Besides the conception of giants as special races distinct from mankind, it was a common opinion of the ancients that the human race had itself degenerated, the men of primeval ages having been of so far greater stature and strength as to be in fact gigantic. This, for example, is received by Pliny (Hist. Nat., vii, c. 16), and it becomes a common doctrine of theologians such as Augustine (De Civitate Dei, XV. 9), lasting on into times so modern that it may be found in Cruden’s Concordance. Yet so far as can be judged from actual remains, it does not appear that giants, in the sense of tribes of altogether superhuman stature, ever existed, or that the men of ancient time were on the whole taller than those now living. It is now usual to apply the word giant to beings not superhuman in their height, but merely the tallest men and women of our nations. In every race of mankind the great mass of individuals do not depart far from a certain mean or average height, while the very tall or very short men become less and less numerous as they depart from the mean standard, till the utmost divergence is reached in a very few giants on the one hand, and a very few dwarfs on the other. At both ends of the scale, the body is markedly out of the ordinary proportions; thus a giant’s head is smaller and a dwarf’s head larger than it would be if an average man had been magnified or diminished. The principle of the distribution of individuals of different sizes in a race or nation has been ably set forth by Quetelet (Physique Sociale, vol. ii.; Anthropométrie, books iii. and iv.). Had this principle been understood formerly, we might have been spared the pains of criticizing assertions as to giants 20 feet high, or even more, appearing among mankind. The appearance of an individual man 20 feet high involves the existence of the race he is an extreme member of, whose mean stature would be at least 12 to 14 feet, which is a height no human being has been proved on sufficient evidence to have approached (Anthropom., p. 302). In fact, Quetelet considers the tallest man whose stature has been authentically recorded to have been Frederick the Great’s Scottish giant, who was not quite 8 feet 3 inches. Modern statisticians, though admitting that this may not be the extreme limit of human stature, cannot accept the loose conclusion in Buffon (Hist. Nat.. ed. Sonnini, vol. iv. p. 134), that there is no doubt of giants having been 10, 12, and perhaps 15 feet high. Confidence is not even to be placed in ancient asserted measurements, as where Pliny gives to one Gabbaras, an Arabian, the stature of 9 feet 9 inches (about 9 feet 5⅜ in. English), capping this with the mention of Posio and Sec-undilla, who were half a foot higher. That two persons should be described as both having this same extraordinary measure suggests to the modern critic the notion of a note jotted down on the philosopher’s tablets, and never tested afterwards.

Under these circumstances, it is worth while to ask how it is that legend and history so abound in mentions of giants outside all probable dimensions of the human frame. Ore cause is that, when the story-teller is asked the actual stature cf the huge men who figure in his tales, he is not sparing of his inches and feet. What exaggeration can do in this way may be judged from the fact that the Patagonians, whose average height (5 feet 11 inches) is really about that of the Chirnside men in Berwickshire, are described in Pigafetta’s Voyage round the World as so monstrous that the Spaniards’ heads hardly reached their waists. It is reasonable to suppose, with Professor Nilsson (Primitive Inhabitants of Scandinavia, chap, vi.), that in the traditions of early Europe tribes of savages may have thus, if really tall, expanded into giants, or, if short, dwindled into dwarfs. Another cause which is clearly proved to have given rise to giant-myths of yet more monstrous type, has been the discovery of great fossil bones, as of mammoth or mastodon, which have from early ages been supposed to be bones of giants, and have given rise to a whole class of giant-myths (see Tylor, Early History of Mankind, chap. xi.; Primitive Culture, chap. x.). Such anatomical inferences from the leg-bone or tooth of some huge extinct animal are rather creditable to the ingenuity of natives of America, or of barbarians of the Old World; but their late continuance in the midst of European culture shows how recently the principles of comparative anatomy obtained their present hold on the public mind. A tooth weighing 4∣ ft>, and a thigh-bone 17 feet long, having been found in New England in 1712 (they were probably mastodon), Dr Increase Mather thereupon communicated to the Royal Society of London his confirmation from them of the existence of men of prodigious stature in the antediluvian world (see the Philosophical Transactions, vol. xxiv, p. 85; D. Wilson, Prehistoric Man, vol. i. p. 54). The giants in the streets of Basel and supporting the arms of Lucerne appear to have originated from certain fossil bones found in 1577, examined by the physician Felix Plater, and pronounced to have belonged to a giant some 16 or 19 feet high. These bones have since been referred to a very different geological genus, but within the present century Plater’s giant skeleton was accepted as a genuine relic of the giants who once inhabited the earth. See the dissertation of Le Cat, cited in the 5th edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica (1817). (e. B. τ.)

As to the existence of giants, several writers, both ancient and modern, have thought that the giants of Scripture were men famous for violence and crime, rather than for strength or stature. But it cannot be denied, that there have been races of men of a stature much above that common at present; although their size has often been absurdly magnified. The ancients considered persons whose stature exceeded seven feet as gigantic. Living giants have certainly been seen who were somewhat taller; but the existence of those who greatly surpassed it, or were double the height, has been inferred only from remains discovered in the earth, but not from the ocular testimony of credible witnesses. Were we to admit what has been reported on the subject, there would be no bounds to the dimensions of giants; the earth would seem unsuitable for them to tread upon. History, however, acquaints us that, in the reign of Claudius, a giant named Galbara, ten feet high was brought to Rome from the coast of Africa. An instance is cited by Goropius, an author with whom we are otherwise unacquainted, of a female of equal stature. A certain Greek sophist, Proæresius, is said to have been nine feet in height. Julius Capitolinus affirms that Maximinian, the Roman emperor was eight feet and a half; there was a Swede, one of the life guards of Frederick the Great, of that size. M. Le Cat speaks of a giant exhibited at Rouen, measuring eight feet and some inches; and we believe some have been seen in this country, within the last thirty years, whose stature was not inferior. In Plott’s “History of Staffordshire,” there is an instance of a man of seven feet and a half high, and another, in Thoresby’s account of Leeds, of seven feet five inches high. Examples may be found elsewhere of several individuals seven feet in height, below which, after the opinion of the ancients, we may cease to consider men gigantic. Entire families sometimes, though rarely, occur of six feet four, or six feet six inches high. From all this we may conclude, that there may have possibly been seen some solitary instances of men who were ten feet in height; that those of eight feet are extremely uncommon, and that even six feet and a half far exceeds the height of men in Europe. We may reasonably understand that the gigantic nations of Canaan were above the average size of other people, with instances among them of several families of gigantic stature. This is all that is necessary to suppose, in order to explain the account of Moses; but the notion that men have gradually degenerated in size has no foundation. There is no evidence whatever, that the modern tribes of mankind have thus degenerated. The catacombs of ancient Egypt and Palestine; the cenotaph, if it be truly such, in the great pyramid; the tomb of Alexander the Great, are all calculated for bodies of ordinary dimensions. The truth is still more satisfactorily established from the mummies which are yet withdrawn from their receptacles in Egypt, and the caverns of the Canary Islands. In the most ancient sepulchres of Britain, those apparently anterior to the introduction of Christianity, no remains are discovered which indicate the larger stature of the inhabitants than our own. In every part of the world domestic implements and personal ornaments, many centuries old, are obtained from tombs, from bogs and mosses, or those cities overwhelmed by volcanic eruptions, which would be ill adapted to a gigantic race of ancestors.

His grandfather was a man of ability, an enterprising merchant of London, one of the commissioners of customs under the Tory ministry during the last four years of Queen Anne, and, in the judgment of Lord Bolingbroke, as deeply versed in the “commerce and finances of England” as any man of his time. He was not always wise, however, either for himself or his country; for he became deeply involved in the South Sea Scheme, in the disastrous collapse of which (1720) he lost the ample wealth he had amassed. As a director of the company, moreover, he was suspected of fraudulent complicity, taken into custody, and heavily fined; but .£10,000 was allowed him out of the wreck of his estate, and with this his skill and enterprise soon constructed a second fortune. He died at Putney in 1736, leaving the bulk of his property to his two daughters —nearly disinheriting his only son, the father of the historian, for having married against his wishes. This son (by name Edward) was educated at Westminster and Cambridge, but never took a degree, travelled, became member of Parliament, first for Petersfield (1734), then for Southampton (1741), joined the party against Sir Robert Walpole, and (as his son confesses, not much to his father’s honour) was animated in so doing by “private revenge” against the supposed “oppressor” of his family in the South Sea affair. If so, revenge, as usual, was blind ; for Walpole had sought rather to moderate than to inflame public feeling against the projectors.

The historian was born at Putney, Surrey, April 27 (Old Style), 1737. His mother, Judith Porten, was the daughter of a London merchant. He was the eldest of a family of six sons and a daughter, and the only one who survived childhood; his own life in youth hung by so mere a thread as to be again and again despaired of. His mother, between domestic cares and constant infirmities (which, however, did not prevent an occasional plunge into fashionable dissipation in compliance with her husband’s wishes), did but little for him. The “true mother of his mind as well as of his health” was a maiden aunt—Catherine Porten by name—with respect to whom he expresses himself in language of the most grateful remembrance. “Many anxious and solitary days,” says Gibbon, “did she consume with patient trial of every mode of relief and amusement. Many wakeful nights did she sit by my bedside in trembling expectation that each hour would be my last.” As circumstances allowed, she appears to have taught him reading, writing, and arithmetic—acquisitions made with so little of remembered pain that “were not the error corrected by analogy,” he says, “I should be tempted to conceive them as innate.” At seven he was committed for eighteen months to the care of a private tutor, John Kirk by by name, and the author, among other things, of a “philosophical fiction,” entitled the Life of Automathes. Of Kirkby, from whom he learned the rudiments of English and Latin grammar, he speaks gratefully, and doubtless truly, so far as he could trust the impressions of childhood. With reference to Automathes he is much more reserved in his praise, denying alike its originality, its depth, and its elegance; but, he adds, “the book is not devoid of entertainment or instruction.”

In his ninth year (1746), during a “lucid interval of comparative health,” he was sent to a school at Kingston-upon-Thames: but his former infirmities soon returned, and his progress, by his own confession, was slow and unsatisfactory. “My timid reserve was astonished by the crowd and tumult of the school; the want of strength and activity disqualified mo for the sports of the play-field

By the common methods of discipline, at the expense of many tears and some blood, I purchased the knowledge of the Latin syntax,” but manifestly, in his own opinion, the Arabian Nights, Pope’s Homer, and Dryden’s Virgil, eagerly read, had at this period exercised a much more powerful influence on his intellectual development than Phaedrus and Cornelius Nepos, “painfully construed and darkly understood.”

In December 1747 his mother died, and he was taken home. After a short time his father removed to the “rustic solitude” of Buriton (Hants), but young Gibbon lived chiefly at the house of his maternal grandfather, at Putney, where, under the care of his devoted aunt, he developed, he tells us, that passionate love of reading “which he would not exchange for all the treasures of India,” and where his mind received its most decided stimulus. Of 1748 he says, “This year, the twelfth of my age, I shall note as the most propitious to the growth of my intellectual stature.” After detailing the circumstances which unlocked for him the door of his grandfather’s “tolerable library,” he says, “I turned over many English pages of poetry and romance, of history and travels. where a title attracted my eye, without fear or awe I snatched the volume from the shelf.” In 1749, in his twelfth year, he was sent to Westminster, still residing, however, with his aunt, who, rendered destitute by her father’s bankruptcy, but unwilling to live a life of dependence, had opened a boarding-house for Westminster school. Here in the course of two years (1749-50), interrupted by danger and debility, he “painfully climbed into the third form;” but it was left to his riper age to “acquire the beauties of the Latin and the rudiments of the Greek tongue.” The continual attacks of sickness which had retarded his progress induced his aunt, by medical advice, to take him to Bath; but the mineral waters had no effect. He then resided for a time in the house of a physician at Winchester; the physician did as little as the mineral waters; and, after a further trial of Bath, he once more returned to Putney, and made a last futile attempt to study at Westminster. Finally, it was concluded that he would never be able to encounter the discipline of a school; and casual instructors, at various times and places, were provided for him. Meanwhile his indiscriminate appetite for reading had begun to fix itself more and more decidedly upon history; and the list of historical works devoured by him during this period of chronic ill-health is simply astonishing. It included, besides Hearne’s Ductor Historicus and the successive volumes of the Universal History, which was then in course of publication, Littlebury’s Herodotus, Spelman’s Xenophon, Gordon’s Tacitus, an anonymous translation of Procopius; “many crude lumps of Speed, Rapin, Mezeray, Davila, Machiavel, Father Paul, Bower, <fcc., were hastily gulped. I devoured them like so many novels; and I swallowed with the same voracious appetite the descriptions of India and China, of Mexico and Peru.” His first introduction to the historic scenes the study of which afterwards formed the passion of his life took place in 1751, when, while along with his father visiting a friend in Wiltshire, he discovered in the library “a common book, the continuation of Echard’s Homan Hi story T “To me the reigns of the successors of Constantine were absolutely new; and I was immersed in the passage of the Goths over the Danube, when the summons of the dinner bell reluctantly dragged me from my intellectual feast.” Soon afterwards his fancy kindled with the first glimpses into Oriental history, the wild “barbaric” charm of which he never ceased to feel. Ockley’s book on the Saracens “first opened his eyes” to the striking career of Mahomet and his hordes; and with his characteristic ardour of literary research, after exhausting all that could be learned in English of the Arabs and Persians, the Tartars aud Turks, he forthwith plunged into the French of D’Herbelot, and the Latin of Pocock’s version of Abulfaragius, sometimes understanding them, but oftener only guessing their meaning. He soon learned to call to his aid the subsidiary sciences of geography and chronology, and before he was quite capable of reading them had already attempted to weigh in his childish balance the competing systems of Scaliger and Petavius, of Marsham and Newton. At this early period he seems already to have adopted in some degree the plan of study he followed in after life, aud recommended in his Essai sur V Étude — that is, of letting his subject rather than his author determine his course, of suspending the perusal of a book to reflect, and to compare the statements with those of other authors,—so that he often read portions of many volumes while mastering one.

Towards his sixteenth year he tells us “nature displayed in his favour her mysterious energies,” and all his infirmities suddenly vanished. Thenceforward, while never possessing or abusing the insolence of health, he could say “few persons have been more exempt from real or imaginary ills.” His unexpected recovery revived his father’s hopes for his education, hitherto so much neglected if judged by ordinary standards; and accordingly in January 1752 he was placed at Esher, Surrey, under the care of Dr Francis, the well known translator of Horace. But Gibbon’s friends in a few weeks discovered that the new tutor preferred the pleasures of London to the instruction of his pupils, and in this perplexity decided to send him prematurely to Oxford, where he was matriculated as a gentleman commoner of Magdalen College, 3d April, 1752. According to his own testimony, he arrived at the university “with a stock of information which might have puzzled a doctor, and a degree of ignorance of which a school-boy might be ashamed:” And indeed his huge wallet of scraps stood him in little stead at the trim banquets to which he was invited at Oxford, while the wandering habits by which he had filled it absolutely unfitted him to be a guest. He was not well grounded in any of the elementary branches, which are essential to university studies, and to all success in their prosecution. It was natural therefore that he should dislike the university, and as natural that the university should dislike him. Many of his complaints of the system were certainly just; but it maybe doubted whether any university system would have been profitable to him, considering his antecedents. He complains especially of his tutors, and in one case with abundant reason: but, by his own confession, they might have recriminated with justice, for he indulged in gay society, and kept late hours. His observations, however, on the defects of the English university system, some of which have only very recently been removed, are acute and well worth pondering, however little relevant to his own case. He remained at Magdalen about fourteen months. “To the university of Oxford,” he says, “I acknowledge no obligation; and she will as cheerfully renounce me for a son as I am willing to disclaim her for a mother. I spent fourteen months at Magdalen College; they proved the fourteen months the most idle and unprofitable of my whole life.”

But thus “idle” though he may have been as a “student,” he already meditated authorship. In the first long vacation—during which he, doubtless with some sarcasm, says that “his taste for books began to revive ”—he contemplated a treatise on the age of Sesostris, in which (and it was characteristic) his chief object was to investigate not so much the events as the probable epoch of the reign of that semi-mythical monarch, whom he was inclined to regard as having been contemporary with Solomon. “Unprovided with original learning, unformed in the habits of thinking, unskilled in the arts of composition, I resolved to write a book;” but the discovery of his own weakness, he adds, was the first symptom of taste. On his first return to Oxford the work was “wisely relinquished,” and never afterwards resumed. The most memorable incident, however, in Gibbon’s stay at Oxford w as his temporary conversion to the doctrines of the church of Rome. The bold criticism of Middleton’s recently (1749) published Free Enquiry into the Miraculous Powers which are supposed to have subsisted in the Christian Church, appears to have given the first shock to his Protestantism, not indeed by destroying his previous belief that the gift of miraculous powers had continued to subsist in the church during the first four or five centuries of Christianity, but by convincing him that within the same period most of the leading doctrines of popery had been already introduced both in theory and in practice. At this stage he was introduced by a friend (Mr Molesworth) to Bossuet’s Variations of Protestantism, and Exposition of Catholic Doctrine (see Gibbon, Decline and Fall, c. xv., note 79). “These works,” says he, “achieved my conversion, and I surely fell by a noble hand.” In bringing about this “fall,” however, Parsons the Jesuit appears to have had a considerable share; at least Lord Sheffield has recorded that on the only occasion on which Gibbon talked with him on the subject he imputed the change in his religious views principally to that vigorous writer, who, in his opinion, had urged all the best arguments in favour of Roman Catholicism. But be this as it may, he had no sooner adopted his new creed than he resolved to profess it; “a momentary glow of enthusiasm” had raised him above all temporal considerations, and accordingly, on June 8, 1753, he records that having “privately abjured the heresies” of his childhood before a Catholic priest of the name of Baker, a Jesuit, in London, he announced the same to his father in an elaborate controversial epistle which his spiritual adviser much approved, and which he himself afterwards described to Lord Sheffield as having been “written with all the pomp, the dignity, and self-satisfaction of a martyr.”

The elder Gibbon heard with indignant surprise of this act of juvenile apostasy, and, indiscreetly giving vent to his wrath, precipitated the expulsion of his son from Oxford, a punishment which the culprit, in after years at least, found no cause to deplore. In his Memoirs he speaks of the results of his “childish revolt against the religion of his country” with undisguised self-gratulation. It had delivered him for ever from the “port and prejudice” of the university, and led him into the bright paths of philosophic freedom. That his conversion was sincere at the time, that it marked a real if but a transitory phase of genuine religious conviction, we have no reason to doubt, notwithstanding the scepticism he has himself expressed. “To my present feelings it seems incredible that I should ever believe that I believed in transubstantiation,” he indeed declares; but his incredulous astonishment is not unmixed with undoubting pride. “I could not blush that my tender mind was entangled in the sophistry which had reduced the acute and manly understandings of a Chillingworth or a Bayle.” Nor is the sincerity of the Catholicism he professed in these boyish days in any way discredited by the fact of his subsequent lack of religion. Indeed, as one of the acutest and most sympathetic of his critics has remarked, the deep and settled grudge he has betrayed towards every form of Christian belief, in all the writings of his maturity, may be taken as evidence that he had at one time experienced in his own person at least some of the painful workings of a positive faith.

But little time was lost by the elder Gibbon in the formation of a new plan of education for his son, and in devising some method which if possible might effect the cure of his “spiritual malady.” The result of deliberation, aided by the advice and experience of Lord Eliot, was that it was almost immediately decided to fix Gibbon for some years abroad under the roof of M. Pavilliard, a Calvinist minister at Lausanne. In as far as regards the instructor and guide thus selected, a more fortunate choice could scarcely have been made. From the testimony of his pupil, and the still more conclusive evidence of his own correspondence with the father, Pavilliard seems to have been a man of singular good sense, temper, and tact. At the outset, indeed, there was one considerable obstacle to the free intercourse of tutor and pupil: M. Pavilliard appears to have known little of English, and young Gibbon knew practically nothing of French. But this difficulty was soon removed by the pupil’s diligence; the very exigencies of his situation were of service to him in calling forth all his powers, and he studied the language with such success that at the close of his five years’ exile he declares that he “spontaneously thought” in French rather than in English, and that it had become more familiar to “ear, tongue, and pen.” It is well known that in after years he had doubts whether he should not compose his great work ' in French; and it is certain that his familiarity with that language, in spite of considerable efforts to counteract its effects, tinged his style to the last.

Under the judicious regulations of his new tutor a methodical, course of reading was marked out, and most ardently prosecuted; the pupil’s progress was proportionably rapid. With the systematic study of the Latin, and to a slight extent also of the Greek classics, he conjoined that of logic in the prolix system of Crousaz; and he further invigorated his reasoning powers, as well as enlarged his knowledge of metaphysics and jurisprudence, by tho perusal of Locke, Grotius, and Montesquieu. He also read largely, though somewhat indiscriminately, in French literature, and appears to have been particularly struck with Pascal’s Provincial Letters, w hich he tells us he reperused almost every year of his subsequent life with new pleasure, and which he particularly mentions as having been, along with Bleterie’s Life of Julian and Giannone’s History of Naples, a book which probably contributed in a special sense to form the historian of the Roman empire. The comprehensive scheme of study included mathematics also, in which he advanced as far as the conic sections in the treatise of L’Hôpital. He assures us that his tutor did not complain of any inaptitude on the pupil’s part, and that the pupil was as happily unconscious of any on his own; but here he broke off. He adds, what is not quite clear from one who so frankly acknowledges his limited acquaintance with the science, that he had reason to congratulate himself that he knew no more. “As soon,” he says, “as I understood the principles, I relinquished for ever the pursuit of the mathematics; nor can I lament that I desisted before my mind was hardened by the habit of rigid demonstration, so destructive of the finer feelings of moral evidence, which must, however, determine the actions and opinions of our lives.”

Under the new influences which were brought to bear on him, he in less than two years resumed his Protestantism. “He is willing,” he says, to allow M. Pavilliard a “handsome share in his reconversion,” though he maintains, and no doubt rightly, that it was principally due “to his own solitary reflections.” He particularly congratulated himself on having discovered the “philosophical argument” against transubstantiation, “that the text of Scripture which seems to inculcate the real presence is attested only by a single sense—our sight, while the real presence itself is disproved by three of our senses—the sight, the touch, and the taste.” Before a similar mode of reasoning, all the other distinctive articles of the Romish creed “disappeared like a dream”; and “after a full conviction,” on Christmas day, 1754, he received the sacrament in the church of Lausanne. Although, however, he adds that at this point he suspended his religious inquiries, « acquiescing with implicit belief in the tenets and mysteries which are adopted by the general consent of Catholics and Protestants,” his readers will probably do him no great injustice if they assume that even then it was rather to the negations than to the affirmations of Protestantism that he most heartily assented.

With all his devotion to study at Lausanne (he read ten or twelve hours a day), he still found some time for the acquisition of some of the lighter accomplishments, such...