Deciding to read this book is a time commitment, no question. Edward Gibbon originally published The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire in six volumes between 1776 and 1789; and the volume that I have is 903 pages long in an abridged version (!). Yet if you love history, or if you simply enjoy the pleasures of reading exceptionally well-crafted prose, you should seek out this book. It is worth the time commitment, and more.
Edward Gibbon was born into comfortable circumstances in Surrey, but he lived a complicated life. His studies at Magdalen College, Oxford, left him despising the elitism of the university life of that time; and he went through a turbulent period of uncertain religious affiliation during which he left the Church of England, converted to the Roman Catholic faith, and then – after being threatened with disinheritance by his authoritarian father – became an Anglican once again. His relationship with the great love of his life – a French-Swiss woman named Suzanne Curchod, a gifted author in her own right – ultimately did not work out; once again, the opposition of his father was a factor.
Given all those difficult circumstances, perhaps it is no surprise that Gibbon rejected “revealed wisdom,” sought truth in the rigorous examination of primary sources, and adopted a pessimistic and skeptical point of view regarding both the prospects for human happiness in this world, and the very existence of a next world.
Gibbon begins The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by writing that “If a man were called to fix the period in the history of the world during which the condition of the human race was most happy and prosperous, he would, without hesitation, name that which elapsed from the death of Domitian to the accession of Commodus” (p. 1). Readers who are already somewhat knowledgeable about Roman history know that Gibbon is referring to the “Five Good Emperors”, whose reigns were as follows: Nerva (96-98 A.D.), Trajan (98-117 A.D.), Hadrian (117-138 A.D.), Antoninus Pius (138-161 A.D.), and Marcus Aurelius (161-180 A.D.)
All five of these emperors were wise and effective rulers who administered the empire honestly, used their military forces prudently and successfully, respected the forms of civil government, and sought to enforce the laws of the empire in a just manner. Rome was prosperous and safe during their reigns – but Gibbon reminds us that the Roman Empire was not a constitutional monarchy like, say, the Great Britain of King George III. Rather, the general happiness of the people depended upon an absolute ruler being a wise and good one; and such rulers were in short supply after Marcus Aurelius died.
How far had things had fallen by, say, around 265 A.D.? Consider the humiliation that Rome faced when the emperor Valerian was captured in battle against the Persians. “We are told,” Gibbon writes, “that Valerian, in chains, but invested with the Imperial purple, was exposed to the multitude, a constant spectacle of fallen greatness – and that, whenever the Persian monarch mounted on horseback, he placed his foot on the neck of a Roman emperor.” This story, Gibbon points out, has been questioned, but “it is at least certain that the only emperor of Rome who had ever fallen into the hands of the enemy languished away his life in hopeless captivity” (p. 105).
Gibbon emphasizes the importance of the historical moment when Rome abandoned polytheistic religion and the cult of imperial divinity, and adopted the Christian faith. The emperor Constantine, who entered upon his reign in 306 A.D., defeated the rival emperor Maxentius at the Battle of the Milvian Bridge six years later, after supposedly having seen a vision of a cross linked with the words in hoc signo vinces (“in this sign, you shall conquer”). Constantine legalized the Christian faith in 313 A.D., through the Edict of Milan, and the new religion grew so quickly that less than seven decades later, in 380 A.D., the later emperor Theodosius made Christianity the official religion of the Roman Empire, via the Edict of Thessalonica.
The change in the empire’s official religion, however, did not improve the fortunes of its emperors, generally speaking. The case of the emperor Valentinian II is characteristic in that regard. Valentinian became the ruler of the western part of the empire in 375 A.D., at the age of 4 (!), but was generally manipulated by one regent or another; and by 392 A.D., the then-19-year-old emperor decided that he was ready to take power from his regent, an army general named Arbogastes. This attempt did not go well:
[T]he emperor, without strength or counsel, too hastily resolved to risk an immediate contest with his powerful general. He received Arbogastes on the throne and, as the count approached with some appearance of respect, delivered to him a paper which dismissed him from all his employments. “My authority,” replied Arbogastes with insulting coolness, “does not depend on the smile or the frown of a monarch”; and he contemptuously threw the paper on the ground.
The indignant monarch snatched at the sword of one of the guards, which he struggled to draw from its scabbard, and it was not without some degree of violence that he was prevented from using the deadly weapon against his enemy, or against himself. A few days after this extraordinary quarrel, in which he had exposed his resentment and his weakness, the unfortunate Valentinian was found strangled in his apartment, and some pains were employed to disguise the manifest guilt of Arbogastes, and to persuade the world that the death of the young emperor had been the voluntary effect of his own despair. (pp. 402-03)
With that history in mind, it is a good time to address the claim that Gibbon believed that the fall of the Roman Empire occurred because Christianity weakened the empire. Nothing could be further from the truth; indeed, Gibbon would have been the first to tell you that bad emperors, from Commodus to Caracalla to Heliogabalus, did a fine job of weakening Rome all by themselves. Gibbon even makes a point of saying, with regard to the early Christian faith, that “By the wise dispensation of Providence, a mysterious veil was cast over the infancy of the church, which, till the faith of the Christians was matured, and their numbers were multiplied, served to protect them not only from the malice but even from the knowledge of the Pagan world” (p. 200). These are not, may I suggest, the words of a howling atheist who is blaming Christianity for every bad thing.
When Gibbon writes about “the important and dangerous change of the national religion” (p. 300), he is not saying that Christianity is a problem. He is saying that a national religion is a problem. He knows that a national religion, whether it is an old and polytheistic faith or a new and monotheistic one, has a way of becoming linked with economic and political power – in this case, “The irresistible power of the Roman emperors” (p. 300).
Gibbon feels that, as Christianity became enmeshed with the practical, day-to-day realities of governing a vast empire, differences in dogma and doctrine created divisions among Romans, weakening social cohesion and making the empire more vulnerable to enemies without and within. Gibbon does not feel that Christianity, in and of itself, weakened the Roman Empire; he does feel that dueling interpretations of Christianity, advocated by men who were often power-hungry and unscrupulous, weakened the empire. As Gibbon puts it, “The indissoluble connection of civil and ecclesiastical affairs” in the Christianized empire is what has induced him “to relate the progress, the persecutions, the establishment, the divisions, the final triumph, and the gradual corruption of Christianity” (p. 507).
Gibbon cites, as an example of those problems of division and corruption within the Christianized Roman Empire, the career of Cyril of Alexandria, who served as Patriarch of Alexandria from 412 to 444 A.D. Cyril may be a saint in the Eastern Orthodox, Coptic, Roman Catholic, and Lutheran churches; but for Gibbon, Cyril is an intolerant, superstition-ridden sectarian. Gibbon denounces Cyril for leading a mob attack against the Jewish people of Alexandria. The city’s Jews had lived in peace and freedom, “secured by the laws of the Caesars and Ptolemies”, for more than 700 years; but Cyril’s mob – “Without any legal sentence, without any royal mandate” (p. 601) – destroyed the synagogues and expelled the Jews from Alexandria.
Gibbon also holds Cyril responsible for the mob killing, in 415 A.D., of the philosopher Hypatia. The only woman included in Raphael’s 1511 School of Athens fresco celebrating the great philosophers of antiquity, Hypatia was an accomplished author, astronomer, mathematician, library scientist, and educator; but Gibbon writes that “Cyril beheld with a jealous eye the gorgeous train of horses and slaves who crowded the door of [Hypatia’s] academy”. Gibbon charges Cyril with whipping up the passions of a mob that set upon Hypatia in the streets of Alexandria and brutally murdered her, and closes by stating that “the murder of Hypatia has imprinted an indelible stain on the character and religion of Cyril of Alexandria” (p. 601).
When the leaders of a society link religion with politics and money, the whole society suffers as a result – politically, economically, and, yes, in religious terms as well. I wish that more people here in the United States of America, in the decade of the 2020’s, realized that simple truth.
First-time readers of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire may be surprised that the book does not end with the sack of Rome by the Visigothic king Alaric the First in 410 A.D. – or with the dethroning of the last Roman emperor, the boy-king Romulus Augustulus, by the “barbarian” warlord Odovacar, in 476 A.D. Indeed, Romulus Augustulus has been toppled off his throne by Chapter 38 of a 71-chapter book, and there are still 380 pages to go in my edition.
How can this be? Well, the above-mentioned emperor Constantine, in 330 A.D., founded his new city of Constantinople at the Bosphorus Strait where Europe meets Asia; and in 395 A.D., when the Roman Empire split in two, Constantinople became the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire. Thus, when the western empire fell eight decades later, the Roman name and legacy continued, directed from Constantinople. And Gibbon follows the saga of the Eastern Roman Empire, all the way up through the capture and sack of Constantinople by the Ottoman sultan Mehmet II in 1453.
Gibbon’s descriptions of Constantinople are fascinating: it is “the greatest city, [with] the most ample revenue, the most flourishing and populous state.” Visitors from the barbarized West, he says, would be amazed “to contemplate the situation and extent of Constantinople, her stately palaces and churches, and the arts and luxury of an innumerable people” (p. 701).
Yet after the end, in 565 A.D., of the reign of the emperor Justinian – an energetic and successful ruler, whose legacy can be seen in modern Istanbul through the Hagia Sophia cathedral building and the cisterns that Justinian built to supply the people of Constantinople with clean, fresh drinking water – Gibbon tells us that “the Eastern empire was sinking below its former level; the powers of destruction were more active than those of improvement; and the calamities of war were embittered by the more permanent evils of civil and ecclesiastical tyranny” (p. 701). One does not finish The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire with the desire to travel back in time for a visit to Byzantine Constantinople.
Part of the pleasure of reading The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire consists simply in travelling through Roman history with Gibbon as one’s guide. He is endlessly quotable, as when he writes that “the winds and waves are always on the side of the ablest navigators” (p. 838). And his knowing, sardonic perspective complements his mellifluous prose style.
In the book’s conclusion, Gibbon refers to the decline and fall of the Roman Empire as “the greatest, perhaps, and most awful scene in the history of mankind” (p. 902). Looking back to the beginning of his labours, he reflects that “It was among the ruins of the Capitol that I first conceived the idea of a work which has amused and exercised near twenty years of my life” (p. 903). And we can all be glad that he did so.
Gibbon stands with Herodotus and Thucydides among the Greeks, and with Livy and Tacitus among the Romans, as an historian who not only recounted events but offered a compelling interpretation of their larger meaning; and there are many good reasons why The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire remains in 2025 what it was when its last chapters were originally published in 1789 – one of the greatest and most important works of history ever published.