[12] Boswell says in his Diary (1779): "Gibbon is an ugly, affected, disgusting fellow, and poisons our literary club to me." [13] The old house has wholly disappeared; the hotel covers a portion of Gibbon's garden. [14] Letter in the _Pall Mall Gazette_ in relation to Sir John Lubbock's "List of Hundred Best Books." Reprinted in _Critic_ (American) of March 20, 1886. [15] See, for instance, account of Julian's march, and of the taking of Constantinople. [16] Oliver Goldsmith, b. 1728; d. 1774. Fullest and best _Life_, that of John Forster. {144} CHAPTER IV. We parted company, in our last chapter, with Dr. Johnson, of whose work and career every educated person should know; we parted company also, with that more lovable, though less important man, Dr. Goldsmith--of whom it would have been easy and pleasant to talk by the hour; we all know him so well; we all would have wished him so well--if wishes could have counted. And as we sidle into the Poets' corner of Westminster Abbey--on whatever visit we make there--we put a friendly eagerness into our search for the medallion effigy of Goldsmith over the door, which we do not put into our search for a great many entombed under much greater show of marble. But Goldsmith's bones do not lie in the Abbey; he was buried somewhere under the wing of the Old Temple Church--the particular locality {145} being subject of much doubt; while the memorial statue of Johnson--his body lying in Westminster--must be sought for, still farther down in the city, under the arches of St. Paul's Cathedral. Garrick has what we might almost call melodramatic monument among the marbles of the Poets' corner; Reynolds has abiding memorials in the dashes of mellowed coloring and in the tender graces of those cherished portraits, some of which belong to every considerable gallery of England; Burke and Gibbon lie in quiet country places--the first near to his old home of Beaconsfield; and the historian among those southern downs of Sussex which look upon the Channel waters; his books may never have touched us to tenderness; but he bows his way out of our presence, with the grandest history belonging to the eighteenth century for a memorial. _A Scottish Historian._ [Sidenote: David Hume.]