V.—­History and Politics

The five years and a half between my return from my travels and my father’s death are the portion of my life which I passed with the least enjoyment, and which I remember with the least satisfaction.  In the fifteen years between my “Essay on the Study of Literature” and the first volume of the “Decline and Fall,” a criticism of Warburton on Virgil and some articles in “Memoires Litteraires de la Grande Bretagne” were my sole publications.  In November, 1770, my father sank into the grave in the sixty-fourth year of his age.  As soon as I had paid the last solemn duties to my father, and obtained from time and reason a tolerable composure of mind, I began to form the plan of an independent life most adapted to my circumstances and inclination.  I had now attained the first of earthly blessings—­independence.  I was absolute master of my hours and actions; and no sooner was I settled in my house and library than I undertook the composition of the first volume of my history.  Many experiments were made before I could hit the middle tone between a dull chronicle and a rhetorical declamation; three times did I compose the first chapter, and twice the second and third, before I was tolerably satisfied with their effect.  In the remainder of the way I advanced with a more equal and easy pace.

By the friendship of Mr. (now Lord) Eliot, who had married my first cousin, I was returned member of parliament for the borough of Liskeard.  I took my seat at the beginning of the memorable contest between Great Britain and America, and supported, with many a sincere and silent vote, the rights, though not, perhaps, the interest, of the Mother Country.  After a fleeting, illusive hope, prudence condemned me to acquiesce in the humble station of a mute.  But I listened to the attack and defence of eloquence and reason; I had a near prospect of the characters, views, and passions of the first men of the age.  The eight sessions that I sat in parliament were a school of civil prudence, the first and most essential virtue of an historian.

The first volume of my history, which had been somewhat delayed by the novelty and tumult of a first session, was now ready for the press.  During the awful interval of awaited publication, I was neither elated by the ambition of fame nor depressed by the apprehension of contempt.  My diligence and accuracy were attested by my own conscience.  I likewise flattered myself that an age of light and liberty would receive without scandal an inquiry into the human causes of progress of Christianity.

I am at a loss how to describe the success of the work without betraying the vanity of the writer.  The first impression was exhausted in a few days; a second and third edition were scarcely adequate to the demand.  My book was on every table; nor was the general voice disturbed by the barking of any profane critic.  Let me frankly own that I was startled at the first discharge of ecclesiastical ordnance; but I soon discovered that this empty noise was mischievous only in intention, and every feeling of indignation has long since subsided.