaking a lance againſt the giant's ſhield; and in the be⯑ginning 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 aimed my ſtrokes againſt the perſon and the hypotheſis of Biſhop Warburton. I proved, at leaſt to my own ſatisfaction, that the antient 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 allegory, or remove the ſeene 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 Virgil was not initiated he could not, if he were he would not, reveal the ſecrets of the initiation: that the anathema of Horace (vetabo qui Cereris ſacrum vulgarit, &c.) at once atteſts his own ignorance and the innocence of his 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 ap⯑probation of the laſt and beſt editor of Virgil, Profeſſor Heyne of Gottingen, who acquieſces in my confutation, and ſtiles the un⯑known author, doctus—et elegantiſſimus Britannus. But I cannot reſiſt the temptation of tranſcribing the favourable judgment of Mr. Hayley, himſelf a poet and a ſcholar: ‘An intricate hypotheſis, twiſted into a long and laboured chain of quotation and argu⯑ment, the Diſſertation on the Sixth Book of Virgil, remained ſome time unrefuted.—At length, a ſuperior, but anony⯑mous, [139] critic aroſe, who, in one of the moſt judicious and ſpirited eſſays that our nation has produced, on a point of claſſical litera⯑ture, 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 velis —perſtrinxit’ ^*. But I cannot forgive myſelf the contemptuous treatment of a man who, with all his faults, was entitled to my eſteem^†; and I can leſs forgive, in a perſonal attack, the cowardly concealment of my name and character.

In the fifteen years between my Eſſay on the Study of Literature and the firſt volume of the Decline 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 was 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 younger Pliny, and Juvenal, were my old and familiar com⯑panions. [140] I inſenſibly plunged into the ocean of the Auguſtan hiſ⯑tory; and in the deſcending ſeries I inveſtigated, with my pen almoſt always in my hand, the original records, both Greek and Latin, from Dion Caſſius to Ammianus Marcellinus, from the reign of Trajan to the laſt age of the Weſtern Caeſars. The ſubſidiary rays of medals, and inſcriptions of geography and chronology, were thrown on their proper objects; and I applied the collections of Tillemont, whoſe inimitable accuracy almoſt aſſumes the cha⯑racter of genius, to fix and arrange within my reach the looſe 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 tranſverſe lines of Sigonius and Maffei, Baronius and Pagi, till I almoſt graſped the ruins of Rome in the fourteenth cen⯑tury, without ſuſpecting that this final chapter muſt be attained by the labour of ſix quartos and twenty years. Among the books which I purchaſed, the Theodocian Code, with the commentary of James Godefroy, 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 conſidered 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 apo⯑logies of the Chriſtians themſelves, with the glances of candour or enmity which the Pagans have caſt 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 unbelieving age. I have aſſembled the preparatory ſtudies, directly [141] or indirectly relative to my hiſtory; but, in ſtrict equity, they muſt be ſpread beyond this period of my life, over the two ſummers (1771 and 1772) that elapſed between my father'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 are introduced to our acquaintance; but in this general ac⯑quaintance we may ſelect the degrees of friendſhip and eſteem, ac⯑cording to the wiſe maxim, Multum legere potius quam multa. I re⯑viewed, 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 know⯑ledge 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 un⯑happily laboured. After a certain age, the new publications of merit are the ſole food of the many; and the moſt 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 may be 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 do⯑meſtic anxiety, and I ſhould be aſhamed of my unfeeling philoſophy, had I found much time or taſte for ſtudy in the laſt fatal ſummer (1772) 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 Cincinnatus) to a life of agriculture. His labours were uſeful, his pleaſures innocent, his wiſhes mode⯑rate; and my father ſeemed to enjoy the ſtate of happineſs which is [142] celebrated by poets and philoſophers, as the moſt agreeable to nature, and the leaſt acceſſible to fortune.

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 af⯑forded him a partial and tranſient relief. The annual demand of intereſt and allowance was a heavy deduction from his income; the militia was a ſource of expence, the farm in his hands was not a profitable adventure, he was loaded with the coſts and damages of an obſolete law-ſuit; and each year multiplied the number, and ex⯑hauſted the patience, of his creditors. Under theſe painful circum⯑ſtances, 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 reluctant delays poſt⯑poned not the evils themſelves, but the remedies of thoſe evils (re⯑media malorum potius quam mala differebat). The pangs of ſhame, tenderneſs, and ſelf-reproach, inceſſantly preyed on his vitals; his conſtitution was broken; he loſt his ſtrength and his ſight; the ra⯑pid progreſs of a dropſy admoniſhed him of his end, and he ſunk into the grave on the 10th of November 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 [143] Flatus, who is ever confident, and ever diſappointed in the chace of happineſs. But theſe conſtitutional failings were happily compen⯑ſated by the virtues of the head and heart, by the warmeſt ſenti⯑ments of honour and humanity. His graceful perſon, polite ad⯑dreſs, gentle manners, and unaffected cheerfulneſs, recommended him to the favour of every company; and in the change of times and opinions, his liberal ſpirit had long ſince delivered him from the zeal and prejudice of a Tory education. I ſubmitted to the order of Nature; and my grief was ſoothed by the conſcious 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 ef⯑forts were ſo awkward and feeble, that nearly two years (November 1770—October 1772) were ſuffered to elapſe before I could diſen⯑tangle myſelf from the management of the farm, and transfer my reſidence from Beriton to a houſe in London. During this interval I continued to divide my year between town and the country; but my new ſituation was brightened by hope; my ſtay in London was prolonged into the ſummer; and the uniformity of the ſummer was occaſionally broken by viſits and excurſions at a diſtance from home. The gratification of my deſires (they 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 tradeſman; 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 eſtate 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 [144] 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 accompliſhed the taſk, or acquired the fame, of an hiſ⯑torian; that my ſpirit would have been broken by poverty and con⯑tempt, and that my induſtry might have been relaxed 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 required 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 faſhion⯑able clubs; and, before I left England in 1783, there were few per⯑ſons of any eminence in the literary or political world to whom I was a ſtranger^*. It would moſt aſſuredly be in my power to amuſe the reader with a gallery of portraits 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 own choice I paſſed in town the greateſt part of the year; but whenever I was [145] deſirous of breathing the air of the country, I poſſeſſed an hoſpitable retreat at Sheffield-place in Suſſex, in the family of my valuable friend Mr. Holroyd, 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 under⯑took the compoſition of the firſt volume of my Hiſtory. At the outſet all was dark and doubtful; even the title of the work, the true aera of the Decline and Fall of the Empire, the limits of the introduction, the diviſion of the chapters, and the order of the nar⯑rative; and I was often tempted to caſt away the labour of ſeven years. The ſtyle of an author ſhould be the image of his mind, but the choice and command of language 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 times did I com⯑poſe the firſt chapter, and twice the ſecond and third, before I was tolerably ſatisfied with their effect. In the remainder of the way I advanced with a more equal and eaſy pace; but the fifteenth and ſixteenth chapters have been reduced by three ſucceſſive reviſals, from a large volume to their preſent ſize; and they might ſtill be com⯑preſſed, 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 de⯑votion; but I was ſoon diſguſted with the modeſt practice of read⯑ing 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 [146] of Leſkeard. I took my ſeat at the beginning of the memorable conteſt between Great Britain and America, and ſupported, with many a ſincere and ſilent vote, the rights, though not, perhaps, the intereſt, of the mother country. After a fleeting illuſive hope, pru⯑dence condemned me to acquieſce in the humble ſtation of a mute. I was not armed by Nature and education with the intrepid energy of mind and voice.

Timidity was fortified by pride, and even the ſucceſs of my pen diſ⯑couraged 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 con⯑ſummate 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 ſenſe of Thurlow, and the ſkilful eloquence of Wedder⯑burne. From the adverſe ſide of the houſe an ardent and powerful oppoſition was ſupported, by the lively declamation of Barré, the legal acuteneſs of Dunning, the profuſe and philoſophic fancy of Burke, and the argumentative vehemence of Fox, who in the con⯑duct of a party approved himſelf equal to the conduct of an empire. [147] By ſuch men every operation of peace and war, every principle of juſtice or policy, every queſtion of authority and freedom, was attacked and defended; and the ſubject 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 pru⯑dence, 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 firſt 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 emi⯑nent printer; and they undertook the care and riſk of the publica⯑tion, which derived more credit from the name of the ſhop than from that of the author. The laſt reviſal of the proofs was ſub⯑mitted to my vigilance; and many blemiſhes of ſtyle, which 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 ambition of fame, nor depreſſed by the apprehenſion of contempt. My diligence and accuracy 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 ca⯑pacity. I had choſen an illuſtrious ſubject. Rome is familiar to the ſchool-boy and the ſtateſman; and my narrative was deduced from the laſt period of claſſical reading. I had likewiſe flattered myſelf, that an age of light and liberty would receive, without ſcan⯑dal, an inquiry into the human cauſes of the progreſs and eſtabliſh⯑ment of Chriſtianity.

I am at a loſs how to deſcribe the ſucceſs of the work, without betraying the vanity of the writer. The firſt impreſſion was ex⯑bauſted in a few days; a ſecond and third edition were ſcarcely [148] adequate to the demand; and the bookſeller's property was twice 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 day; nor was the general voice diſturbed by the barking of any profane critic. The favour of mankind is moſt freely beſtowed on a new acquaintance of any original merit; and the mutual ſurprize of the public and their favourite is productive 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 ſatisfied 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 have never preſumed to accept a place in the triumvirate of Britiſh hiſtorians.

That curious and original letter will amuſe the reader, and his gratitude ſhould ſhield my free communication from the reproach of vanity.

Some weeks afterwards I had the melancholy pleaſure of ſeeing Mr. Hume in his paſſage through London; his body feeble, his mind firm. On the 25th of Auguſt of the ſame year (1776) he died, at Edinburgh, the death of a philoſopher.

My ſecond excurſion to Paris was determined by the preſſing in⯑vitation 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 popularity. His private fortune enabled him to ſupport a liberal eſtabliſhment; and his wife, whoſe talents and virtues I had long admired, was ad⯑mirably qualified to preſide in the converſation of her table and drawing-room. As their friend, I was introduced to the beſt com⯑pany of both ſexes; to the foreign miniſters of all nations, and to the firſt names and characters of France; who diſtinguiſhed 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 occa⯑ſionally 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 ſo⯑ciety of men of letters I neither courted nor declined; but I was [151] happy in the acquaintance of M. de Buffon, who united with a ſu⯑blime genius the moſt amiable ſimplicity of mind and manners. At the table of my old friend, M. de Foncemagne, I was involved in a diſpute with the Abbé de Mably; and his jealous iraſcible ſpirit revenged itſelf on a work which he was incapable of reading in the original.

As I might be partial in my own cauſe, I ſhall tranſcribe the words of an unknown critic, obſerving only, that this diſpute had been preceded by another on the Engliſh conſtitution, at the houſe of the Counteſs de Froulay, an old Janſeniſt lady.

‘Vous étiez chez M. de Foncemagne, mon cher Theodon, le jour que M. l'Abbé de Mably et M. Gibbon y dinerent en grande com⯑pagnie. La converſation roula preſque entièrement ſur l'hiſtoire. L'Abbé etant un profond politique, la tourna ſur l'adminiſtration, quand on fut au deſert: et comme par caractère, par humeur, par l'habitude d'admirer Tite Live, il ne priſe que le ſyſtême re⯑publicain, il ſe mit à vanter l'excellence des republiques; bien perſuadé que le ſavant Anglois l'approuveroit en tout, et admireroit la profondeur de génie qui avoit fait deviner tous ces avantages à un François. Mais M. Gibbon, inſtruit par l'experience des in⯑conveniens d'un gouvernement populaire, ne fut point du tout de ſon avis, et il prit généreuſement la défenſe du gouvernement mo⯑narchique. L'Abbé voulut le convaincre par Tite Live, et par quelques argumens tirés de Plutarque en faveur des Spartiates. M. Gibbon, doué de la memoire la plus heureuſe, et ayant tous lès faits preſens à la penſée, domina bien-tot la converſation; l'Abbé ſe facha, il s'emporta, il dit des choſes dures; l'Anglois, conſervant le phlegme de ſon pays, prenoit ſes avantages, et preſſoit l'Abbé avee d'autant plus de ſuccès 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, où perſonne ne fut tenté [152] de la renouer.’ Supplément de la Manière d' ecrire l' Hiſtoire, p. 125, &c.^*

Nearly two years had elapſed between the publication of my firſt and the commencément of my ſecond 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 leſſons of chymiſtry, which were delivered by Mr. Higgins. The principles of theſe ſciences, and taſte for books of natural hiſtory, contributed to multiply my ideas and images; and the anatomiſt and chymiſt may ſometimes track me in their own ſnow. 2. I dived, perhaps too deeply, into the mud of the Arian controverſy; and many days of reading, thinking, and writing were conſumed in the purſuit 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 when 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 diſ⯑covered [153] 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, nor my compoſition more happy, than in the winter hurry of ſociety and parliament?

Had I believed that the majority of Engliſh readers were ſo fondly attached even to the name and ſhadow of Chriſtianity; had I foreſcen that the pious, the timid, and the prudent, would feel, or affect to feel, with ſuch exquiſite ſenſibility; I might, perhaps, have ſoſtened 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 clamo⯑rous and bitter, their hands were diſarmed from the powers of per⯑ſecution. 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 than 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 the diſtance of twelve years, I calmly affirm my judgment of Davies, Chelſum, &c. A victory over ſuch antagoniſts was a ſufficient hu⯑miliation. They, however, were rewarded in this world. Poor Chelſum was indeed neglected; and I dare not boaſt the making Dr. Watſon a biſhop; he is a prelate of a large mind 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. [154] Their ſucceſs encouraged the zeal of Taylor the Arian^*, and Milner the Methodiſt^†, with many others, whom it would be difficult to remember, and tedious to rehearſe. The liſt of my adverſaries, how⯑ever, was graced with 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 impe⯑netrable ſilence of the Roman hiſtorian. In his Hiſtory of the Corruptions of Chriſtianity, Dr. Prieſtley threw down his two gaunt⯑lets to Biſhop Hurd and Mr. Gibbon. I declined the challenge in a letter, exhorting my opponent to enlighten the world by his philo⯑ſophical diſcoveries, and to remember that the merit of his prede⯑ceſſor Servetus is now reduced to a ſingle 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 ſire away his double bat⯑tery againſt thoſe who believed too little, and thoſe who believed too much. From my replies he has nothing to hope or fear: but his Socinian ſhield has repeatedly been pierced by the ſpear of Horſley, and his trumpet of ſedition may at length awaken the magiſtrates of a free country.

The profeſſion and rank of Sir David Dalrymple (now a Lord of Seſſion) has given a more decent colour to his ſtyle. But he ſcru⯑tinized [155] each ſeparate paſſage of the two chapters with the dry mi⯑nuteneſs 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 pulpit at Oxford by Dr. White. If he aſ⯑ſaulted me with ſome degree of illiberal acrimony, in ſuch a place, and before ſuch an audience, he was obliged to ſpeak 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. Ed⯑wards 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 the defence of Iſrael; that the prelates and dignitaries of the church (alas, good man!) did not vie with each other, whoſe ſtone ſhould ſink the deepeſt in the forehead of this Goliah.

‘But the force of truth will oblige us to confeſs, that in the at⯑tacks which have been levelled againſt our ſceptical hiſtorian, we can diſcover but ſlender traces of profound and exquiſite erudition, of ſolid criticiſm and accurate inveſtigation; but we are too fre⯑quently diſguſted by vague and inconcluſive reaſoning; by unſea⯑ſonable 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^*.’

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 [156] indignation; and every feeling of indignation or curioſity has long ſince ſubſided in pure and placid indifference.

The proſecution of my hiſtory was ſoon afterwards checked by another controverſy of a very different 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 am⯑baſſador 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^*, that le ſtyle ne ſeroit pas ſans grace, ni la logique ſans juſteſſe, &c. if the facts were true which he undertakes to diſ⯑prove. For theſe facts my credit is not pledged; 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 honourable 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 Lough⯑borough, 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 income 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 ridi⯑cule, [157] ‘the perpetual virtual adjournment, and the unbroken ſitting vacation of the Board of Trade^*.’ 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 leaders of oppoſition, with whom I had lived in habits of intimacy; and I was moſt unjuſtly accuſed of deſerting a party, in which I had never inliſted^†.

[158] The aſpect of the next ſeſſion of parliament was ſtormy and pe⯑rilous; county meetings, petitions, and committees of correſpond⯑ence, announced the public diſcontent; and inſtead of voting with a triumphant majority, the friends of government were often ex⯑poſed to a ſtruggle, and ſometimes to a defeat. The Houſe of Com⯑mons adopted Mr. Dunning's motion, ‘That the influence of the Crown had increaſed, was increaſing, and ought to be dimi⯑niſhed:’ 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 reco⯑vered their ſtrength and ſpirit; and the flames of London, 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 followed this ſeſſion of parliament I loſt my ſeat. Mr. Elliot was now deeply engaged in the meaſures of oppoſition, and the electors of Leſkeard^* are commonly of the ſame opinion as Mr. Elliot.

[159] 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 the po⯑lemics. 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 ſome animadverſions of the Ca⯑tholics of Italy, and by ſome angry letters from Mr. Travis, who made me perſonally reſponſible for condemning, with the beſt cri⯑tics, the ſpurious text of the three heavenly witneſſes.

The piety or prudence of my Italian tranſlator has provided an antidote againſt the poiſon of his original. The 5th and 7th vo⯑lumes are armed with five letters from an anonymous divine to his friends, Foothead and Kirk, two Engliſh ſtudents at Rome; and this meritorious ſervice is commended by Monſignor Stonor, a prelate of the ſame nation, who diſcovers much venom in the fluid and nervous ſtyle of Gibbon. The critical eſſay at the end of the third volume was furniſhed by the Abbate Nicola Spedalieri, whoſe zeal has gra⯑dually ſwelled to a more ſolid confutation in two quarto volumes.— Shall I be excuſed for not having read them?

The brutal inſolence of Mr. Travis's challenge can only be excuſed by the abſence of learning, judgment, and humanity; and to that ex⯑cuſe he has the faireſt or fouleſt pretenſion. Compared with Arch⯑deacon Travis, Chelſum and Davies aſſume the title of reſpectable enemies.

The bigotted advocate 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 conſider Mr. Porſon's anſwer to Archdeacon Travis as the moſt acute and accurate piece of criticiſm which has appeared ſince the days of Bentley. His ſtric⯑tures [160] are founded in argument, enriched with learning, and enlivened with wit; and his adverſary neither deſerves nor finds any quarter at his hands. The evidence of the three heavenly witneſſes would now be rejected in any court of juſtice: but prejudice is blind, authority is deaf, and our vulgar bibles will ever be polluted by this ſpurious text, ‘ſedet aeternumque 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 judg⯑ment of many readers, my continuation 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 and feeble charge againſt the hiſtorian^*, who had faithfully and even cautiouſly rendered Dr. [161] Burnet's meaning by the alternative of ſleep or repoſe. That philo⯑ſophic divine ſuppoſes, that, in the period between death and the reſurrection, human ſouls exiſt without a body, endowed with in⯑ternal 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, [162] quod innuere mihi videtur ſtatum mortis eſſe ſtatum quietis, ſilentii, et [...].’ (De Statû Mortuorum, ch. v. p. 98.)

I was however encouraged by ſome domeſtic and foreign teſtimo⯑nies of applauſe; and the ſecond 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 begin⯑ning, 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 reflec⯑tion on the reigning monarch^*.

Before I could apply for a ſeat at the general election the liſt was already full; but Lord North's promiſe was ſincere, his recommend⯑ation was effectual, and I was ſoon choſen on a vacancy for the borough of Lymington, in Hampſhire. In the firſt ſeſſion of the new parliament, adminiſtration ſtood their ground; their final over⯑throw 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 colonies, and the executive power was driven by national clamour into the moſt vigorous and coercive meaſures. But the length of a fruitleſs conteſt, the loſs of armies, the accumu⯑lation of debt and taxes, and the hoſtile confederacy of France, Spain, and Holland, indiſpoſed the public to the American war, and the [163] perſons by whom it was conducted; the repreſentatives of the people, followed, at a ſlow diſtance, the changes of their opinion; and the miniſters who refuſed 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 office, and retired to a pri⯑vate ſtation, with the tranquil aſſurance of a clear conſcience and a cheerful temper: the old fabric was diſſolved, and the poſts of go⯑vernment were occupied by the victorious and veteran troops of op⯑poſition. 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 conve⯑nient 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; and 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 ſuſpence, nearly a twelvemonth, I returned by a natural impulſe to the Greek authors of antiquity; I read with new pleaſure the Iliad and the Odyſſey, the Hiſtories of Herodotus, Thucydides, and Xenophon, a large 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 daily 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 dropped 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, and the modern interpre⯑ters, 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 [164] fourth volume before I ſought a retreat on the banks of the Leman Lake.

It is not the purpoſe 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 Shel⯑burne, 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 never felt any perſonal animoſity to each other, that their reconciliation was eaſy 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 followers 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 ſtate. From a principle of gratitude I adhered to the coalition: my vote was counted in the day of battle, but I was overlooked in the divi⯑ſion of the ſpoil. There were many claimants more deſerving and importunate than myſelf: the board of trade could not be reſtored; and, while the liſt of places was curtailed, the number 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 diſtant and doubtful; nor could I ſolicit with much ardour an ignoble ſervitude, which would have robbed me of the moſt valu⯑able 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 main⯑tain the ſtile 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 [165] of eaſe, leiſure, and independence: the country, the people, the manners, the language, were congenial to my taſte; and I might in⯑dulge the hope of paſſing ſome years in the domeſtic ſociety of a friend. After travelling with ſeveral Engliſh^* Mr. Deyverdun was now ſettled 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 ſitu⯑ation, my ſentiments, and my deſigns. His immediate anſwer was a warm and joyful acceptance: the picture of our future life pro⯑voked my impatience; and the terms of arrangement were ſhort and ſimple, as he poſſeſſed the property, and I undertook the ex⯑pence of our common 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 ex⯑cepted: as my poſt-chaiſe moved over Weſtminſter-bridge I bid a long farewel to the ‘fumum et opes ſtrepitum (que) Romae.’ My jour⯑ney 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 have 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 human life, many changes had happened: my elder acquaintance had left the ſtage; [166] virgins were ripened into matrons, and children were grown to the age of manhood. But the ſame manners were tranſmitted from one generation to another: my friend alone was an ineſtimable treaſure; my name was not totally forgotten, and all were ambitious to wel⯑come the arrival of a ſtranger and the return of a fellow-citizen. The firſt winter was given to a general embrace, without any nice diſcri⯑mination of perſons and characters. After a more regular ſettlement, a more accurate ſurvey, I diſcovered three ſolid and permanent bene⯑fits of my new ſituation. 1. My perſonal freedom had been ſome⯑what impaired by the Houſe 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 ſober 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 ſolitary bachelor, who might afford ſome occaſional dinners. In Switzerland I enjoyed at every meal, at every hour, the free and plea⯑ſant 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 maintain 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 manſion, 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. Deyver⯑dun: from the garden a rich ſcenery of meadows and vineyards de⯑ſcends 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 poſi⯑tion [167] 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 been kindly apprehenſive that I ſhould not be able to exiſt in a Swiſs town at the 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 aſſo⯑ciates; and whatſoever may be the fame of learning or genius, ex⯑perience has ſhewn me 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 mind; and in the interval between tea and ſupper I am far from diſdaining the innocent amuſe⯑ment 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 conſined 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 ſim⯑plicity and refinement. I ſhall add as a misfortune rather than 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 viewing the mountains and Glaciers, have opened us on all ſides to the incurſions of foreigners. The viſits of Mr. and Ma⯑dame Necker, of Prince Henry of Pruſſia, and of Mr. Fox, may from 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 country houſe near Lauſanne, where he compoſed his [168] 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 the month of 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^*; but I was flattered by his affabi⯑lity, and entertained by his converſation.

In his tour of Switzerland (September 1788) Mr. Fox gave me two days of free and private ſociety^†. 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 being was ever more perfectly exempt from the taint of malevolence, va⯑nity, or falſehood.

My tranſmigration from London to Lauſanne could not be ef⯑fected without interrupting the courſe 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 leaſt the fathers and councils; and I have de⯑rived ſome occaſional ſuccour from the public collections of Berne and Geneva. The fourth volume was ſoon terminated, by an ab⯑ſtract of the controverſies of the Incarnation, which the learned Dr. Prideaux was apprehenſive of expoſing to profane eyes. It had been the original deſign of the learned Dean Prideaux to write the [169] hiſtory of the ruin of the Eaſtern Church. In this work it would have been neceſſary, not only to unravel all thoſe controverſies which the Chriſtians made about the hypoſtatical union, 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 unbe⯑lievers; and he durſt not, ‘ſeeing the nature of this book, venture it abroad in ſo wanton and lewd an age^*.’

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 bar⯑barians of the Eaſt and the Weſt^†.

It was not till after many deſigns, and many trials, that I pre⯑ferred, as I ſtill prefer, the method of grouping my picture by na⯑tions; and the ſeeming neglect of chronological order is ſurely com⯑penſated by the ſuperior merits of intereſt and perſpicuity. The ſtyle of the firſt volume is, in my opinion, ſomewhat crude and ela⯑borate; 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 the conſtant habit of ſpeaking one lan⯑guage and writing another may have infuſed ſome mixture of Gallic idioms. Happily for my eyes, I have always cloſed my ſtudies with the day, and commonly with the morning; and a long, but tem⯑perate, labour 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, according to the ſeaſon of publica⯑tion, the delay of a month would be productive of that of a year. I was now ſtraining for the goal, and in the laſt winter many even⯑ings [170] were borrowed from the ſocial pleaſures of Lauſanne. I could now wiſh 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 ſeveral turns in a berceau, or covered walk of acacias, which com⯑mands a proſpect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, the ſky was 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 date of my Hiſtory, the life of the hiſtorian muſt be ſhort and precarious. I will add two facts, which have ſeldom occurred 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. Not 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, [171] in the humble office of corrector to a printing-houſe; but this office enabled him to tranſport an entire volume from his mind to the preſs; and his work was given to the public without ever having 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 reluct⯑ance and terror that I undertook, in a journey of two hundred leagues, to croſs the mountains and the ſea. Yet this formidable adventure was atchieved without danger or fatigue; and at the end of a fortnight I found myſelf in Lord Sheffield's houſe and library, ſafe, happy, and at home. The character of my friend (Mr. Hol⯑royd) had recommended him to a ſeat in parliament for Coventry, the command of a regiment of light dragoons, and an Iriſh peerage. The ſenſe and ſpirit of his political writings have decided the public opinion on the great queſtions of our commercial intereſt with Ame⯑rica 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 ſur⯑vive 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, Manufac⯑tures, and preſent 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 pro⯑ſperous only by a friendly connection with Great Britain. The con⯑cluding obſervations are written with ſo much eaſe and ſpirit, that they may be read by thoſe who are the leaſt intereſted in the ſubject.

[172] He fell (in 1784) with the unpopular coalition; but his merit has been acknowledged at the laſt general election, 1790, by the ho⯑nourable 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 domeſtic ſociety of the family. In the larger circle of the metropolis I ob⯑ſerved the country and the inhabitants with the knowledge, and without the prejudices, of an Engliſhman; but I rejoiced in the ap⯑parent increaſe of wealth and proſperity, which might be fairly divided between the ſpirit of the nation and the wiſdom of the mi⯑niſter. 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 inde⯑pendence, and as 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 that of Lord North. After the loſs of power and of ſight, he was ſtill happy in himſelf and his friends; and my public tribute of gratitude and eſteem could no longer be ſuſpected of any intreſted 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 con⯑demn the Governor of India; but Mr. Sheridan's eloquence de⯑manded my applauſe; nor could I hear without emotion the per⯑ſonal 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 mechanical circumſtance. As I was waiting in the managers' box, I had the curioſity to inquire of the ſhort⯑hand [173] writer, how many words a ready and rapid orator might pro⯑nounce in an hour? From 7000 to 7500 was his anſwer. The me⯑dium 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 publication of my three laſt volumes was the principal ob⯑ject, ſo it was the firſt care of my Engliſh journey. The previous arrangements with the bookſeller and the printer 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 time to review my manuſcript. Several rare and uſeful books, the Aſſiſes de Jeruſalem, Ramuſius de Bello C. P^aro, the Greek Acts of the Synod of Florence, the Statuta Urbis Romae, &c. were procured, and introduced in their proper places the ſupplements which they af⯑forded. The impreſſion of the fourth volume had conſumed three months. Our common intereſt required that we ſhould move with a quicker pace; and Mr. Strahan fulfilled his engagement, which few printers could ſuſtain, of delivering every week three thouſand copies of nine ſheets. The day of publication was, however, de⯑layed, that it might coincide with the fifty-firſt anniverſary of my own birth-day; the double feſtival was 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 [174] talents had more than once been employed in the praiſe of his friend. Before Mr. Hayley inſcribed with my name his epiſtles on hiſtory, I was not acquainted with that amiable man and elegant poet. He [175] afterwards thanked me in verſe for my ſecond and third volumes^† and in the ſummer of 1781, the Roman Eagle^‡ (a proud title) ac⯑cepted [176] the invitation of the Engliſh Sparrow, who chirped in the groves of Eartham, near Chicheſter. As moſt of the former pur⯑chaſers were naturally deſirous 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 demand. The con⯑cluſion of my work was generally read, and variouſly judged. The ſtyle has been expoſed to much academical criticiſm; a religious cla⯑mour was revived, 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 the indecency of my three laſt volumes. 1. An equal degree of freedom in the former 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 text is chaſte, and all licentious paſſages are left in the obſcurity of a learned language. Le Latin dans ſes mots brave l'honnêteté, ſays the correct Boileau, in a country and idiom more ſcrupulous than our own. Yet, upon the whole, the 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 [177] 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 ho⯑nourable 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 tranſcribe my own character from the Bibliotheca Hiſtorica of Meu⯑ſelius^†, a learned and laborious German. ‘Summis aevi noſtri hiſtoricis Gibbonus ſine dubio adnumerandus eſt. Inter capitolii ruinas ſtans primum hujus operis ſcribendi conſilium cepit. Flo⯑rentiſſimos vitae annos colligendo et laborando eidem impendit. Enatum inde monumentum aere perennius, licet paſſim appareant ſiniſtrè dicta, minus perfecta, veritati non ſatis conſentanea. Vi⯑demus quidem ubique fere ſtudium ſcrutandi veritatemque ſcri⯑bendi maximum: tamen ſine Tillemontio duce ubi ſcilicet hujus hiſtoria finitur ſaepius noſter titubat atque hallucinatur. Quod vel maxime fit, ubi de rebus Eccleſiaſticis vel de juris prudentiâ Romanâ (tom. iv.) tradit, et in aliis locis. Attamen naevi hujus generis haud impediunt quo minus operis ſummam et [...] praeclare diſpoſitam, delectum rerum ſapientiſſimum, argutum quoque inter⯑dum, dictionemque ſeu ſtylum hiſtorico aeque ac philoſopho dig⯑niſſimum, et vix a quoque alio Anglo, Humio ac Robertſono haud exceptis (praereptum?) vehementer laudemus, atque ſaeculo noſtro de hujuſmodi hiſtoriâ gratulemur..... Gibbonus adverſarios cum in tum extra patriam nactus eſt, quia propogationem religionis Chriſtianae, non, ut vulgo, fieri ſolet, aut more Theologorum, ſed ut Hiſtoricum et Philoſophum decet, expoſuerat.’

The French, Italian, and German tranſlations have been executed with various ſucceſs; but, inſtead of patronizing, I ſhould willingly [178] ſuppreſs ſuch imperfect copies, which injure 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 manu⯑facturers of Paris, M. M. Deſmuniers and Cantwell: but the former is now an active member in the national aſſembly, and the un⯑dertaking languiſhes in the hands of his aſſociate. The ſuperior merit of the interpreter, or his language, inclines me to prefer the Ita⯑lian 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 two numerous and correct impreſſions which have been publiſhed for the uſe of the continent at Baſil in Switzerland^*. The con⯑queſts 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 neigh⯑bourhood 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 eſta⯑bliſhment at Lauſanne? 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 late dinners, would [179] ſoon have been prejudicial to my health. Without any ſhare in the political wheel, I muſt be idle and inſignificant: yet the moſt ſplen⯑did temptations would not have enticed me to engage a ſecond time in the ſervitude 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 Swiſs friend^*, whom I had intro⯑duced to the Engliſh world, I purſued the road of Dover and Lau⯑ſanne. 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 dra⯑matic is, perhaps, more intereſting than the argumentative part: but I ſtepped aſide into every path of inquiry which reading or re⯑flection 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 anounced his diſſolution; and before he expired, thoſe who loved him could not wiſh for the continuance of his life. The voice of reaſon might congratulate his deliverance, but the feelings of nature and friendſhip could be ſubdued only by time: his ami⯑able 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 ſtudy had not preceded and followed the death of my friend. By his laſt will he left 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 [180] 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-poſſeſſion more perfect, and his future condition more advantageous. Yet I had often revolved the judicious lines in which Pope anſwers the objec⯑tions of his long-ſighted friend:

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 deſira⯑bly 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 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 and find the opportunities of meeting: yet even this valuable connection cannot ſupply the loſs of domeſtic ſociety.

Within the laſt two 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 re⯑volution, or rather the diſſolution of the kingdom has been heard and felt in the adjacent lands.

[181] I beg leave to ſubſcribe my aſſent to Mr. Burke's creed on the re⯑volution of France. I admire his eloquence, I approve his politics, I adore his chivalry, and I can almoſt excuſe his reverence for church eſtabliſhments. I have ſometimes thought of writing a dialogue of the dead, in which Lucian, Eraſmus, and Voltaire ſhould mutually acknowledge the danger of expoſing an old ſuperſtition to the con⯑tempt of the blind and fanatic multitude.

A ſwarm of emigrants of both ſexes, who eſcaped from the public ruin, has been attracted by the vicinity, the manners, and the lan⯑guage of Lauſanne; and our narrow habitations in town and coun⯑try 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 fortune, much contribute to our amuſement. Inſtead of looking down as calm and idle ſpectators on the theatre of Europe, our do⯑meſtic 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. Many 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; and I am ſatisfied that the failure or ſucceſs of a revolt would equally terminate in the ruin of the country. While the ariſtocracy of Bern protects the happineſs, 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 the magiſtrates muſt reign with prudence and equity, ſince they are unarmed in the midſt of an armed nation.

[182] The revenue of Bern, excepting ſome ſmall duties, is derived from church lands, tithes, feudal rights, and intereſt of money. The re⯑public has nearly 500,000l. ſterling 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 declare, that the firſt ſtroke of a rebel drum would be the ſignal of my immediate de⯑parture.

When I contemplate the common lot of mortality, I muſt acknow⯑ledge that I have drawn a high prize 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 igno⯑rance and poverty; and the double fortune of my birth in a free and enlightened country, in an honourable and wealthy family, is the lucky 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^*. I have now paſſed that age, and may fairly eſti⯑mate 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 con⯑ſcience, unſullied by the reproach or remembrance of an unworthy action.

I am endowed with a cheerful temper, a moderate ſenſibility, and a natural diſpoſition to repoſe rather than to activity: ſome miſchie⯑vous 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 ſenſible [183] of any decay of the mental faculties. The original ſoil has been highly improved by cultivation; but it may be queſtioned, whether ſome flowers of fancy, ſome grateful errors, have not been eradicated with the weeds of prejudice. 2. Since I have eſcaped from the long perils of my childhood, the ſerious advice of a phyſician has ſeldom been re⯑quiſite. ‘The madneſs of ſuperfluous health’ I have never known; but my tender conſtitution has been fortified by time, and the ineſ⯑timable 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 of my ſociety and ſituation; but theſe enjoyments would be taſteleſs or bitter if their poſſeſſion were not aſſured by an annual and adequate ſupply. According 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 taſte 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 matrimo⯑nial connection?

I am diſguſted with the affectation of men of letters, who com⯑plain 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^*. 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 provoked an implacable tribe; but, as I [184] 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 pleaſure. 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 ſome degree of amuſement or knowledge to his friends in a diſtant land: that one day his mind will be familiar to the grandchildren of thoſe who are yet unborn^*. I cannot boaſt of the friendſhip or favour of princes; the patronage of Engliſh 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.

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 years^†. I ſhall ſoon enter into [185] the period which, as the moſt agreeable of his long life, was ſelected by the judgment and experience of the ſage Fontenelle. His choice is approved by the eloquent hiſtorian of nature, who ſixes 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^*. In private converſation, that great and amiable man added the weight of his own experience; and this autumnal felicity might be exemplified in the lives of Voltaire, Hume, 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 browner ſhade the evening of life.

[187] WHEN I firſt undertook to prepare Mr. Gibbon's Memoirs for the preſs, I ſuppoſed that 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 1788; but the exa⯑mination of his correſpondence with me ſuggeſted, that the beſt con⯑tinuation 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, inſtead 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 ſentences, I ſhall obviate the diſadvantages that are apt to ariſe from an interrupted narration. A prejudiced or a faſtidious critic may condemn, perhaps, ſome parts of the letters as trivial; but many readers, I flatter myſelf, will be gratified by diſcovering even in theſe my friend's affectionate feelings, and his character in familiar life. His letters in general bear a ſtrong reſemblance to the ſtyle and turn of his converſation; the charac⯑teriſtics of which were vivacity, elegance, and preciſion, with know⯑ledge 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 prevented its becoming languid, even during a reſidence of many months with a family in the country.

It has been ſuppoſed that he always arranged what he intended to ſay, before he ſpoke; his quickneſs in converſation contradicts this [188] 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 ex⯑preſs. he purſued the ſame method in reſpect to other compoſi⯑tion; and he occaſionally would walk ſeveral times about his apart⯑ment before he had rounded a period to his taſte. He has pleaſantly remarked to me, that it ſometimes coſt him many a turn before he could throw a ſentiment into a form that gratified 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 Memoirs 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 far 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.