oad, the weather, or the
inn. The benefits of foreign travel will correspond with the degrees of
these qualifications; but, 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 October 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 reflections
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 impatience.
Rome and Italy had satiated 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 June 25 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 Southampton; 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 disgusted with the inn, the wine, the company, and the tiresome
repetition of annual attendance and daily exercise. At home, the
oeconomy of the family and farm still maintained the same creditable
appearance. My connection with Mrs. Gibbon was mellowed into a warm and
solid attachment: my growing years abolished the distance that might yet
remain between a parent and a son, and my behaviour satisfied my father,
who was proud of the success, however imperfect in his own life-time,
of my literary talents. Our solitude 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 emigr