of these old Scandinavians, who were at the time, be it remembered, the most civilized and advanced race in Europe.  They may have been overwhelmed by the Esquimaux, the despised Skroeling—­or they may have amalgamated with them—­or conceivably they might have held their own.  Very little is known yet of that portion of the coast.  It would be strange if some Nansen or Peary were to stumble upon the remains of the old colony, and find possibly in that antiseptic atmosphere a complete mummy of some bygone civilization.

But once more to return to Gibbon.  What a mind it must have been which first planned, and then, with the incessant labour of twenty years, carried out that enormous work!  There was no classical author so little known, no Byzantine historian so diffuse, no monkish chronicle so crabbed, that they were not assimilated and worked into their appropriate place in the huge framework.  Great application, great perseverance, great attention to detail was needed in all this, but the coral polyp has all those qualities, and somehow in the heart of his own creation the individuality of the man himself becomes as insignificant and as much overlooked as that of the little creature that builds the reef.  A thousand know Gibbon’s work for one who cares anything for Gibbon.

And on the whole this is justified by the facts.  Some men are greater than their work.  Their work only represents one facet of their character, and there may be a dozen others, all remarkable, and uniting to make one complex and unique creature.  It was not so with Gibbon.  He was a cold-blooded man, with a brain which seemed to have grown at the expense of his heart.  I cannot recall in his life one generous impulse, one ardent enthusiasm, save for the Classics.  His excellent judgment was never clouded by the haze of human emotion—­or, at least, it was such an emotion as was well under the control of his will.  Could anything be more laudable—­or less lovable?  He abandons his girl at the order of his father, and sums it up that he “sighs as a lover but obeys as a son.”  The father dies, and he records the fact with the remark that “the tears of a son are seldom lasting.”  The terrible spectacle of the French Revolution excited in his mind only a feeling of self-pity because his retreat in Switzerland was invaded by the unhappy refugees, just as a grumpy country gentleman in England might complain that he was annoyed by the trippers.  There is a touch of dislike in all the allusions which Boswell makes to Gibbon—­often without even mentioning his name—­and one cannot read the great historian’s life without understanding why.