Why did Rome fall? In our present age, this question may yield insights that extend beyond historical inquiry. Rome, in the ancient world, was not simply another European city. It represented the pinnacle of western civilization and the magnetic core of order. Rome embodied itself as both the trustee of culture and the key to its future. When plagues spread and the economy struggled, no serious matter. One could count on the longevity of Rome to endure.
You can imagine the horror, then, on that cold winter day when, Alaric, King of the Visigoths, crossed the Rhine and sacked “the Eternal City.” And although it would be another sixty years for the fall of the 500-year empire to be complete, uncertainty had already began to creep in. The empire was in decline. How could this happen?
In this blog series, I will explore why civilizations decline and how they might be saved. Today’s article will focus on the idea that civilizations are built on confidence and sustained by ideas encoded in the written word. A civilization’s literature, and in turn the skill of literacy, therefore, plays a key role in the active sustainment and maintenance of a civilization.
Why Did Rome Fall?
There are several theories that have emerged over the centuries to explain Rome’s fall, and with it, the two hundred year decline of western civilization, commonly known as the Dark Ages.
First, there is the spiritual theory. This theory holds that Rome fell because it could not effectively leave its paganism behind. While Christianity became legal under Emperor Constantine with the Edict of Milan in 313, and legally mandated under Emperor Theodosius in 380, Rome could never free itself fully from the idolatry of its pagan roots. Like the Tower of Babel, an empire built apart from God will inevitably crumble, Rome notwithstanding.
Second, there is the moral theory. Like the spiritual theory, this view assigns the blame of Rome’s fall to internal problems. The empire had become corrupt. Virtues that once kept the empire trim, sharp, steady, and agile were lost. Citizens exchanged virtues of courage, justice, temperance, and prudence for greed, sloth, and impiety.
Third, there is the barbarian theory. This theory blames the aggressors of the north–the Visigoths, Goths, Vandals, and so forth–who, for population growth reasons, needed more land to raise their families. The obvious direction was south. Blame Alaric, the leader of the Visigoths, and his compatriots for the fall of Rome.
Fourth, there is what I call the cruciform theory. Rome fell because it became thorough-going Christian. What do you expect will happen to an empire whose state religion embraces truths like “turn the other cheek,” “pick up your cross,” and “blessed are the merciful”? These aren’t exactly sessions to include in a military training course. When the Roman Empire converted to Christianity, its final days were numbered, so claim pagans of the 4th century and skeptics of the 18th century.
Finally, there is the economic theory. It is difficult, if not impossible, to sustain a vast empire forever. Funding the military is expensive and keeping it in tip-top shape is a significant task. As leadership changed from generation to generation, financial and economic pressures finally had their way, crippling the military and weakening Rome to the point that it became vulnerable for a piece of straw to break the camel’s back.
Regardless of which theory, or combination of theories, is true, we know that Rome fell and it fell gradually. Prior to 410, there were warning signs to be sure, but the sacking of the city of seven hills remained an incredulous idea. And yet it fell all the same.
How Civilization is Built
Kenneth Clark, a 20th century historian, created a 13-episode documentary, available on YouTube, which chronicles the history of western civilization, beginning with its beginnings in classical antiquity. Clark suggests that civilization is comprised of more than proper table manners and good taste. Civilizations are built ultimately on confidence. Confidence in order, in society—in its history, philosophy, laws—and rooted in a shared vision for the good life, including its possibilities for the future.
I believe Clark is on to something. Civilization requires a general posture of confidence and optimism about what is possible for generations to come. It would be difficult to build anything without the assurance that you are on the right track. When I built my garden bed this spring, I first did a good amount of research on what would go into the project. What kind of wood would I need? What cuts should I make? How would I fasten the timber together? Through careful research, my confidence grew and a clear vision for the outcome emerged. I was ready to build.
Likewise, for a civilization to emerge among a people group, a shared vision for the future needs to materialize. This vision needs to be accompanied by “a way,” that is, a culture constituted of the approved speech, leisure activities, celebrations, and virtues for the people to aspire to embody. For example, in ancient Egypt, a particular confidence emerge that fueled a culture, leading for a civilization to emerge. Likewise, in classical antiquity, a general “way,” along with confidence in it, emerged within Greco-Roman culture. This allowed a distinct civilization to be built and endure for many years to come
The Taste of a Decadent Age
In How the Irish Saved Civilization (First Anchor Books, 1995), Thomas Cahill suggests that one way to understand what left Rome vulnerable in late antiquity is to peer into the life of a prominent figure from the era. He selects Ausonius the poet, who lived from 310-395. Cahill quotes Edward Gibbon, an 18th century Enlightenment skeptic and proponent of the cruciform theory described above, stating, “The poetical fame of Ausonius condemns the taste of his age” (The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Note 1 to Chapter 27).
Why so critical of Ausonius? According to Cahill, and Gibbon before him, the poet lacked any sort of genuine creativity. While he may have displayed skill as a teacher, the Roman had no business rising to such artistic and political prominence as he did in the late 4th century. His works are base, simple, and unoriginal. He seemed to value a life of comfort and pomp over virtue and effort. The fact that he was the top choice to tutor Gratian, the imperial heir of the time, and eventually tapped as imperial consul, tells us more about Rome’s dismal state than it does about Ausonius’ abilities.
Reflecting on Ausonius foolish leisurely activities and early retirement to his vineyards in France, Cahill writes, “How could a grown man have spent so much time so foolishly? Well, it’s what everyone else was doing. This is a static world. Civilized life, like the cultivation of Ausonius’ magnificent Bordeaux vineyards, lies in doing well what has been done before. Doing the expected is the highest value–and the second highest is like it: receiving the appropriate admiration of one’s peers for doing it” (21).
Ausonius represents for Cahill a decline in creativity, a proclivity for a life of popularity, and the settling for a life of ease. If Ausonius is a caricature of the late Roman Empire, then we need not ask why Rome fell. The story is told within the biography of this poet’s life. He was an average man living among average men. He was praised for excellence despite not actually achieving it. Roman life had become decadent, not unlike Ross Douthat’s indictment of our own time.
Augustine: The Classical Man
Cahill contrasts the life of Ausonius with Augustine, whose life he believes was among the last vestiges of classical civilization before the spawn of the Dark Ages. Born in 354, Augustine penned the story of his conversion to Christianity, entitled Confessions, in 401. Rome would fall only 9 years later. As pagans began to blame Rome’s conversion to Christianity as the reason for the fall, Augustine would take up his pen to write hi master work The City of God Against the Pagans. According to biographer Peter Brown, Augustine refused to abandon his North African home in Hippo as he wrote this book, even as Vandals sacked nearby Carthage, a key outpost of the Roman Empire (Augustine of Hippo, 422).
Like Ausonius, Augustine was a teacher of rhetoric. He was raised on Virgil and Cicero, masters of grammar, and received additional training in the classical liberal arts. An exceptional scholar among his peers, Augustine would go on to study philosophy, a field reserved only for the brightest.
So what is the difference between Ausonius and Augustine? According to Cahill, “What Ausonius wore like a medal Augustine bears stamped on his heart; the show-off accomplishments of Ausonius are for Augustine honored disciplines of the spirit” (42). Here Cahill is getting at the actual essence of the men. While Augustine’s prominence was rooted in genuine creativity, robust scholarship, and authentic virtue, Ausonius was simply playing the part. At some point during Rome’s decline, the shortcuts of lesser men became acceptable, not merely as the norm, but praised as the ideal.
What Was Lost
A loss of virtue may lead to a civilization’s decline, but it is a loss of its confidence grounded in a shared heritage that will destroy it. For western civilization, this heritage was encoded in classical literature. After Rome fell, the future of civilization in the West rested on a knife’s edge. Cahill writes,
“What is about to be lost in the century of the barbarian invasions is literature–the content of classical civilization, Had the destruction been complete–had every library been disassembled and every book burned–we might have lost Homer and Virgil and all of classical poetry, Herodotus and Tacitus and all of classical history, Demosthenes and Cicero and all of classical oratory, Plato and Aristotle and all of Greek philosophy, and Plotinus and Porphyry and all the subsequent commentary. We would have lost the taste and smell of a whole civilization. Twelve centuries of lyric beauty, aching tragedy, intellectual inquiry, scholarship, sophistry, and love of Wisdom–the acme of ancient civilized discourse–would all have gone down the drain of history” (58).
But, of course, we know today that it did not. Something happened unexpectedly after Rome fell that led to civilization’s preservation. The title of Cahill’s book alludes to it: the rise of Irish monasteries committed to preserving the writings that served as the bedrock of civilization. In my next article, I will dive into this episode of the story and draw out some implications for us seeking to preserve civilization today.
