h sooner, but
it is no wonder that he found his work grow under his hands when he
passed from design to execution. "A long while ago, when I
contemplated the distant prospect of my work," he writes to Lord
Sheffield, "I gave you and myself some hopes of landing in England
last autumn; but alas! when autumn grew near, hills began to rise on
hills, Alps on Alps, and I found my journey far more tedious and
toilsome than I had imagined. When I look back on the length of the
undertaking and the variety of materials, I cannot accuse or suffer
myself to be accused of idleness; yet it appeared that unless I
doubled my diligence, another year, and perhaps more, would elapse
before I could embark with my complete manuscript. Under these
circumstances I took, and am still executing, a bold and meritorious
resolution. The mornings in winter, and in a country of early dinners,
are very concise. To them, my usual period of study, I now frequently
add the evenings, renounce cards and society, refuse the most
agreeable evenings, or perhaps make my appearance at a late supper. By
this extraordinary industry, which I never practised before, and to
which I hope never to be again reduced, I see the last part of my
history growing apace under my hands." He was indeed, as he said, now
straining for the goal which was at last reached "on the day, or
rather the night, of the 27th of June, 1787. Between the hours of
eleven and twelve 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 the 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 and agreeable companion, and
that whatsoever might be the future fate of my history, the life of
the historian must be short and precarious."

A faint streak of poetry occasionally shoots across Gibbon's prose.
But both prose and poetry had now to yield to stern business. The
printing of three quarto volumes in those days of handpresses was a
formidable undertaking, and unless expedition were used the publis