There Are Two Very Natural Propensities Which

The Single Combats Of The Heroes Of History Or Fable Amuse Our Fancy And Engage Our Affections: The Skillful Evolutions Of War May Inform The Mind, And Improve A Necessary, Though Pernicious, Science. But In The Uniform And Odious Pictures Of A General Assault, All Is Blood, And Horror, And Confusion . . .

The Voice Of History Is Often Little More Than The Organ Of Hatred Or Flattery.

It Was Rome, On The Fifteenth Of October, 1764, As I Sat Musing Amidst The Ruins Of The Capitol, While The Barefooted Friars Were Singing Vespers In The Temple Of Jupiter, That The Idea Of Writing The Decline And Fall Of The City First Started To My Mind.

The Germans, In The Age Of Tacitus, Were Unacquainted With The Use Of Letters; And The Use Of Letters Is The Principal Circumstance That Distinguishes A Civilised People From A Herd Of Savages Incapable Of Knowledge Or Reflection. Without That Artificial Help, The Human Memory Soon Dissipates Or Corrupts The Ideas Intrusted To Her Charge; And The Nobler Faculties Of The Mind, No Longer Supplied With Models Or With Materials, Gradually Forget Their Powers; The Judgment Becomes Feeble And Lethargic, The Imagination Languid Or Irregular.

War, In Its Fairest Form, Implies A Perpetual Violation Of Humanity And Justice.