that they have renounced a substance for a shadow; and that their
fame (which sometimes is no insupportable weight) affords a poor
compensation for envy, censure, and persecution. [Note: M.
d'Alembert relates, that as he was walking in the gardens of Sans
Souci with the King of Prussia, Frederic said to him, "Do you see
that old woman, a poor weeder, asleep on that sunny bank? she is
probably a more happy being than either of us." The king and the
philosopher may speak for themselves; for my part I do not envy the
old woman.] 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 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 grand-children 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. [Mr.
Buffon, from our disregard of the possibility of death within the
four and twenty hours, concludes that a chance, which falls below or
rises above ten thousand to one, will never affect the hopes or
fears of a reasonable man. The fact is true, but our courage is the
effect of thoughtlessness, rather than of reflection. If a public
lottery were drawn for, the choice of an immediate victim, and if
our name were inscribed on ore of the ten thousand tickets, should
we be perfectly easy?] I shall soon enter into the period which, as
the most agreeable of my long life, was selected by the judgment and
experience of the sage Fontenelle. His choice is approved by the
eloquent historian of nature, who fixes our moral happiness to the
mature season in which our passions are supposed to be calmed, our
duties fulfilled, our ambition satisfied, our fame and fortune
established on a solid basis (see Buffon). In private conversation,
that great and amiable man added the weight of his 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.
[POSTSCRIPT by Lord Sheffield]
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
examination of his correspondence with me suggested, that the best
continuation would be the publication of his letters from that time
to his death. I shall thus give more satisfaction, by employing the
language of Mr. Gibbon, 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 characteristics of which were
vivacity, elegance, and precision, with knowledge astonishingly
extensive and correct. He never ceased to be instructive and
entertaining; and in general there was a vein of pleasantry in his
conversation which 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
notion: but it is very true, that before he sat down to write a note
or letter, he completely arranged in his mind what he meant to
express. He pursued the same method in respect to other
composition; and he occasionally would walk several times about his
apartment before he had rounded a period to his taste. He has
pleasantly remarked to me, that it 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.
End of Project Gutenberg's Memoirs of My Life and Writings, by Edward Gibbon