.330 (‘r I B tiozi. The fourth volume, partly written in 1782, was co:npl.-ted in June 1781; ; the preparation of the fifth volume occupied less than tvo years ; while the sixth and last, begun 18th .Iay, 1786, was finished in thirteen months. The feelings with which he brought his labours to a close must be described in his ovn inimitable words: “ 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. -fter laying down my pen, I took several turns in a berccuu or covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air 'as 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 re- c)very of my freedom, and, perhaps, the establislnnent of my f-ime. But my pride was soon lmmbled, aml a sober melancholy vas spread over my mind by the idea that I had l;1l{‘3I1 an everlasting leave of an old and agreeable coni- panion, and tlut whatsoever might be the future date of my Ilistoi-_z/, the life of the historian must be short and pre- carious.” Taking the 1n:'tnuscript with him, GiLbon, after an absence of four years, once more visited London in 1787 ; aul the 51st anniversary of the author’s birthday (27th .pril 1783) witnesse'l the publication of the last three vol- umes of The Dwline cuul Fall. They met with a quick and e).sy sale, were very extensively read, and very liberally a11d deservedly praised for the untlagging industry a11d vigour they displayed, though just exception, if only on the score of good taste, was taken to the scofling tone he continued to maintain in all passages where the Christian religion was specially concerned, and much fault was found with the in lecency of some of his notes.‘ He returned to Switzerland in July 1788, cherishiug vague schemes of fresh literary activity; but genuine sor- row caused by the death of his friend Deyverdun interfered with steady work, nor was it easy for him to fix on a new subject which should be at once congenial and proportioned to his powers; while the premonitory mutterings of the great thunderstorm of the French Revolution, which rever- berated in hollow echoes even through the quiet valleys of Switzerland, further troubled his repose. For some months he found amusement in the preparation of the delightful JI«:nwirs (1789) from which most of our knowledge of his personal history is derived; but his letters to friends in Eu gland, written between 1788 and 1793 occasionally betray a slight but unmistakable tone of ennui. In April 1793 he unexpectedly received tidings of the death of Lady Shef- li.~ld; and the motive of friendship thus supplied combined with the pressure of public events to urge him homewards. ll: arrived in England on the following J une, and spent the .--imnier at Sheffield Place, where his presence was even more highly prized than it had ever before been. Returning to lJOll']0Il early in November, he found it necessary to consult his physicians for a symptom which, neglected since 1761, h 1'1 gradually become complicated with hydrocele, and was now imperatively demanding surgical aid ; but the painful operations which had to be performed did not interfere with his customary cheerfulness, nor did they prevent him from paying a Christmas visit to Sheflield Place. Here, however, fever made its appearance ; and a removal to Lon- dm (January 6, 1794) was considered imperative. Another operation brought him some relief ; but a relapse occurred ’ An anonymous pamphlet, entitled Obscrvatimzs on the three last 2-ulunu!.s' of the Roman llz'stm-y, appeared in 1788; Disney's Sermon, with Strictures, in 1790; and Whitaker's Review, in 1791. Vith regard to the second of the above complaints, surprise will probably lple ftltfthat it was not extended to portions of the text as well as to ie in ;.cs. 1} ON ' during the night of the 13th, and on the following day he peacefully breathed his last. llis remains were laid in the burial place of the Sheffield family, Fletching, Sussex, where ‘ an epitaph by ])r I’-arr describes his character and work in the language at once of elegance, of moderation,and of truth. The personal appearance of Gibbon as a lad of sixteen is brought before us somewhat dimly in M. 1’-avilli-ard’s de- scription of the “thin little figure, with a large head, dis- puting aml arguing. with the greatest ability, all the best arguments that had ever been used in favour of popcry." What he afterwards bec:nne has been made more vividly familial‘ by the clever silhouette prefixed to the -lli.x-r¢=l- lrmeous ll'orK's (Gibbon himself, at least, we know, did not regard it as a caricature), and by Sir J oshua llcynolds’s portrait so often cngraved. It is hardly fair 1It'l'll:l1|S to add a reference to Suard’s highly-coloured description of the short Silenus-like figure, not more than 56 inches in height, the slim legs, the large turned—in feet, the shrill piercing voice ; but almost every one will remember, from Crokt-r’s Boswell, C'olman’s account of the great historian “ tapping his snutl'—box, smirkingand smiling, audrounding liispcriods" from that mellitluous 1n011th. It has already been seen that Gibbon's early ailments all left him on the approach of manhood; thenceforward, “lill adnionishcd by the gout," he could truly boast of an innnunity well-nigh perfect from every bodily complaint; an exee )tion-all ' vigorous brain, and a stomach “ almost too goodl,” unitell to bestow upon him a vast capacity alike for work and for enjoyment. This capacity he never abused so as to burden his conscience or depress his spirits. “ The madness of superfluous health I have never known.” To illustrate the intensity of the pleasure he found alike in the solitude of his study and in the relaxations of genial social intercourse, almost any page taken at random, either from the Life or from the Left: rs, would suffice; and many incidental touches show that he was not a stranger to the delights of quiet contelnplation of the beauties and grandeurs of nature. His manners, if formal, were refined; his conversation, when he felt himself at home, interesting a11d unaffected _: and that he was capable alike of feeling and inspiring a very constant friendship there are many witnesses to show. 'l‘h-at his temperament at the same time was frigid and comparatively passionless cannot be denied ; but neither ought this to be imputed to him as a fault ; hostile criticisms upon the grief for a father’s death, that “was soothed by the conscious satisfa_cti0n that I had discharged all the duties of filial piety.” seem somewhat out of place. His most ardent admirers, however, are constrained to admit tlrathe was de- ficient in large-hearted benevolence; that he was destitute of any “ enthusiasm of humanity” ; and that so far as every sort of religious yearning or aspiration is concerned, his poverty was almost unique. Gibbon was such a man as Horace might have been, had the Roman Epicurean been fonder of hard intellectual work, and less prone than he was to the indulgence of emotion. Of Gibbon’s mental qualities it is interesting to read the estimate formed and recorded by himself on his twenty- sixth birthday [May 8th, N.S., 1762] : “Wit I have none. I My imagination is rather strong than pleasing. M y memory both capacious and retentive. The shining qualities of my understanding are extcnsiveness and penetration ; hit I want both quickness and exactness.” Twenty-six years afterwards, he wrote on the same subjectin his .l[emoirs:—— “ 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.” N 0 student of The Dcrline and Fall will accuse its author of immodesty or vanity in these self- appreciations, but will rather be surprised that he should
have so considerably underestimated both his endowments