On the Ides of March, 2021, I closed this book having read the last words of the last volume. It is one of those works that genuinely merits the term ‘monumental’. I had begun reading Gibbon’s The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire on a trip to Ravello, near one of the houses of one of my favourite writers of my lifetime, Gore Vidal. He had played a key part in stimulating my desire to read this work. In his novel Burr, he says to a character that he must read Gibbon ‘to become civilised’. A couple of years earlier, at Dillon’s bookshop across the street from the University of London’s Student Union, I had come across a three-volume Modern Library edition. At the time I was strapped for cash, and it was cheaper than buying the six-volume Everyman edition, which faithfully reproduced the breakdown of the original six-volume publication. This was a serious blunder because the three volumes are unwieldy in a way the six volumes would not have been. This certainly contributed to the slow progress I made through Gibbon. Because -- and be prepared for your eyes to goggle -- that holiday in Ravello was taken in May 1986.
Yes, I have taken thirty-five years to read through Gibbon. It became a life’s ambition, and in the nature of those marked by the occasional lengthy hiatus. It is not the fault of Gibbon’s prose. His vocabulary is closer to a modern one than Shakespeare’s, so the problem isn’t one of meanings. However, it takes a little bit of effort to read one’s way into his cadence at the start, but it is quickly picked up and its rhythms are infectious. Vidal was quite right. To become civilised, one must read Gibbon simply in order to encounter his lovely turns of phrase.
That first sentence belongs with ‘Call me Ishmael’ as among those that should be memorable to secondary schoolers throughout the Anglosphere. ‘In the second century of the Christian era, the Empire of Rome comprehended the fairest part of the earth, and the most civilised portion of mankind.’ Every assumption made in it is challengeable, but it expresses the confidence of Gibbon’s own age, when Europe had begun to perceive itself not only as the most advanced portion of humanity -- because of the Christian revelation and the way the Industrial Revolution was concentrating widespread wealth there -- but also had seen enough of the rest of the world to decide that the temperate weather of Western Europe and the Mediterranean were the most comfortable places to live. Its use is as a teaching moment -- all historians start from assumptions that the reader must question.
Gibbon’s great value to readers of all ages is his understanding of human nature. Just raiding the Goodreads’ compilation of quotes we find quite a few classics --
‘War, in its fairest form, implies a perpetual violation of humanity and justice.
‘During many ages, the prediction, as it is usual, contributed to its own accomplishment.
‘There exists in human nature a strong propensity to depreciate the advantages, and to magnify the evils, of the present times.’
The last is one of my special favourites, even in this time of climate crisis. However, this next quote seems particularly apposite in the years we are moving through now, whatever country one makes one’s residence:
‘Stripped of the diadem and purple, clothed in a vile habit, and loaded with chains, he was transported in a small boat to the Imperial galley of Heraclius, who reproached him with the crimes of his abominable reign. "Wilt thou govern better?" were the last words of the despair of Phocas.’
Gibbon thought that second century of the Christian era to be the happiest of times. As the empire was built on the backs of millions of slaves, we can only assume Gibbon had some special knowledge that theirs was the happiest of slaveries. Be that as it may, he does in a rather scattered way, produce an explanation for the decline. He blames immigration, but only in the sense that the immigrants were not integrated into the society as peaceable settlers, but rather were incorporated into the armed service, treated quite meanly by local authorities and as a result preferred to reign in the locality rather than serve in the totality. In this he doesn’t attack the immigrants as alien, but as simply possessed of that same greed and avarice for more than the necessaries of life that infected the Romans. Greed is not good, to that eighteenth-century Englishman; it undermines institutions that are intended to serve the public interest, however narrowly that public is defined.
Gibbon also identifies a structural problem with the governance of the Roman Empire, as founded by Casear Augustus. Where Augustus pretended that he was simply a servant of the Senate and People of Rome, soon after the outset there were successors who sought to make the empire more like a monarchy and less like a republic. The hereditary principle was applied unevenly over the first two centuries of the empire, and even afterwards, and for Gibbon it was at moments of institutional instability that the people running things make blunders and compromises that irrevocably set a new course that leads to The Fall. Gibbon’s apparent lesson in this regard is that at certain moments we have to avoid expediency, and strive for objectivity in analysis and decision-making. Augustus appears to have intended that each emperor should negotiate with the Senate to nominate a mature successor -- the closest modern equivalent would be papal elections, perhaps. Problems for the empire arose at moments when this was ignored, as when Marcus Aurelius -- of all people! -- secured the succession for Commodus, thus precipitating the trajectory that launched the empire on the path of decline.
Without doubt, Gibbon assigns the most blame for the Fall of the Empire to Christianity, and its Roman/Orthodox versions in particular. On the face of it, this might seem odd. It is a religion of considerable structural strength for a ruling class insofar as it is accessible to all with little investment beyond time and alms, and promises that meekness on the Earth will lead to a great reward in Heaven. Gibbon’s target is not so much religious faith as priests and monks, especially the latter. The Church in the shape of its clergy is perceived as a parasite, draining wealth and energy from the already troubled institutional structure of the empire. By the time the Roman empire makes Christianity its official faith, the empire itself has, as a consequence of the ‘third century crisis’, been reconfigured into something very different from the regime of Augustus. For Gibbon, the Christians mimic this militarised structure but, instead of performing the useful service of the military in protecting the borders and engaging foreign enemies, they instead become an ‘enemy within’, allowing doctrinal disputes to poison the social fabric of empire even as it faces crises from without. (In contrast, Gibbon finds Islam more congenial, although he might look at modern Iran and Saudi Arabia somewhat askance.)
What is odd about Gibbon is that as the story progresses, the canvas on which he paints becomes larger and larger. The early chapters are focused on the emperors themselves and their empire’s near neighbours. By the time we get to the final chapters, Gibbon has taken us through the rise and conquests of Islam including Central Asia, the empires of Genghis Khan and Tamurlame and the rise of the Turkish empire. The justification for this is the fact that the lineal claim on the Roman empire only really ends with the Fall of Constantinople to the Turks in 1453. This diffusion, while a blessing to those of us who enjoy his prose, means a sad loss of narrative focus. Gibbon thereby defines the empire along the lines of a dynastic state. The empire ends when there is a ruler who can no longer represent the civil and religious traditions that characterised the empire. Roman polytheism yielded to Christianity, but the Turkish Sultans displaced that from the official religion of the state. Thus, the Christianity Gibbon dislikes becomes a vital marker for identifying the end of the empire, and paradoxically religion becomes more important than geography. Conceptually, I find a lot of questions going begging here.
In terms of the study of history, the best part about Gibbon is in giving the lie to the idea that good history has to be objective. Quite to the contrary, Gibbon proves that good history is achieved by being honest about one’s prejudices. All my favourite history books are written by those who announce their standpoint clearly, which allow the reader to consider the evidence or argument in the light of that. As far as I am concerned, reading any or all of Gibbon would be well worth anyone’s time, even in little chunks over three decades.