approached it are such as cannot be omitted from any sketch
of Gibbon, however brief. “My temper is not very susceptible
of enthusiasm, and the enthusiasm which I do not feel I have
ever scorned to affect. But at the distance of twenty-five years
I can neither forget nor express the strong emotions which
agitated my mind as I first approached and entered the Eternal
City. After a sleepless night, I trod with a lofty step the 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 investigation.” Here at
last his long yearning for some great theme worthy of his historic
genius was gratified. The first conception of the Decline and
Fall arose as he lingered one evening amidst the vestiges of
ancient glory. “It was at Rome, on the 15th of October 1764,
as I sat musing amidst the ruins of the Capitol, while the barefooted
friars 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.”
The five years and a half which intervened between his return from this tour, in June 1765, and the death of his father, in November 1770, seem to have formed the portion of his life which “he passed with the least enjoyment and remembered with the least satisfaction.” He attended every spring the meetings of the militia at Southampton, and rose successively to the rank of major and lieutenant-colonel commandant; but was each year “more disgusted with the inn, the wine, the company, and the tiresome repetition of annual attendance and daily exercise.” From his own account, however, it appears that other and deeper causes produced this discontent. Sincerely attached to his home, he yet felt the anomaly of his position. At thirty, still a dependant, without a settled occupation, without a definite social status, he often regretted that he 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.” From the emoluments of a profession he “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 he sincerely deprecated.” Doubtless the secret fire of a consuming, but as yet ungratified, literary ambition also troubled his repose. He was still contemplating “at an awful distance” The Decline and Fall, and meantime revolved some other subjects, that seemed more immediately practicable. Hesitating for some time between the revolutions of Florence and those of Switzerland, he consulted M. Deyverdun, a young Swiss with whom he had formed a close and intimate friendship during his first residence at Lausanne, and finally decided in favour of the land which was his “friend’s by birth” and “his own by adoption.” He executed the first book in French; it was read (in 1767), as an anonymous production, before a literary society of foreigners in London, and condemned. Gibbon sat and listened unobserved to their strictures. It never got beyond that rehearsal; Hume, indeed, approved of the performance, only deprecating as unwise the author’s preference for French; but Gibbon sided with the majority.
In 1767 also he joined with M. Deyverdun in starting a literary journal under the title of Mémoires littéraires de la Grande-Bretagne. But its circulation was limited, and only the second volume had appeared (1768) when Deyverdun went abroad. The materials already collected for a third volume were suppressed. It is interesting, however, to know, that in the first volume is a review by Gibbon of Lord Lyttelton’s History of Henry II., and that the second volume contains a contribution by Hume on Walpole’s Historic Doubts.
The next appearance of the historian made a deeper impression. It was the first distinct print of the lion’s foot. “Ex ungue leonem” might have been justly said, for he attacked, and attacked successfully, the redoubtable Warburton. Of the many paradoxes in the Divine Legation, few are more extravagant than the theory that Virgil, in the sixth book of his Aeneid, intended to allegorize, in the visit of his hero and the Sibyl to the shades, the initiation of Aeneas, as a lawgiver, into the Eleusinian mysteries. This theory Gibbon completely exploded in his Critical Observations (1770)—no very difficult task, indeed, but achieved in a style, and with a profusion of learning, which called forth the warmest commendations both at home and abroad. Warburton never replied; and few will believe that he would not, if he had not thought silence more discreet. Gibbon, however, regrets that the style of his pamphlet was too acrimonious; and this regret, considering his antagonist’s slight claims to forbearance, is creditable to him. “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.”
Soon after his “release from the fruitless task of the Swiss revolution” in 1768, he had gradually advanced from the wish to the hope, from the hope to the design, from the design to the execution of his great historical work. His preparations were indeed vast. The classics, “as low as Tacitus, Pliny the Younger and Juvenal,” had been long familiar. He now “plunged into the ocean of the Augustan history,” and “with pen almost always in hand,” pored over all the original records, Greek and Latin, between Trajan and the last 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 character of genius, to fix and arrange within my reach the loose and scattered atoms of historical information.” The Christian apologists and their pagan assailants; the Theodosian Code, with Godefroy’s commentary; the Annals and Antiquities of Muratori, collated with “the parallel or transverse lines” of Sigonius and Maffei, Pagi and Baronius, were all critically studied. Still following the wise maxim which he had adopted as a student, “multum legere potius quam multa,” he reviewed again and again the immortal works of the French and English, the Latin and Italian classics. He deepened and extended his acquaintance with Greek, particularly with his favourite authors Homer and Xenophon; and, to crown all, he succeeded in achieving the third perusal of Blackstone’s Commentaries.
The course of his study was for some time seriously interrupted by his father’s illness and death in 1770, and by the many distractions connected with the transference of his residence from Buriton to London. It was not, indeed, until October 1772 that he found himself at last independent, and fairly settled in his house and library, with full leisure and opportunity to set about the composition of the first volume of his history. Even then it appears from his own confession that he long brooded over the chaos of materials he had amassed before light dawned upon it. At the commencement, he says, “all was dark and doubtful”; the limits, divisions, even the title of his work were undetermined; the first chapter was composed three times, and the second and third twice, before he was satisfied with his efforts. This prolonged meditation on his design and its execution was ultimately well repaid by the result: so methodical did his ideas become, and so readily did his materials shape themselves, that, with the above exceptions, the original MS. of the entire six quartos was sent uncopied to the printers. He also says that not a sheet had been seen by any other eyes than those of author and printer, a statement indeed which must be taken with a small deduction; or rather we must suppose that a few chapters had been submitted, if not to the “eyes,” to the “ears” of others; for he elsewhere tells us that he was “soon disgusted with the modest practice of reading the manuscript to his friends.” Such, however, were his preliminary difficulties that he confesses he was often “tempted to cast away the labour of seven years”; and it was not until February 1776 that the first volume was published. The success was instant, and, for a quarto, probably unprecedented. The entire impression was exhausted in a few days; a second and a third edition were scarcely adequate to the demand. The author might almost have said, as Lord Byron after the publication of Childe Harold,
