any great mental commotion on the subject. The words in which he narrates the end of the episode are very well known. "After a painful struggle I yielded to my fate. I sighed as a lover; I obeyed as a

son."

than its habitual pace. He returned to England at twenty-one, so that he had the excuse of youth for faults supposed to be the opposite of those to which youth is prone; but it would seem to have been some time after, probably years, In this fine antithesis the reader will before Susan's fate was settled, and time, not, we fear, see much impression of real absence, and new habits had healed the feeling. A young lover who gives up his young man's not very severe wound. He Susan so easily, gets little sympathy, even returned with everything done that his from those who could wish their sons in father had desired: his Romanism gone similar circumstances to prove equally like a dream, and probably a good deal philosophical. The little rhetorical effort more with it, the departure of which was perbaps consoled him, but there is an not divined at the time: his education indefinable consciousness that he was but advanced, his morals improved-a highly a sorry fellow after all, though he makes respectable Swiss young gentleman, with the best of it in the tale. "My wound," only the little drawback that he had he adds, "was insensibly healed by time, "ceased to be an Englishman." This is absence, and the habits of a new life. My not a result which would be at all likely to cure was accelerated by a faithful report be wrought now, by the absence of a youth of the tranquillity and cheerfulness of the from sixteen to twenty-one; but Switzerlady herself, and my love subsided in land was as far off England then as Amerfriendship and esteem." But when he ica is now, and much more unlike. His goes on to say that her father died, and views, even his prejudices, had been that Susan had to come to Geneva and altered by his absence. He passed the earn a hard subsistence" for herself and middle portion of his life in England, and her mother by teaching, while he at home did what was required of him, even to the lived an easy life, and grew fat and com- length of serving in a militia regiment, of fortable, without apparently the slightest which he was captain and his father ma impulse towards the woman that he had jor, with all dutiful regard to the legitsupposed himself to love, Gibbon's his-imate expectations of his friends. torical calm grows somewhat odious. "In when circumstances gave him an excuse her lowest distress," he adds, with an to retire from the insular world in which approval which, if the reader is of a warm he had never been quite happy, he took temper, will make him long for a possibility of kicking the shade of the historian, even though there may not be de quoi, "she maintained a spotless reputation, and a dignified behavior." One wonders what Susan thought of it, earning her hard subsistence in Geneva, and remembering perhaps by times how the young Englishman at parting had vowed and promised-who now was piously glad to hear that she behaved herself so well in her misfortunes. But luckily Susan said nothing, and after a while married that rich banker in Paris, who "had the good fortune and the good sense to discover and possess this inestimable treasure," says Gibbon, doing his praise handsomely, let us hope to conceal a little inward sense that he himself cut a poor figure in the business, and became Madame Necker, and entertained her old love amicably and splendidly in after days, with excellent friendliness, and perhaps a little secret contempt, as women will.

This is the only incident in Gibbon's calm and comfortable existence which could have made his pulse beat quicker

But

advantage of the chance to return to his beloved Switzerland, to the very spot where he had been sent in disgrace and banishment in his early youth.

We cannot attempt to enter into the record of his reading and studies, which were infinite. The man himself, more interesting, is but vaguely revealed to us in his formality and old-fashioned methodical precision. He was eagerly delighted to see his aunt once more; very dutiful to his father, and friendly to the stepmother who had in the mean time been added to the household; ready to respond to all the calls of the two latter upon him, and doing his best to conceal his impatience of their demands upon his time, and the tedium of their rustic existence, far from town and its delights. Days broken in upon by interminable meals; by the fact that "after breakfast Mrs. Gib. bon expected my company; after tea my father claimed my conversation and the perusal of the newspapers; " studies of ancient historic relics, "abruptly terminated by the militia drum" - make up the record, and prove that though he was incapable of sacrificing his worldly wel

fare to love, he had the heart to make a dom of Swiss manners," and his " favorite great many daily sacrifices to the comfort society" there, "which had assumed, of his home, and possessed in reality from the age of its members, the proud many amiable qualities. When he (with denomination of the spring (la société du some trouble, for his family had settled printemps). It consisted of fifteen or out of town, and he had got out of the twenty young unmarried ladies of genteel knowledge of his friends) made his way though not of the very first families, the into society, he was not without popular eldest perhaps about twenty, all agreeable, ity, though he was somewhat inclined several handsome, and two or three of to lay down the law. His appearance exquisite beauty. At each other's house in the club, in the society of Johnson, they assembled almost every day, without to whom he made an excellent pen- the control or even the presence of a dant and contrast, has been described mother or an aunt. They were trusted to with considerable effect. "In a suit of their own prudence among a crowd of flowered velvet, with a bag and sword," young men of every nation in Europe." fine in clothes and elegant in manners, He hastens to assure us that this liberty he "tapped his snuff-box, smirked and was never marred by license, nor sullied smiled, and rounded his periods" with a by a breath of scandal; but the pretty "mouth mellifluous as Plato's," but in company and their light-hearted amuseappearance like "a round hole nearly in ments for "they laughed, they sang, the centre of his visage." Sometimes they danced, they played cards, they acted when spending solitary evenings over his comedies" were delightful to the young books in his London lodging, and hearing man of letters, feeling himself, after his the carriages roll outside, his studies long banishment in his native country, to would be interrupted with a sigh which be once more at home. Rousseau's letter I breathed towards Lausanne." And twice already referred to gives a less delightful he broke away from his duties and occu- glimpse of the visitor. "The coldness of pations, and visited the Continent, where Mr. Gibbon makes me think ill of him," he spent a month or two on both occa- he says. "I cannot think him well adaptsions with much enjoyment in Paris. ed to Mademoiselle Curchod. He that Before his first visit, he had published his does not know her value is unworthy of first literary work, which was written in her; he that knows it, and can doubt her, French, the "Essai sur l'étude de la Litté-is a man to be despised." Susan was toilrature;" and this compliment, paid to the politest of nations, gained him favor, as well as the recommendations he carried. The description we have of him in the capital of good manners is agrecable enough. He was not a modest man, but his vanity was never offensive. He secured the attention which he considered his due in the most legitimate way by "a conversation animated, sprightly, and full of matter." If the tone of his discourse was authoritative, it seemed rather the result of confidence in himself than of a wish to domineer over others. His talk was formal, and arranged in careful periods, never carrying any one away; but it was the talk of a considerable person, fully aware of his claim to be listened to; and that claim was fully acknowledged in many of the best circles.

From Paris he went back, ever hankering after that favorite abode, to Lausanne, where Susan, it would appear from a letter of Rousseau's, looked for his appearance still with a little trepidation, and her friends with indignant alarm. But Susan is not so much as mentioned in the record, though the visitor pauses with much complacency to describe "the innocent free

ing, making her "hard subsistence," in Geneva, within easy reach, while her former lover was amusing himself with the gay société du printemps. He had long ceased "to sigh as a lover," but he evidently had not yet made it plain that he meant to obey as a son. The reader who has accepted Gibbon's explanation, and concluded his love-affair to be long over, will probably feel a sensation of disgust for the man who had not feeling enough at least to keep out of the way and avoid a contrast so odious. It would be difficult to imagine anything more heartless; but probably the self-complacent Englishman, delighted with his gay young companions, was really unaware of this, and incapable of perceiving any harm in it. Next time he visited the Continent, he was received by Madame Necker in her Parisian drawing-room, and expressed with still greater complacency and self-satisfaction the admiration he had always entertained for her.

It was on this first tour that the idea of writing his great history occurred to him. An intention of producing some historical work had long been in his mind, and he had thought of various subjects, among

which the history of the Swiss nation was and some will criticise from vanity. The the one that pleased him best; but his author himself is the best judge of his first essay on this subject was a failure: own performance: no one has so deeply and when he went to Italy the question meditated on the subject; no one is so was quickly decided. "It was at Rome," sincerely interested in the event." The he says, 66 on the 15th of October, 1764, first volume was published in 1776. "So that I sat musing amongst the ruins of moderate were our hopes, that the origi the Capitol, while the barefooted friars nal impression had been stinted to five were singing vespers in the Temple of hundred, till the number was doubled by Jupiter, when the idea of writing the the prophetic taste of. Mr. Strahan." But decline and fall of the city first started the author was not kept long in the susto my mind." We can contemplate the pense, which he declares "was neither historian in this scene with greater re-elated by the ambition of fame, or despect and sympathy than among the vil-pressed by the apprehension of conlage junketings of Lausanne. That ma- tempt." "I am at a loss," he says, "how gical city, all fallen and low, in deep eigh- to describe the success of the work, withteenth-century decadence, lay at his feet, out betraying the vanity of the writer. a slave of all nations, she who had been The first impression was exhausted in a the queen of the world at one time, and few days; a second and third edition were the arbitrator of Christendom at another. scarcely adequate to the demand, and the Small sympathy had he for Rome in that bookseller's property was twice invaded later development, yet the chant of the by the pirates of Dublin. [N.B. - It was Franciscans struck his ear as adding to the Irish- and also Scotch publishers the picturesque effect, the pathos and who pirated literature in those days. solemnity of the scene. No doubt the America has scarcely as yet developed to sun was sinking and the skies all aglow this stage.] My book was on every ta- a background of flame to those melan-ble, and almost on every toilette; the hischoly memorials of greatness as the torian was crowned by the fashion or vesper song stole on the enchanting air. taste of the day; nor was the general For the moment the smug Englishman voice disturbed by the barking of any had a vision and inspiration. He returned profane critic." To be sure, those Oxto England next year, and for some time ford dignitaries for whom Gibbon had so longer to his old bondage of domestic life, great and bitter a contempt, and the leadthe country, the militia, and all his other ers of orthodoxy everywhere, rose up imhindrances. But in 1770 his father died, mediately against him; and with the and Gibbon was released. He settled in ingenuous wonder of so many candid London as soon as circumstances per- souls, when they have attacked what mitted, collected his books around him, other men hold most dear, he was astonand set to work. ished that the Church and the serious His French essay a curious begin-classes should mind his assault upon ning for an Englishman - had got him a Christianity. "Let me frankly own that I little reputation; and the world of critics was startled at the first discharge of the was already prepared to accept something ecclesiastical ordnance," he says; "but of greater pretension from him. His be- as soon as I found that this empty noise ginning was laborious and anxious in the was mischievous only in the intention, my extreme. He could not please himself fear was converted into indignation: and either in the arrangement of his subject or any feeling of indignation and curiosity the style of his diction. Many experi- has long since subsided in pure and placid ments were made before I could hit the indifference." middle tone between a dull chronicle and a rhetorical declamation: three times did I compose the first chapter, and thrice the second and third, before I was tolerably satisfied with their effect." He was by this time a man of thirty-five, in the full prime of his life, and fully alive to the gravity of the work he was undertaking. Though he was eager to take advantage of every aid, "I was soon disgusted," he says, "with the modest practice of reading my manuscript to my friends. Of such friends, some will praise from politeness,

The indignation here expressed seems a little out of place from a man who had opened the assault by so fierce and uncompromising an attack upon the Christian faith and traditions; but Gibbon was one of those men to whom their own acts are always lawful and natural, and those of their opponents unjustifiable. He belonged to a period which recognized scep ticism as the highest frame of mind. But while he treats his enemies with this contemptuous composure, his satisfaction with himself and his work grows.

When I resumed my task I felt my improve- | as satisfied him in the dearest of capitals.
ment [he says]. I was now master of my style In these circumstances his heart flew
and subject, and while the measure of my daily again, as his imagination so often wan-
performance was enlarged, I discovered less dered, to the sunny banks of Lake Leman
reason to cancel or correct. It has always and the shelter of his youth which he
been my practice to cast a long paragraph in a had "always cherished a secret wish
single mould, to try it by my ear, to deposit
it in my memory, but to suspend the action of might become the retreat of his age.
the pen until I had given the last polish to my His early friend, Deyverdun, who had
work. Shall I add that I never found my been with him frequently in England,
mind more vigorous, nor my composition more and with whom he had always maintained
happy, than in the winter hurry of society and the closest relations, was now settled in
Parliament ?
Lausanne, in a "pleasant habitation,"
which had been left to him by a relative.
The accurate and precise historian speci-
fies the terms on which their future living
was arranged, and the shares they mutu-
ally took in the maintenance of the joint-
establishment; and in 1782 Gibbon left
London, and carrying his library with
him, and the manuscript of his fourth
volume, abandoned finally that England
which he had never very heartily loved,
and returned to Lausanne, to his village
society, his tea-parties, his little coteries,
to leave them no more.

This brings us to the other side of his
life. He had been in Parliament for some
years, and though he had not enough
courage, or too much fastidiousness, to
take any prominent part in politics, his
steady, silent vote, and his distinction in
literature, indicated him naturally as the
holder of a sinecure. He was appointed
a commissioner of the Board of Trade, an
appointment which enlarged his private
income "by a clear addition of between
seven and eight hundred pounds a year;"
and though "hostile orators" assailed
this luxurious idleness with abuse, Gib- And here we come to a serene and
bon, like most other holders of such posts, tranquil picture of evening time and de-
turned a deaf ear to their remonstrances. clining life, - although he was only forty-
"It must be allowed," he says humor- five when he returned to Lausanne, so
ously, "that our duty was not intolerably that there is little occasion for the air of
severe." But days less bright were dawn-age and decline which is in the scene.
ing. When the second and third volumes He never repented his change; but on
were published, the author, astonished, the contrary, with all his old complacence
perceived a certain "coldness and even
prejudice of the town." They "insensi-
bly rose in style and reputation to a level
with the first;" but he owns with candor
that "the public is seldom wrong," and
that he is inclined to believe they were
more prolix and less entertaining than the
first which is a rare instance of open-
mindedness. This little chill which came
over him, as an author, was heightened in
effect by the political troubles of the time.
The Board of Trade was abolished, and
Gibbon's "convenient salary" was lost;
I am too modest or too proud to rate my
and though, when the famous coalition own value by that of my associates; and what-
was formed, and all the landmarks of ever may be the fame of learning or genius,
experience has shown me that the cheaper
party were removed, Gibbon adhered to qualifications of politeness and good sense are
the government "from a principle of grat- of more useful currency in the commerce of
itude," he adds that "my vote was counted life. By many conversation is esteemed as a
in the day of battle, but I was overlooked theatre or school; but after the morning has
in the division of the spoil." Probably been consumed in the labors of the library, I
he was offended by this neglect, perhaps wish to unbend rather than exercise my mind:
moved by a nobler sense of the superior and in the interval between tea and supper I
importance of those labors which it was am far from disdaining the innocent amuse-
in his power to pursue without referencement of a game at cards. Lausanne is peopled
to any ministry, without dangling in any
antechamber. London had grown irk-
some to him, and without that "conven-
ient salary," of which he had been de-
prived, he could not make such a figure

describes himself and his quiet ways and society as if there was nothing in the world so delightful as the dulness of old Lausanne. People have wondered, Gibbon allows, that after having conversed with the first men of the first cities in the world, he should be content with what he found there; and it is with a curious pique and partisanship that he does battle for the superior attractions of his favorite place:

idleness is seldom disturbed by the pursuits of by a numerous gentry, whose companionable avarice or ambition; the women, though confined to a domestic education, are endowed for the most part with more taste and knowledge than their husbands and brothers, but the

Thus it is evident there was no such place in the world as this cluster of homely roofs to Gibbon. "I enjoyed at every meal, at every hour, the free and pleasant conversation of the friend of my youth." He had an innocent elderly freedom of intercourse with the Swiss ladies, who no doubt gave him much of that incense which his soul loved. Neighbors came in to make up his game, to tell him all those simple news which are so important in a village. And, in short, Gibbon in his library, with his friend, and with his surroundings just as he liked them, was as happy as it was in his nature to be. Here he composed the concluding volumes of his history, -a labor which gave zest to his life; and formed his judgment of the whole with an impartiality which is impressive. His record of the end of this great work is one of those passages which all the world knows. Here is the serene and dignified picture, just touched with a becoming sadness, of the end of the great work and the completion of his life:

snow glistening on the mountain-tops against the sky, and all the noises and strifes of the world at a distance shut out from the chastened yet homely calm.

This was all Gibbon's life. If some of

the keener joys of which humanity is capa ble were absent from it, it was sensible of no poignancy of sorrow. Later, he lost his friend; but being able to make an arrangement which kept him in possession of their joint dwelling, was comforted. As he closes the record of these uneventful years, he adds a few sentences which, in their quiet destitution of hope, would be profoundly sad, if we did not feel confident that the historian-philosopher was able to put them aside for the enjoyment of his dinner or his whist, as soon as the hour came for these sober delights. Here are the reflections of the sage upon the end of his own life:

is no more, and our prospect of futurity is
The present is a fleeting moment, the past
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
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
[Buffon], who fixes our moral happiness to the
mature season in which our passions are sup-
posed to be calmed, our duties fulfilled, our
ambition satisfied, our fame and fortune estab
lished on a solid basis. In private conversa.
tion that great and amiable man added the
weight of his own experience and this au-
tumnal felicity may 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.

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 commands 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 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 Autobiography can go no further. We and agreeable companion, and that, whatso- leave the man, mature and famous, amid ever might be the future fate of my history, the still surroundings which he loved, an the life of the historian must be short and pre-example far greater than he ever thought to offer, of the imperfection of life. He had what he wanted comfort, ease, society, congenial labor, and fame; but like other men, his little life is rounded, before the sleep, with a sigh. Instead of the fifteen years for which he looked he had but five: but that mattered little; he had attained all he desired or dreamt of, and additional years would have added nothing to him. "My nerves are not tremblingly alive, and my temper is so happily framed that I am less sensible of

carious.

Such were the thoughts that occupied his mind, and the sum of his natural, sad, yet not unpleasing reflections. This was all of which Gibbon's life was capable, and perhaps we have no right to think it small. A big book, a pleasant house and garden, a dear friend what could man desire more? and the kind neighbors coming in, the women who had more taste and knowledge than their husbands: the grapes ripening in the vineyards, the