London, May 7th, 1776.
My long silence towards you has been occasioned (if I have properly analyzed what has lately passed in my mind) by different reasons. During the Summer there was indolence and procrastination; since the opening of parliament the necessity of finishing my book, and at the same time of subduing America. I have been involved in a multitude of public, private, and literary business, such as I had never experienced in the whole course of my life. The materials of my correspondence I have gradually accumulated, and despairing of being able to say any thing, I have wisely finished by saying nothing. Meantime, it is not necessary to inform my dear reader that I love him just as much as if I had written to him every week.
Where, then, shall I begin this letter? Can this question be put to a man who has just published his book? I shall speak of myself, and I shall enjoy the pleasure which renders the conversation of friends so delightful,—the pleasure of talking of one's self with somebody who will take an interest in the subject. It is true I should greatly prefer conversing with you, walking backwards and forwards in my library, where I could, without blushing, make to you all the confessions which my vanity might prompt. But at this lamentable distance from London to Leipsig we cannot do without a confidant, and the paper might one day disclose the little secrets which I am obliged to confide to you.
You know that the first volume of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire has had the most complete success, and the most flattering to the author. But I must take up the matter a little further back. I do not know whether you recollect that I had agreed with my bookseller for an edition of 500 copies. This was a very moderate number; but I wished to learn the taste of the public, and to reserve to myself the opportunity of soon making, in a second edition, all the changes which the observations of critics and my own reflections might suggest. We had come, perhaps, to the twenty-fifth sheet, when my publisher and my printer, men of sense and taste, began to perceive that the work in question might be worth something, and that the said 500 copies would not suffice for the demands of the British readers. They stated their reasons to me, and very humbly, but very earnestly, begged me to permit 500 more to be printed. I yielded to their entreaties, not, however, without fearing that the younger brothers of my numerous family might be condemned to an inglorious old age, in the obscurity of some warehouse. Meantime the printing went on; and, in spite of paternal affection, I sometimes cursed the attention which I was obliged to pay to the education of my children, to cure them of the little defects which the negligence of their preceptors had suffered to pass without correcting them.
At length, in the month of February, I saw the decisive hour arrive, and I own to you that it was not without some sort of uneasiness. I knew that my book was good, but I would have had it excellent; I could not rely on my own judgment, and I feared that of the public,—that tyrant who often destroys in an instant the fruit of ten years' labor. At length, on the 16th of February, I gave myself to the universe, and the universe—that is to say, a small number of English readers—received me with open arms. In a fortnight the whole edition was so completely exhausted that not a single copy was left. Mr. Cadell (my publisher) proposed to me to publish a second edition of 1000 copies, and in a few days he saw reason to beg me to allow him to print 1500 copies. It will appear at the beginning of next month; and he already ventures to promise me that it will be sold before the end of the year, and that he shall be obliged to importune me a third time. The volume—a handsome quarto—costs a guinea in boards; it has sold, as my publisher expresses it, like a sixpenny pamphlet on the affairs of the day.
I have hitherto contented myself with stating the fact, which is the least equivocal testimony in favor of the History. It is said that a horse alone does not flatter kings when they think fit to mount him; might we not add, that the bookseller is the only person who does not flatter authors when they take it into their heads to appear in print? But you conceive that from a small number of eager readers one always finds means to catch praises, and for my part, I own to you that I am very fond of these praises; those of women of rank, especially when they are young and handsome, though not of the greatest weight, amuse me infinitely. I have had the good fortune to please some of these persons, and the ancient History of your learned friend has succeeded with them like a fashionable novel. Now hear what Robertson says in a letter which was not designed to fall into my hands:—
"I have read (says he) Mr. Gibbon's History with great attention, and with singular pleasure. It is a work of great merit. We find in it that sagacity of research, without which an author does not merit the name of an historian. His narrative is clear and interesting; his style is elegant and vigorous, sometimes rather too labored, and, perhaps, studied: but these defects are amply compensated by the beauty of the language, and sometimes by a rare felicity of expression."
Now listen attentively to poor David Hume:
"After having read with impatience and avidity the first volume of your History, I feel the same impatience to thank you for your interesting present; and to express to you the satisfaction which this production has afforded me, under the several points of view, of the dignity of the style, the extent of your researches, the profound manner in which the subject is treated. This work is entitled to the highest esteem. You will feel pleasure, as I do myself, from hearing that all the men of letters in this city (Edinburgh) agree in admiring your work, and in desiring the continuation of it."
Do you know, too, that the Tacitus and Livy of Scotland have been useful to me in more ways than one. Our good English folk had long lamented the superiority which these historians had acquired; and as national prejudices are kept up at a small expense, they have eagerly raised their unworthy countrymen by their acclamations to a level with these great men. Besides, I have had the good fortune to avoid the shoal which is the most dangerous in this country. A historian is always to a certain degree a political character, and every reader according to his private opinion seeks in the most remote ages the sentiments of the historian upon kings and governments. A minister who is a great friend to the prerogatives of the crown has complimented me, on my having everywhere professed the soundest doctrines.