The excitement and dissipation of a town life, which purchase pleasure to-day at the expense of fatigue and disgust to-morrow, were as little to his taste as the amusements of the country.

In 1772, when he settled in London, he was young in years, but he was old in tastes, and he enjoyed himself with the complacency often seen in healthy old men.

"My library," he writes to Holroyd in 1773, "Kensington Gardens, and a few parties with new acquaintance, among whom I reckon Goldsmith and Sir Joshua Reynolds," (poor Goldsmith was to die the year following), "fill up my time, and the monster _ennui_ preserves a very respectful distance.

By the by, your friends Batt, Sir John Russell, and Lascelles dined with me one day before they set off: _for I sometimes give the prettiest little dinner in the world_." One can imagine Gibbon, the picture of plumpness and content, doing the honours of his modest household.
Still he was never prominent in society, even after the publication of his great work had made him famous.

Lord Sheffield says that his conversation was superior to his writings, and in a circle of intimate friends it is probable that this was true.