III Principal Lines of Development of the Novel of Roman Life from 1834 to the Present Day (continued 2)

It would be absurd as well as unfair to call Ben Hur (1880), Gen. Lew Wallace’s great novel of Roman life, “merely a popular” novel. A gorgeous romance it certainly is,—but this is not all. Ben Hur has been and still is “popular” in the best sense of the word. Some of the finest novels of Roman life, even such great works as Kingsley’s Hypatia and Canon Farrar’s Darkness and Dawn, make their strongest appeal to the cultured few; Ben Hur appeals with equal power to all. Moreover, some novels of Roman life interest every one for a time, yet later lose their power to interest; Ben Hur has become a permanent thing, appealing to the popular taste of all time. Ben Hur is the first novel of Roman life in English which has with uniform success combined a high seriousness and sincerity of tone, with a use of the sensational achieving the utmost in realistic effect. Such a combination was only partly attempted in Hypatia,—which only makes a limited use of the sensational,—and was only equalled in isolated parts of Salathiel. Ben Hur has been called a romance, but as one reads it, his feeling is not, “This is romance,” but “This is life!”

Ben Hur is so universally known, that it is needless to review it here. It has never ceased to be sold in English-speaking countries; while it has been translated into French, German, Bohemian, Swedish, Turkish, Spanish, Portuguese and Arabic, and printed in raised letters for the blind. Its dramatization has also increased its popularity. Hence we need now only consider a few points about Ben Hur in regard to its relation to our subject. In the first place, Ben Hur is definitely a novel of Roman life, though its scene only goes to the city of Rome in occasional brief explanatory paragraphs. Other novels of Roman life so far considered have deserved to be called such, either because their scene was laid (at least in part) in Rome, or because it was laid chiefly in some great city of the Empire, (as Alexandria in Hypatia), in which life very strongly resembled the life of Rome. But from Ben Hur, more than from any other novel, one gets a sense of other related parts of the Roman world. Other novelists, as Croly in Salathiel, have successfully carried their characters to different parts of the Roman world, and have described scenes, which were of deep significance, but which none the less were associated in one’s mind with a definitely limited place. But in Ben Hur from the beginning of the story, when the three “wise men,” representing the antiquity of Egypt, the learning of the East, and the culture of Greece, meet and pursue the common purpose of their lives, one perceives that the important events and even minor episodes of the story are to be of such tremendous significance, that they throw off the limitations of time and place. The events of Ben Hur are accurately assigned by the author to different historical places, but they really belong not so much to separate, individual parts of the Roman world, as to the whole of that world. Christ was born in Palestine (the scene of most of Ben Hur), but His message was to the whole world,—and the world was then Roman. Ben Hur was a Jew, but the message he received was for Jew and Gentile, Roman master and Roman slave. That the entire world was Roman in the time of Christ is shown by Wallace with great care and fidelity. Wherever the story takes one, he meets with characteristic Roman scenes. Scenes in Palestine show the unmistakable marks of the Roman oppressor, and the bitter hatred with which Rome’s power is regarded. We meet with Roman soldiers, a Roman slave-gang, we witness the departure of a Roman galley, and a Roman fight at sea; we behold the conclusion of a Roman all-night revel, while the Romans take precedence over all other celebrants in the Grove of Daphne. Even the chariot-race scene,[28] the most famous in Ben Hur, could have been transferred to Rome, and is characteristic of the Roman world.

How then does Ben Hur show the coming of Christ into the world, the material part of which was under Roman sway? The novel is called in its alternative title A Tale of the Christ;—and such it is. The figure of Christ appears when he is a babe worshipped by the Magi, and later in scenes near the time of the Crucifixion; but these scenes are based on Scripture rather than created by Wallace. We have spoken of the fact that no novel of Roman life can be successful, if it makes Christ the central figure or character. Ben Hur does not do so; but its author shows enough of the life and death of the lowly Nazarene to convince one of His Divine Influence upon the Roman world, which has become the world of today. Ben Hur as he listened to the preaching of Jesus, and gazed upon His wonderful countenance, remembered having seen Him before. “That the look so calm, so pitiful, so loving, had somewhere in the past beamed upon him as that moment it was beaming on Balthazar, became an assurance. Faintly at first, at last a clear light, a burst of sunshine, the scene by the well at Nazareth what time the Roman guard was dragging him to the galleys returned, and all his being thrilled.” This quotation is typical of the story of Ben Hur; a Tale of the Christ. The mother and sister of Ben Hur suffered misfortune at the hands of the Romans, and were only freed from the cruelty of the Roman world by their acceptance of and meeting with The Master. Lew Wallace is equally great in his portrayal of the material life of Rome and the spiritual life of Christ.

Having chosen his subject, Wallace wisely refrained from making any very great use of Roman history, or of Roman historical characters not important in the Bible story. But just as the scenes of his novel are typical of life in the Roman world, so his characters exhibit the variety of race, creed and nationality to be found in the people Rome ruled. Beside a number of different types of Hebrew character which the author portrays, there are at least two kinds of Romans in Ben Hur, the proud, cruel oppressor, in Messala, and the magnanimous benefactor, in Quintus Arrius. Other characters represent the sage of whatever nationality, the youthful Greek with his perfect physical beauty, the Arab sheik, the seductive siren of the Nile, the devout Christian, and the pagan priestess. But Wallace does not rely too much on atmosphere or local color. His knowledge of Roman history was sound. While Messala, an imaginary character, is important in the story, Sejanus, who controlled the politics of Rome, is given his proper place in the background. In fact, the scholarship of Wallace was sound in every way. While he did not finish his schooling according to the prescribed course, he completed his own education more thoroughly than most men do. He was a great reader of good books, and at the age of 19, had read every book in his father’s library,—700 standard works. He continued to be a great reader and student, and formed a large library of his own. Besides his reading Wallace had a rich experience of life on the battlefield and in public life, and was peculiarly well fitted to understand with sympathy all sorts and conditions of men. Ben Hur is the only other novel of Roman life, besides Salathiel, to arouse successfully the reader’s sympathy for a Jewish hero. In his presentation of Ben Hur as a slave, Wallace showed his realization of antiquity of the slavery question; and he had shortly before done his part in settling forever that question. His sympathetic understanding of men, women, and little children of the present aided him in portraying with sympathy various types of character seen in the life of the past. Ben Hur is a novel which voices the hopes and aspirations of the common people of all the world.

Any estimate of the absolute value of Ben Hur must place Lew Wallace’s novel very high indeed. If one discounts the great influence the book has had upon its many readers, and considers it simply as a piece of art, it still ranks very high. While Ben Hur is said to have brought its author more sudden fame than any other novel has brought to an American author, this fame which came suddenly, did not as suddenly depart. If he is judged by the merits of Ben Hur, Wallace deserves to be ranked, as a novelist, with other great American novelists, such as Cooper, Hawthorne and Howells. In the opinion of a noted authority on American literature, Ben Hur “is in every respect a great novel.”[29] And it is impossible to differ with this opinion. Reduced to its lowest terms, all adverse criticism of Ben Hur lies in an arraignment of its so-called “faulty syntax.” Those who make this criticism in every case fail to give any quotation in illustration of their view, or to be specific in any other way. If one were to go through Ben Hur hunting for irregularities of syntax, doubtless he could find them just as easily as they may be found in the work of almost any other great novelist,—and perhaps no more easily. It is doubtful if the great majority of reviewers who have criticised the syntax of Ben Hur have had any thorough appreciation of what syntax is. Moreover, to quote a recent work on style, by a classical scholar, who is speaking of the style of Sophocles, it seems “that liberties of this kind are not confined to any particular stage of literary history, but are mainly due to the individual bent of the writer’s genius. No ancient author, however, has carried them to a greater length than Sophocles, ... he rejoices in those confusions of syntax ... by which one construction is suddenly merged in another.”[30] Sophocles has not perished on account of irregularities of style or syntax, nor will Lew Wallace, for any such reason. The free style of Ben Hur is well suited to describe its ever-changing scenes. Nor is the novel to be criticised for looseness of construction. Its combination of unity and variety make Ben Hur in every sense a great novel suited to a portrayal of life in the Roman Empire in the time of Christ. The chariot race, the sea fight, and the disentombing of Ben Hur’s mother and sister, are thrilling episodes in the world’s literature; and considered as a whole, Ben Hur is one of the great novels of all time.

After the appearance of Ben Hur many “popular” novels of Roman life tend toward a greater or less imitation of Lew Wallace’s great novel. There is, however, little such imitation in John W. Graham’s Neaera (1886), a novel the author of which displays genuine scholarship. In its description of the splendor and crime of the court of Tiberius, Neaera depends much on the Annals of Tacitus, which furnishes the best source for such a description of the Rome of Tiberius. The character of the gloomy Emperor is well drawn, as are also those of Sejanus, his mistress Livia, and Lygdus, the eunuch. Domitius Afer is made prominent, and through him we learn of the methods of the Emperor and others who make use of the ruffians of the Subura to attain their ends. The banquet of Apicius, and his suicide furnish the material for a realistic description of manners.

An example of a very poor kind of “popular” historical novel is found in The Son of a Star (1888), by B. W. Richardson. This is a wildly fantastic romance which bears on the title page a quotation from Horace, “Ficta voluptatis causa sit proxima veris,” but is certainly very far from the truth in most respects. While The Son of a Star makes occasional brief displays of accurate scholarship, chiefly borrowed from other novelists, its loose construction and false atmosphere make it a good example of the novel of Roman life “gone to seed.” The bright, though false, coloring of this romance suggests the work of Sir Rider Haggard, which has already been excluded from consideration in this study. His Cleopatra appeared in the following year (1889). This date, in fact, may be said to mark the point at which the pretended novel of Roman life, with its artificial coloring, becomes separated from the true novel of Roman life.

The idea of presenting the life of Rome as a gorgeous and at times bloody spectacle, with a frequent use of the sensational, reached its greatest height in Quo Vadis (1895), by the Polish author, H. Sienkiewicz. This idea had appeared in the English novel of Roman life, e. g., in Salathiel (1827), The Gladiators (1863), and Ben Hur (1880). There is no need to review Quo Vadis in detail here, since it is so well known; but let us establish its relation to the English novel of Roman life. It appeared after Eckstein’s Nero (1889), and a number of English novels of Roman life of the time of Nero, and may owe some of its inspiration to these, especially to Darkness and Dawn (1892). But after Quo Vadis was translated into English (1896), its influence upon later English novels of Roman life overshadowed even that of Canon Farrar’s great and more serious work. Quo Vadis has been translated and read in civilized lands even more widely than Ben Hur. These are the two novels of Roman life which have had the most widespread influence upon all subsequent novels of Roman life the world over. Quo Vadis adds practically no new element to the novel of Roman life, but puts certain elements which already existed into a more intensely vivid, and even lurid form,—in short, emphasizes the sensational. In its larger outlines Quo Vadis is reminiscent not only of Darkness and Dawn but of Hypatia. It represents the same struggle between the Christian Church and the Roman pagan world, the same triumph of Christianity. The contrast lies between the proud, voluptuous, and cruel spirit of pagan Rome and the spirit of humility and hope of the dwellers in the catacombs. A personal contrast is seen between Nero, the royal performer in the circus, and St. Peter, the fisherman who was to rule the world by his example. Other characters are those familiar to the novel of Roman life, Petronius the connoisseur in luxury, Vinicius the active young Roman noble, Lygia the beautiful Christian maiden condemned to the arena, Ursus the powerful slave, the dissolute Poppæa and members of Nero’s court, Croton the athlete, Glaucus the forgiving Christian, and others too numerous to mention. The scenes of Quo Vadis are also familiar, much the same as those of Darkness and Dawn, the picture of the fire at Rome being especially fine. While the moral lesson exists in Quo Vadis, what Sienkiewicz did for the novel of Roman life was to portray the life of the city of Rome itself in a form absolutely irresistible to the so-called “average” reader. Realistic effect was the most important thing to the writer of Quo Vadis; and in preparation for the writing of a novel which should portray the life of Rome with realistic effect he traveled widely and made a thorough study of numerous Latin authors, especially those who describe the life of Rome of the first few centuries A. D. The result is that Sienkiewicz was a profound scholar; and his scholarship appears in Quo Vadis,—though the novel shows some instances of error, chiefly topographical error, especially in the description of the great fire. None the less Quo Vadis is now the novel of Roman life which shows to the greatest extent a combination of careful scholarship and popularity of appeal. By 1900, nearly 2,000,000 copies of the English translation (1896), by Jeremiah Curtin, had been sold; and the influence of the novel upon popular taste is still important, since it creates beyond a doubt in every reader’s mind a desire to read further in Roman historical fiction.

The Sign of the Cross, by Wilson Barrett, appeared immediately after Quo Vadis, and, though very popular, is nothing but a weak and slavish imitation of Sienkiewicz’s great novel. This is all that need be said of The Sign of the Cross as a novel, since there is nothing original about it, and its brief popularity was due entirely to the reflected splendor of Quo Vadis. The fact that this novel was turned into a play with some success, following the example set by the dramatization of Ben Hur, shows that theatrical managers realized the possibilities offered by a novel of Roman life. Unfortunately the drama of Roman life presented either on the stage or the screen, has in nearly every instance, become more a gorgeous spectacle or a sensational melodrama, than a serious drama. But the drama of Roman life is mentioned here, since it has induced many who have seen such a play to read the novel on which it was based. This was the case with Ben Hur, which in the form of a novel offers, I believe, a higher and stronger appeal than any dramatic production based upon it.

Another novel which definitely goes back to Quo Vadis for its best scenes, but is possessed of some individual merit, is Amor Victor, the third edition of which appeared in 1902. This novel, by Orr Kenyon, is also marked by the seriousness of purpose which underlies the sensationalism of Quo Vadis. It particularly resembles Quo Vadis in its scenes in the arena, and in showing the tremendous difference between the appalling difficulties presented to the Christian at the time of the Empire, and those which he now meets. But Amor Victor also shows the similarity of atrocities committed by pagans then and now. This novel seems to be the first to draw parallels between events in the past and definite, specific occurrences of the present, taken sometimes even from personal experiences. For example, the author, in describing certain almost unthinkable atrocities which occurred in the Roman arena, shows how exactly the same outrages were committed upon the Christians by the Turks shortly before he wrote. Even since Amor Victor was written, these scenes have been repeated in Turkey. Moreover, Kenyon, in describing the scene in which Arsaces, the giant Parthian, kills a lion in the arena, is recalling the time when he himself had seen Sandow, the famous strong man, throw a lion in a public exhibition. This definite use of an incident, which the author has seen with his own eyes, aids him in achieving realistic effect. A similar use of an incident which actually occurred, is made by Mr. E. L. White in Andivius Hedulio (1921), in which the description of the miraculous escape of Commodus’ chariot from disaster was suggested by a real accident in the streets of Baltimore. Amor Victor takes its story of St. John the Apostle from the patristic writings. It is accurate in its historical coloring. In speaking of his serious purpose, the author says in a note at the end of Amor Victor, “Newell Dwight Hillis has shown that really great works of fiction are those which illustrate some vital principle, some deep moral lesson.” The novel conveys a moral lesson. Yet, while parts of it are also written in juvenile style, Amor Victor is not merely a story of religious instruction, but a true novel of Roman life. The Story of Phaedrus, by Hillis, to which Kenyon has reference in his quotation, is more a story of religious instruction written in distinctly juvenile style. Its hero does not see much of Roman life, since he spends most of his life in copying sacred writings in the depths of the catacombs.

An imitation of Ben Hur with some original touches is Mr. Irving Bacheller’s Vergilius; A Tale of the Coming of Christ (1904). The author reverses the plan of Lew Wallace, by placing the birth of Christ at the end, instead of at the beginning of his story. Mr. Bacheller’s attempt to use the birth of Christ as a climax, to which the rest of the story leads, is not very successful. His treatment of sacred scenes falls far below that of Lew Wallace, and the construction of his plot is poor. But he has described some scenes in Roman life with fine realistic effect, particularly those which take place in the magnificent palaces of Rome and Jerusalem. The descriptions of intrigues which take place in the court of Augustus, show the uncertainty of life at Rome at the time. The characters are few in number, Augustus and the young Jewish prince Herod Antipater being the only important historical figures. The crafty nature of Augustus is portrayed with a very keen insight into the depths of human nature, and the vindictive hatred of the Jewish prince forms a marked contrast to the noble, ingenuous nature of Vergilius, the imaginary hero of the story. Vergilius is a young patrician, and a favorite of Augustus; his character is not idealized and is quite representative of Roman times. In justice to Mr. Bacheller’s work, it should be said that he has not attempted to fill as large a canvas as did Lew Wallace in Ben Hur; his picture of life in Roman times is more limited in its scope, and more chaste in its outlines. Scenes which make use of the sensational are not overdone. Vergilius is a novel of Roman life, containing many beautifully written passages, which give it a very high position among such novels.

Lux Crucis (1904) is a very readable novel by Mr. Samuel M. Gardenhire. It is called by its author A Tale of the Great Apostle, and is dedicated to the Rt. Rev. Ethelbert Talbot, Bishop of Central Pennsylvania. Lux Crucis is, more than any other novel I know of, an attempt to portray Roman life by taking as much material as possible from previous novels of Roman life. Everything is thus taken at second-hand, without recourse to original sources. This method may show wide reading, but hardly shows thorough scholarship. Scenes in the arena depend upon Quo Vadis; scenes which have to do with St. Paul and Christian characters suggest Ben Hur and Darkness and Dawn; while other passages, especially that representing the gladiator’s school, undoubtedly go back to The Last Days of Pompeii. The author takes his history, chronology, and topography at second hand, and apparently he is confused in his remembrance of his own reading. The result is that Lux Crucis probably contains more ridiculous mistakes than any other novel of Roman life. For example, a so-called Briton is given the Anglo-Saxon name of Ethelred, though he lives in the time of Nero, before the Saxon invasion of Britain; he is made to come from Brittany, though Armorica did not receive that name until at least six hundred years later; and he speaks of crossing the channel to Angle-land, “with a smile.” (The reader also smiles.) An anachronism which is related to topography occurs, when the Forum of Trajan is mentioned in this story of Nero’s time, though the accession of Trajan did not take place until thirty-three years later. These typical instances of error in Lux Crucis are selected from a great number, some of which are almost equally bad. It is remarkable that, in spite of these inconsistencies, the novel is pleasing in its portrayal of characters, historical and non-historical, and many of its scenes are by no means devoid of realistic effect. Lux Crucis furnishes examples of the pitfalls awaiting an author who has attempted a piece of work requiring scholarship, but has been handicapped by his unscholarly methods.

Mr. Walter S. Cramp’s popular novel, Psyche (1905), describes the Rome of Tiberius, and contains much sound history taken from the Annals of Tacitus. In this it resembles Graham’s Neaera, which had appeared in 1886. In 1913 Mr. Cramp published another novel of Roman life, called An Heir to Empire, which is much like Psyche in its general outlines, except that the story centers in the life of Augustus’ court, instead of in the life of the court of Tiberius. It makes no great misuse of history, but adds too many fanciful details to historical episodes; this in spite of the fact that the novel is formally dedicated “To the Honorable Rodolpho Lanciani, whose genius touched the dust and ruins of Ancient Rome and made them live.”

F. INFLUENCE OF FRENCH NOVELS OF ROMAN LIFE

Hitherto no mention has been made of the influence of French novels of Roman life upon English novels of Roman life. And I have found that this influence of French novels is not nearly so important as might be supposed, but on the whole, is rather an indefinite thing. But before concluding our survey of the “popular novel” of Roman life and the “gorgeous romance,” it is best to say a few words, (regarding the latter phrase especially), of the influence of certain French novels. In 1862 Gustave Flaubert’s famous Salammbo appeared in the English translation. While this great work undoubtedly had a tremendous influence as a “gorgeous romance,” it is difficult to trace this influence directly. The Gladiators (1863) appeared the following year, and exhibits a similarity of style in presenting the gorgeous pageantry of the past; but while The Gladiators may owe something to Salammbo, it seems more likely that Whyte-Melville’s novel was an independent effort to please a certain element of the public taste. Later and greater novels, such as Ben Hur and Quo Vadis, may have profited by the splendid example of Flaubert, who filled a large canvas with brilliant colors, but did not sacrifice truth,—but here again the influence is indefinite. In fact, Salammbo appears to have stood forth with such tremendous power that it discouraged rather than encouraged imitation. No one,—so novelists have thought,—could hope to equal Flaubert’s novel in splendor of style or in realistic effect. Thus Salammbo has remained the only great novel whose scene is ancient Carthage. Though its scene does not go to Rome, no view of Roman life would be complete without some knowledge of the most powerful enemy of the Roman Republic, whose life was so closely connected with that of Rome. Salammbo combines the story of a Carthaginian princess, a sister of Hannibal, with an account of the Mercenary War. The description of this war of Carthage with her own soldiers, suggests troubles Rome later had with armies composed of heterogeneous elements. Salammbo is equally vivid in its description of the pagan customs of Carthage, particularly of the custom of offering human sacrifices to Moloch. A few books which describe the city life of Carthage, or her wars with the Romans, no doubt owe their inspiration indirectly to Salammbo. G. A. Henty’s excellent book for boys, The Young Carthaginian (1886), describes the political organization and social conditions existing in the city of Carthage, and gives a similar description of the sacrifice to Moloch, before taking Hannibal on his campaign against Rome. The Lion’s Brood (1901) has its scene entirely in the Italian peninsula. Recently Señor Blasco Ibañez published Sonnica (1920), which seems to show evidence of his reading of Salammbo. In this novel Hannibal’s siege of the semibarbaric city of Saguntum recalls Flaubert’s description of the siege of Carthage by the Mercenaries. Sonnica, besides giving a good characterization of Hannibal, is especially noteworthy for its accurate portrayal of the stern, bare, and crude city of Rome in the early days of the republic. This portrayal contains a fine paragraph on the Roman father, and mentions several historical characters, such as the vindictive Cato and the slave Plautus. Sonnica does not appear as yet to have influenced novels of Roman life in English, though it may have given some suggestions to Mr. Jaquelin A. Caskie, who has written Nabala (1922), an attractive novelette, dealing with the Third Punic War. More likely Nabala, (as everything else in fiction connected with Hannibal and Carthage before her fall seems to do), goes back for its principal inspiration to Salammbo. Its scenes of fighting outside the city of Carthage recall similar scenes in Salammbo, as does its description of what goes on inside the city, the human sacrifice to Moloch furnishing the climax of the story.

A novel written in quite different style by Flaubert is The Temptation of St. Anthony (1874). This has for its scene the cell of an anchorite in the time of Constantine, since St. Anthony says in the novel, “The Emperor Constantine has written me three letters.” In describing the visions[31] which pass through the mind of the saint, however, the author makes it seem as though the entire pageant of the past history of the Roman Empire were passing before his eyes. In his temptation the saint sees pagan gods pass before him, and he takes on the personality of famous kings, with their unlimited power to gratify their passions. In his mental wanderings, he speaks of Athanasius, the Arians, and the monks of Nitria. This last thought recalls the part which the savage monks of Nitria play in Kingsley’s Hypatia, and the talk of other affairs of the Church also suggests Hypatia. Moreover, the situation of St. Anthony alone in his cell in the desert is strongly reminiscent of passages at the beginning and the end of Kingsley’s novel. But St. Anthony’s strongest temptation comes in the form of the vision of Thais, an irresistibly beautiful courtesan. This suggests M. Anatole France’s (Jacques Anatole France Thibault) Thais (1889), which also makes a portrayal of the beautiful courtesan. Custom forbids English and American novelists from making such a portrayal in detail, and it is to be doubted whether they could present such a picture with the realism of French authors, whose view-point has always been radically different, as regards the degree of frankness to be allowed a novelist in portraying a man’s passion for a beautiful woman. The portrayal of the beautiful courtesan in the French novel of Roman life reaches the greatest frankness in Pierre Louys’ Aphrodite, which is, in effect, a description of the schools of prostitution in Roman Alexandria. French novels of this kind have had little effect on novels of Roman life written in English. However, there is one novel written by an American of French descent, which frankly tells the story of a beautiful courtesan, and will now be discussed.

Mr. T. Everett Harré published in Philadelphia in 1916 Behold the Woman. This is the story of the famous Alexandrian courtesan of transcendent beauty, who is known in the Lives of the Saints as St. Mary of Egypt. Mr. Harré takes the general outlines of his story from the Lives of the Saints, though adding much from invention. And, while Behold the Woman shows an individuality of style and a remarkable power of description, it appears to be a book full of echoes. There is, for example, some similarity of plot between Behold the Woman and the Thais of M. Anatole France, in that both novels portray the repentance and regeneration of the fallen woman.

M. France in Thais had been said to combine “a curiously subtle piety of imagination with impiety of thought.” (B. W. Wells in The Encyclopedia Americana, 1920.) Whether this criticism is just or not, as applied to Thais, it must be said most emphatically that Mr. Harré’s work shows absolutely no impiety of thought. In presenting the facts of life in the Roman world, in Behold the Woman, he is making a simple statement of the truth. Piety of imagination is indeed displayed in the story of Mary’s conversion and life of penitence in the desert. But even in such a scene as that in which the supposed room of the Lord’s Supper is desecrated by the orgy of the fallen monks, the author shows no impiety of thought. Nor, if one sets aside questions of religion, and rests his faith on mere morality, can the charge of immorality be brought against Behold the Woman with any sincerity whatever. In certain scenes of Behold the Woman there appears evidence of a direct borrowing from Pierre Louys’ Aphrodite, in which there had been an elaborate description of the bath and toilet of the courtesan, with an extensive catalogue of her charms in symbolic language. In Behold the Woman the scenes attending the destruction of the temple of Serapic remind one of Ebers’ Serapis, which had described similar scenes. But Mr. Harré particularly excels in describing with minute touches the superstition of the Roman soldiers, who were called upon to destroy the temple and its huge idol, but feared to do so. Moreover, the brutal conduct of the military on this occasion and at the breaking up of the banquet at Mary’s palace, well represents the ruthless use of Rome’s mighty power. There also appear to be in Behold the Woman some slight suggestions taken from Kingsley’s novel, Hypatia, the same proper names being used, but transposed; the name of Philammon, Kingsley’s hero, is given to a character in Behold the Woman, who corresponds to one of the minor characters in Hypatia. Moreover, the scenes of riot in the streets of Alexandria, which appear in Behold the Woman, are reminiscent of similar scenes in Hypatia. The two books represent the savage monks in a similar way; and Mary is able to see through their sham Christianity, just as Philammon saw through the pretenses of the monks, in Hypatia. But as Mr. Harré says in his preface, he does not agree with Kingsley that “one who writes of such an era ... cannot tell how evil people were.” Here he is quoting the preface of Hypatia, though he does not say so. In Behold the Woman, he does tell how evil people were; and justly remarks in its preface that the novel is one for strong men and fearless women, not for children. The description of the orgy at the banquet in Mary’s palace is perhaps as realistic a portrayal of such a scene as is made in any novel of Roman life; but the frankness of this description is certainly very nearly equaled in Canon Farrar’s Darkness and Dawn, a novel which no one would think of calling immoral in any sense of the word. The description of Mary’s sordid life in the Brucheum, the slum quarter of the city, is also realistic, and portrays a side of life which has been neglected by the authors of novels of Roman life, even when they claimed to be presenting life among all classes of society.

Other scenes in Behold the Woman are similar to those which are already familiar in the novel of Roman life. And no matter what he is describing, the author’s genius and originality have enabled him to portray scenes from life in Roman times, with a vividness and realism hardly exceeded in any novel of Roman life. The style of Behold the Woman is richly ornamental at times, but never too flowery for the theme which the author has in hand. Behold the Woman could be placed in the class of the “gorgeous romance” along with such novels as Ben Hur and Quo Vadis. But it shows, more than any other novel of Roman life in English, the influence of the French novels of which we have spoken.

G. NOVELS WRITTEN BY TEACHERS OF ROMAN HISTORY OR OF THE CLASSICS

Some of the novels which have been mentioned were written by school teachers or college professors. Charles Kingsley at the time when he wrote Hypatia was a school teacher very much in need of more pupils, whose fees would help him make both ends meet.[32] The Rev. A. J. Church, M. A., to whose books for boys allusion has been made, was a Professor of Latin at University College, London. But I wish to consider now those novels which have been written by teachers, who wished especially to illustrate certain periods of Roman history, or to make the life of some great Roman historical character stand out with particular vividness. The word “novels,” as here used, is meant to apply in the main to books which can be read with pleasure both by boys and their elders; and it will be recalled, that in defining the novel of Roman life, books written only for boys, or written with a religious motive, were excluded. The work of the Rev. A. J. Church is therefore excluded, practically for two different reasons. But, since it often touches closely the true novel of Roman life, the titles of some of his books will be mentioned. His Two Thousand Years Ago (1885) has been spoken of, as following Eckstein’s Prusias (1884), which is also on the Spartacus theme; but Church’s book is entirely a book for boys. The Count of the Saxon Shore (1887) is a similar book on the period marking the end of Roman control in Britain. To the Lions (1889) makes the same use of the correspondence between Trajan and Pliny that had been made in Valerius; but its scene is Bithynia, and it is purely a religious story. The Burning of Rome (1892), as has been said, follows Eckstein’s Nero (1889), but even this book by Church cannot be called a novel, though it is his best book. Lords of the World (1898) describes the fall of Carthage and Corinth. Finally, The Crown of Pine (1905) tells of the banishment of the Jews from Rome in the time of Claudius, of the preaching of St. Paul, and of the Isthmian games at Corinth. The style of this last book is characteristic of the Rev. Church’s work; his thorough scholarship is greater than his power to interest the reader, juvenile or otherwise.

A novel (for so it fully deserves to be called), written before the Rev. Church’s books, is Helena’s Household (1858). This is by James De Mille, Professor of Belles Lettres at Dalhousie College, N. S. Though it has been catalogued as a juvenile book, it hardly deserves this description. And while it is dedicated to the Rev. John Pryor, D. D., and shows some influence of the story of religious instruction, it deserves to be classified as a novel of Roman life. Helena’s Household has a very good historical background, and contains some very fine descriptions of life at Rome. The story of Boadicea’s defeat is told by a Briton who was taken captive on that occasion. This same Briton is made to fight in the arena, in a scene which is fairly well done. This mention of a British slave, and the outline of the siege and destruction of Jerusalem at the end of the novel, suggest The Gladiators (1863), a novel which resembles De Mille’s book in its rambling construction. Nero’s atrocities are in the main passed over, though there is a fine description of the great fire at Rome, which he is said to have caused; and the buffoon Emperor is described as acting at the games in Greece. Pomponia is not made a very important character in the story, but her Christianity is made the excuse for entirely too much religious talk, for a novel of Roman life. St. Paul and St. Luke are represented as prisoners, and a fine description is given of St. Paul’s heroic death, though his martyrdom is not the central theme of the story by any means. Moreover, the life of the Christians is realistically described, without the false element of terror, which is often added to such descriptions. In spite of its rambling construction, and religious discussion, Helena’s Household is a scholarly piece of work, which both illustrates Roman history, and portrays well the life of Rome. The Martyr of the Catacombs, (1858), by De Mille, is more a religious story than a novel.

A fine illustration of Roman history is given in Kallistratus; an Autobiography (1897), a novel dealing with the campaigns of Hannibal against Rome. This is not to be considered an imitation of Flaubert’s Salammbo, or any other novel dealing with the Carthaginians, but is an independent attempt to illustrate certain facts of Roman history. The author of Kallistratus was Mr. A. H. Gilkes, M. A., Master of Dulwich College, Dulwich, and the preface to the novel is written from the College. Kallistratus need not be considered a book for boys, and is infinitely better than most books for boys. But its hero, Kallistratus, is a typical boys’ hero, who serves as Hannibal’s aide and personal attendant. Besides telling the story of the Second Punic war from Hannibal’s point of view, Kallistratus presents with a very realistic effect an account of the chicanery of an ancient oracle, which is located on the banks of the Rhone near Massilia, and is consulted by a Gallic chieftain. Hannibal’s victories over the Romans are accurately described, and attributed in part to Varro, the low-born consul, as they should be. Moreover, the fact that Kallistratus’ brothers and sisters are sent to Rome under the protection of the Scipios, affords the author an opportunity to describe life at Rome to some extent. While the character of the great Hannibal does not stand out with especial force in this novel, Kallistratus gives a truly realistic account of his campaigns from the point of view of one who was with him; and it may well have served as a model in many ways for Mr. Duffield Osborne, when he was writing The Lion’s Brood, (1901), a novel which treats of the same period from the Roman point of view. Mr. Gilkes’ other novel, Four Sons, (1909), seems to lapse into more juvenile style, mainly because its subject is not so inspiring. But it illustrates very faithfully the period of Roman history which was marked by the inroads of the Greeks in Southern Italy and the Samnite War. The author’s interest in books for boys and the school life of boys, is shown not only by the profession he has chosen, but also in the genuine book for boys he has written, called Boys and Masters. But of the books he has written, Kallistratus especially, would be of interest to any intelligent reader, juvenile or otherwise.

A Friend of Caesar, (1900), by William Stearns Davis, a college professor, whose scholarly attainments have won for him a well-deserved reputation, is the first and, in my opinion, the only book which successfully illustrates with the most minute detail every important event or incident in a brief period of Roman history (50-47 B. C.), crowded with important events,—and at the same time presents a fictitious story of supreme interest, surpassing that of most historical novels. It is in fact, the world’s best school-history book in the form of fiction. Mr. Davis was well qualified to write such a book, by his experience in writing in briefer form stories meant to aid in the study of Roman history in schools and colleges,—his parallel readings have been widely used by other teachers. A Friend of Caesar is a very scholarly piece of work by a very scholarly man; and it is absolutely accurate in its history, presenting everything which a school-boy may be expected to learn in his study of Roman history and life of a definite period. Yet, while it is very slightly expurgated of grosser elements, it is in no sense a book for boys alone, but a novel which can satisfy the taste of the most mature readers. Mr. Davis has thus succeeded in combining, in a single volume, elements which other authors have found it very difficult to combine. A Friend of Caesar is in fact a novel of Roman life in the best sense in which that phrase can be used. As Mr. Davis says in his preface to the novel, “If this book serves to show that classical life presented many phases akin to our own, it will not have been written in vain.” This sentence shows the highest possible conception of the function of the historical novel. In portraying life at Rome at the time of the fall of the Roman Republic, Mr. Davis (in his preface) disparages his own work in comparison with that in Quo Vadis; he says that he is taking the pagan point of view rather than the Christian. But, judged purely from a consideration of the necessity for accurate scholarship, A Friend of Caesar is a far more thorough work than Quo Vadis; and, while containing a number of scenes of great dramatic value, it does not rely unduly on the melodramatic and the sensational. In matters requiring minute and careful scholarship, it is possible that Mr. Davis goes too far; there are times when the reader feels that it is becoming too much a school-book. Yet this insistence on detail, while leading to possible faults, also assures the principal virtue of A Friend of Caesar, its absolute reliability.

Julius Caesar himself is the most important figure in this novel. The finest and noblest points in the character of this great man, among the world’s great men, are emphasized; while his defects are entirely left out of the picture. The resulting character of Caesar in the book is thus idealized to some extent, but perhaps not too much so for the purpose of a novel. Caesar appears as the hero, great statesman, and controller of the world’s destinies that he was. The technical hero of the story is Quintus Livius Drusus, and he is a typical boy’s hero; his history is given in a way which arouses interest and associates him closely, in the reader’s mind, with Caesar. Cleopatra seems to have been an important character in the author’s mind, mainly because she played an important part in history. Her personality is viewed in a somewhat more attractive light than might be expected, and as a character she blends well with the idealized character of Caesar. The weaker side of Pompeius’ character is emphasized, and he is not brought into the foreground enough to be considered a really important character. The manner of his death is well portrayed in ch. XXII, “The End of the Magnus.”

Perhaps the most notable scene in A Friend of Caesar is the historical one in the Curia. In this the destinies of the Roman Republic are shown to be in the hands of its own unscrupulous government, just as much as they are later in the hands of Caesar; this scene is truly great, and contains no apparent inconsistencies. The scene in which Agias is saved by Fabia, is modelled somewhat on a similar scene between Onesimus and a Vestal in Canon Farrar’s Darkness and Dawn, as Mr. Davis candidly says in his preface. The scene depicting the riot in Alexandria, especially the passage which shows how little the brutal Roman soldiers care for the lives of the poorer citizens, recalls a similar scene in Hypatia. But A Friend of Caesar contains very little direct borrowing from previous novels of Roman life, and does not rely too much upon historical events as a means of obtaining realistic effect. The scene in which trusty old Mamercus guards the door of the villa, is a masterpiece in its description of hand-to-hand fighting, and excels, in its realism, the description of the actual battle between the forces of Caesar and those of Pompey. In its portrayal of character, and its presentation of realistic scenes, A Friend of Caesar is a novel which rests firmly upon its own merits.

George Manville Fenn was not a teacher, but his book for boys, Marcus, the Young Centurion, (1904), is given passing mention here, since, like Mr. Davis’s novel, it deals with Julius Caesar. Fenn’s book tells something of Caesar’s campaigns in Gaul, but a far better book on this subject is The Standard Bearer; a Story of Army Life in the Time of Caesar, (1915), by Mr. Albert Carleton Whitehead. This book tells very realistically the story given in Caesar’s Commentaries, but is rather a book for boys than a novel of Roman life.

The Unwilling Vestal, (1918), by Mr. Edward Lucas White, a teacher and thorough scholar of Baltimore, Maryland, was quite evidently written to show that life in ancient Rome was essentially “modern.” While this novel mentions historical events, such as the campaigns of Marcus Aurelius, and gives a most striking portrayal of the effects of the great pestilence at Rome, it does not attempt to narrate historical details so much, as to make the life and customs of ancient Rome seem familiar and real to the modern reader. It has achieved this latter purpose by presenting Roman life chiefly as it affects a single character, Brinnaria the Vestal. It is true that the figure of Marcus Aurelius appears in the novel, and at the close of the book Commodus plays an important part; Almo, the charioteer, is a character of whom we hear much at second-hand, but we seldom make a closer acquaintance with him, and even the descriptions of his fights in the amphitheatre are lacking in realistic effect. The Vestals, with whom Brinnaria is later associated, are given natural and human qualities, but do not play any very important part. The Unwilling Vestal is a character-study, a study of one character. The other characters are important only as they influence the principal one. Moreover, the varied scenes of Roman life which are portrayed center about the principal character. Hence, most of them have to do with the life of a Vestal. This is shown to be far from a narrow or confining life. In addition, the author seems justified in selecting for his Vestal a person so independent, self-willed, and unusual as Brinnaria. Her parents play little part in the story, and from the very first, she shows a disposition to “go it alone.” By devoting so much attention to Brinnaria, and emphasising her human qualities, whether virtues or faults, the author has succeeded in making us feel that we know Brinnaria well. It seems to be a part of the author’s purpose to convince us that Brinnaria and her chum Flexinna are not essentially different from the modern American girls we see and know; and so he gives us a thorough acquaintance with Brinnaria, the girl, before introducing us to Brinnaria, the Vestal. There are no really great scenes in The Unwilling Vestal. In attempting to recall any such, one thinks at once of the scenes in the amphitheatre; but here, as elsewhere, we are concerned with Brinnaria, her feelings, and her interests.

While Almo, the charioteer, comes before us directly only a few times, the story, (indirectly told), of his career as charioteer, gladiator, villicus, and King of the Grove, affords opportunity to throw interesting sidelights on things that took place here and there in the world of the Roman Empire. For example, a concise and accurate account of the way in which the racing companies were managed, is given. An interesting account is given of Brinnaria’s occupations inside the Temple of Vesta, and, as has already been indicated, it is shown that, besides being a Vestal, she was an important figure in the social life of Rome. The author says:

She took great delight in mixing in society merely for society’s sake. Moderns are likely to imagine that the Vestals of ancient Rome were nuns, or something like nuns. They were nothing of the sort. They were maiden ladies of wealth and position, whose routine duties brought them into familiar association with all the men important in the Roman government, hierarchy, nobility, and gentry, and with their wives and daughters.

Though The Unwilling Vestal fails to present some of its scenes with realistic effect, because of the lack of a sufficient number of characters of different kinds, its author does portray some very interesting things in Roman life, through the medium of a single interesting character and a very real one. Mr. T. Everett Harré had given a vivid picture of life in Roman Alexandria, while presenting only one important character, in Behold the Woman, (1916), two years before; but the character of Mary, while intensely human, is not intended to show especially “modern” traits of character. Brinnaria in The Unwilling Vestal, is made to seem in some ways more familiar to the modern reader, and more like his modern acquaintances, than any other single character in any novel of Roman life, written before Mr. White’s book. Besides being an interesting novel, The Unwilling Vestal is so accurate in its description of Roman life and custom that it could be used as a schoolbook of great value. Finally, the so-called “modern scientific touch” is given in the crucial scene of the story, in which Brinnaria exonerates herself by carrying water in a sieve,—something which the author had seen done in a series of accurate experiments. The Unwilling Vestal is original in style, and does not seem to depend on previous novels of Roman life in any way. Its omission of any mention of the Christians, makes it easier for the author to portray truthfully the life of Pagan Rome.

In The Unwilling Vestal, (1918), Mr. White had told many interesting things about Roman life, but in limiting himself to a single important character, whose experiences are narrated in the third person, he sometimes had failed to make the reader feel a share in the life of Rome, as an eye-witness of the scene, or even a participant in it. Such a realistic effect he actually attained in Andivius Hedulio, Adventures of a Roman Nobleman in the Days of the Empire, (1921). This improvement he brought about in part by introducing a large number of characters from all ranks and conditions of Roman society, thus “presenting, in a narrative fiction, a complete and faithful depiction of all the phases, high and low, of that life which made up the grandeur which was Rome.”[33] And most of the numerous characters are made just as familiar to the reader as Brinnaria had been made in The Unwilling Vestal. But this is not the only means taken by the author to make his novel realistic; and the realistic effect is made complete by the fact that the adventures of Hedulio are narrated in the first person by a character who has the entire sympathy of the reader. While not a great believer in newspaper reviews, I am willing to admit there is some justice in the high praise made by “G. W. D.” in The Evening Public Ledger, Philadelphia. After comparing Andivius Hedulio to Salammbo, he says of Mr. White’s novel, “The history is so subtly interwoven with the narrative, that it becomes an integral part of it. The attention of the reader is concentrated on the human relations and the characters are men and women kin with the men and women of the present century. Mr. White has made the past live as if it were the present. Or to put it another way, he has abolished time, and has exhibited to us the unchanging human emotions playing upon one another in Rome of the second century, just as they play upon one another in America of the twentieth century. He has not once yielded to the temptation to display his eruditions at the expense of the story, a temptation to which so many learned men succumb when they try to write historical fiction. They succumb because they lack the instinct of the story teller, and do not realize that a novel must be a human drama first, whatever else it may be, whether a study of manners or of morals or a picture of the world in a historical epoch.... There is nothing that people are more interested in than in other people.”

Any adverse criticism of Andivius Hedulio would most naturally be directed against the somewhat loose construction of its plot. The plot of the novel imagines the young Roman nobleman wrongly suspected of conspiring against the life of the Emperor Commodus. Fleeing for his life, he passes eleven years in various disguises, never getting very far from Italy and returning again and again to Rome, through one chance or another. As the author says in his Note to the Reader, “The plot ... has a general resemblance to the ancient Milesian tales; as, for instance, that on a version of which Shakespeare based his Comedy of Errors. More definitely it is affiliated with the plot of the Metamorphoses of Apuleius... Much of the plot shows derivation from romances of the Picaresco type, or approaching that type... The atmosphere of the adventures collectively is indubitably that of the Satiricon of Petronius, along with much from the Metamorphoses of Apuleius.” Much of the plot, says Mr. White, came from his assuming that there was a fashionable litter-craze at Rome, “a fad of wealthy fops for journeying by litter instead of by travelling coach... Much of the minor incident and local color derives from my saturating myself with what survives to us of Roman roadbooks.” In a sense Andivius Hedulio is a romance of the road. In reading the novel, I was much impressed by the author’s genuine delight in strange, unexpected, but not improbable adventures, and was reminded much of certain aspects of the romances of Robert Louis Stevenson; it was no surprise to discover later that I had overlooked its dedication “To Robert Louis Stevenson, who in reading fiction loved ‘The open road and the bright eyes of danger.’” Moreover Mr. White, like Stevenson, realized that the best way to tell a story, especially a story of adventure, is to tell “one thing after another.” This is the way it was done by the authors of the Milesians, of the Metamorphoses, and of the “picaresque” romances. Such works have their place in the line of ancestry of the modern novel, and the author is entirely justified in using them,—somewhat expurgated,—since often they portray life in a very realistic way. It cannot be said that Andivius Hedulio excels such great novels as Ben Hur and Darkness and Dawn, in portraying the life of the Roman world with realistic effect. But the author’s genius, in making the experiences of characters of the Roman world seem essentially like our own experiences, and those of our friends, makes this novel excel most other novels of Roman life in this respect.

Andivius Hedulio is the work of a scholarly teacher of Latin, who wished to throw a strong light on the life of the historical period of Commodus’ reign; and especially to present Commodus in the character of “the most perfect athlete the world ever produced, misplaced on earth’s greatest throne.” Mr. White’s novel is in no sense a school-history book, such as Mr. Davis’s A Friend of Caesar; but any school-boy could read it with pleasure, and learn from its sound scholarship, much, that would aid him in his classical studies. Commodus is the most important historical figure, and, as the author says, the part he plays in the novel is due in part to what is said of him in the work of Gibbon, Dio Cassius, and Herodian. While other sources mentioned by Mr. White in his Note to the Reader, show a wide reading and a thoroughness of scholarship, the novel itself is sufficient evidence of this, and is entirely free from slavish copying. He frankly admits that the culminating incident in the chariot races originated partly from certain details in the chariot race in Ben Hur, (1880). But this incident is given a peculiar originality, by the addition of details taken from the account given to Mr. White of a “run-away” accident, which actually occurred in Baltimore. This illumination of the past, by placing in a story of the past an incident which has recently occurred, often aids a novelist in attaining realistic effect, and illustrates one of the ways Mr. White has taken to make the past seem real to present-day readers. The labyrinth motive appears in Andivius Hedulio, when the hero and his faithful servant make their escape from a secret stair, and through a long, dark and filthy drain. This incident was suggested by the escape of Jean Valjean in Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables, and Baring-Gould may have taken a similar incident in Perpetua from the same source.

Commodus’ joy in driving his horses to victory in the chariot races and in displaying his skill in the amphitheatre, is well portrayed by the author; but perhaps the greatest stroke in the portrayal of Commodus, is made, not when he is governing horses, or overcoming single opponents, animal or human, in the arena, but when he is controlling the minds and passions of the army of mutineers. While Commodus is not the technical hero of the story, he is the real hero of the novel, and in a fine character-study he is represented as the man who really controlled the Roman world, whether addressing soldiers and courtiers, or impressing the populace by his skill in the arena. But besides presenting life at the court of Commodus and in the higher social circles at Rome, with which the Emperor was definitely connected, the novel takes one through the streets of Rome and into different quarters of the city, in such a way as to illustrate the life of all classes of Roman society; and presents with fairness most of the various types of human character, which were to be found in the city of Rome itself and in various parts of the Empire. Since the Christians were comparatively few in number, even as late as the time of Commodus, (and the life of Rome was still essentially pagan), the author wisely refrains from any attempt to give them a place in his story. He says of Andivius Hedulio, “Especially I judged it free from vital anachronisms. I know of no fiction dealing with Rome or Greece which does not project-back later ideas of duty, right and wrong, morality and such like ethical concepts, into periods far anteceding those in which these conceptions developed. The Greeks and Romans had very definite notions as to personal morals, decency, duty, and the like, but many of the ideas most prevalent among us originated since Roman times and were then non-existent and inconceivable.” It would be beside the mark to cry “paganism,” against Mr. White’s Andivius Hedulio, since paganism is exactly what he wished to portray. In some respects this novel excels any other previously discussed, in its portrayal not only of the outward life, but of the social and ethical atmosphere of pagan Rome. And its teacher-author has been eminently successful in showing, to school-boy and mature reader alike, “all the phases, high and low, of that life which made up the grandeur which was Rome.”

H. NOVELS WRITTEN BY AUTHORS WHO HAVE PORTRAYED ROMAN LIFE FROM AN ESTHETIC VIEWPOINT

Walter Pater’s Marius the Epicurean appeared in 1885. While Pater was a tutor at Oxford, Marius the Epicurean is so far removed from being a school-book, that it was impossible to consider it in the class of novels written by teachers to illustrate Roman life or a certain period of Roman history in a pedagogical way. In fact Pater’s work is so different from most novels of Roman life, and has a literary value so much higher than most novels of any kind, that it is best considered in a class by itself. Nothing has ever been written exactly like Marius the Epicurean, which ranks above Pater’s other literary productions, fine as they are, and furnishes his principal contribution to posterity. It was indeed written for posterity, and not intended to be read as an interesting novel and then forgotten. Marius the Epicurean is the finest piece of pure literature that will be considered in this study. Moreover it cannot escape consideration as a novel of Roman life. Its full title is Marius the Epicurean, His Sensations and Ideas. Its hero is a Roman boy, who advances in years, until he arrives at mature manhood, and whose death is recorded at the end of the story. “It would probably have been called a novel had its chief claim and merit not been independent of fiction.”[34] In following the development of Marius, Pater is showing what might have happened to a young man in the Rome of Marcus Aurelius, if he were possessed of a particularly fine esthetic sense, and devoted his life to an esthetic ideal. There is sufficient binding material in the form of narrative to make Marius the Epicurean rather a novel than a series of essays, though it contains fine studies of the physical and spiritual life of Rome. Such novels of Roman life as George Gissing’s Veranilda, (1904), and Mr. Eden Phillpotts’ Pan and the Twins, (1922), have derived much inspiration from both the substance and quality of Pater’s work. Such a thorough classical scholar and ardent lover of the classics as Lionel Johnson could say of its exactness, in Post Liminium: “Readers, accustomed by long experience to use Marius for a text-book,—exact, precise, rigorous, well warranted and attested,—of the Antonine age, do not need to be told that Mr. Pater never writes without his facts and evidences.”[35]

Pater’s aim in Marius the Epicurean had something in common with the aim of some of the best novels of Roman life, that have been considered, however unique his method may have been. He purposes to show a young man in an age similar to our own, and one who exhibited “a sort of religious phase possible for the modern mind.” Marius is like Pater in his serious and refined nature, and his esthetic delight in religious ceremonial, but represents better Pater’s ideal. Though he is taught to believe in the outworn system of paganism, he takes delight only in the most beautiful elements in pagan religious ceremonials. In his quest of the fine and the beautiful in religious emotion, he is led to higher and higher forms of philosophy, each step in his development being minutely described by Pater, not with the accompaniment of abstract philosophizing, but with the desire to portray in simple terms the beauty of esthetic experience. At each step toward a higher intellectual existence Marius approaches the ideal of a Christian life; his soul is said to be “naturally Christian,” and he admires elements of beauty in the thought and life of a Christian comrade. Finally by a mere accident, he dies a Christian. Marius the Epicurean simply portrays the life of Rome, as it appeared to a young Roman who lived only to seek the highest good in esthetic experience. It clearly shows that life governed by an esthetic ideal, could and did exist in the days of Marcus Aurelius, just as it can and does exist today.

In Marius the Epicurean, Pater, as the author, shows himself to be more a true Hellenist than any writer appears to be in any novel of Roman life written before Pater’s work,—though his truly Greek appreciation of the beautiful is in no way inconsistent with Christianity. But the book portrays not merely the beauty of Greek philosophy. Viewed as a portrayal of life, Marius the Epicurean may be fairly said to portray essentially the entire course of the religious life of Rome,—starting with the primitive and patriarchal “religion of Numa,” and passing through later forms, (whether wholly Roman or including foreign elements); and further on through the abstractions of Greek philosophy, to the highest form of Christianity. The social and moral phenomena to be seen at Rome in the times of Marcus Aurelius, are shown, and the part which great schools of Greek philosophy played in the life of Rome, is made to appear important.

While no great character portrayals are attempted in Marius the Epicurean, Marius is made to meet with such great characters as the Emperor Marcus Aurelius, Apuleius, and Lucian. Marcus Aurelius is portrayed in a very modern light as a public lecturer, through whose example Marius determines to become a student of rhetoric at Rome; yet to Marius he seemed to be, (as he actually was), the greatest thinker and the greatest man of his time. In his representation of the character of Faustina, who is seen surrounded by her children, including the supposedly illegitimate Commodus, Pater may owe something to Swinburne’s poem, Faustine. Roman customs are well represented, when we see people performing sacrifices or going to the theatre to celebrate a holiday; and the life of Rome is made to seem real by minute descriptive touches, such as those which describe the evidences of the ravages of the great pestilence. Roman shops, inns, temples, and other buildings appear crowded with people, and a multitude of human types are shown, as soldiers, courtesans, beggars and little children. Some description is also made of a Roman marriage ceremony; and the mythological burlesques and gladiatorial contests of the amphitheatre are described as affecting different individuals in different ways. In the death of Verus appears something of the spirit which made the Romans turn such a matter into a public event; the great Galen, making his way through the throng to the side of the sufferer, is a figure which is familiar elsewhere in the novel of Roman life.

But the most characteristic scenes taken from the outward life of the Romans’ are the banquet and the Triumph of Marcus Aurelius. Pater adds to the reality of these Roman scenes by portraying not only the characteristics of men, but also those of children, and even animals. Thus in the triumphal procession go “the ibex, the wild-cat, and the reindeer stalking and trumpeting grandly.” Though scenes of the martyrdom of the Christians only appear as told at second-hand, a characteristic Roman brutality is shown by the guards in charge of Christian prisoners. Thus the material life of Rome, as well as its religious life, is portrayed in Marius the Epicurean. What Pater did for the novel of Roman life was to show the possibility of portraying not merely the material existence of the Romans, but the whole life of Rome considered from a religious and esthetic standpoint. Marius the Epicurean has been said to stand without fiction; but the highest hope of any fiction might well be to rise to the level of Pater’s work. It took five or six years to write, and shows Pater’s thorough scholarship, and his appreciation of the beautiful in Latin and Greek literature. Mr. Edward Hutton sums up its excellence when he says that, “In Marius the Epicurean, Pater gave us a book profound and simple, bounded by the great refusals of an artist, perfect in prose, stooping to nothing, having the dignity of a great poem, and the thoughtfulness that is characteristic of the writers of the Augustan age.”

George Gissing in Veranilda, (1904), seems to be the first author of a novel of Roman life to derive much inspiration from Pater’s Marius the Epicurean, (1885). Gissing resembles Pater in his exact scholarship, his love of Greek things, and his estheticism. Veranilda was to have in it the love of the classics, but is unfinished. Yet it is evident that only a few chapters at the end are missing, and what we have of Veranilda is finished with Gissing’s finest and most delicate touches. The late Mr. Frederic Harrison says of Gissing in the preface to Veranilda, that in this novel, “his poetical gift for local color, his subtle insight into spiritual mysticism and, above all, his really fine scholarship and classical learning had ample field.” Mr. Harrison considers Veranilda “far the most important book which George Gissing ever produced,” and most readers of Gissing will concur in this opinion. Though the subject-matter of Veranilda is somewhat different from that of Marius the Epicurean, there is much similarity between the two books in the way subjects are presented, and at times Gissing’s purity of style approaches that of Pater. In many respects Veranilda is the greatest novel of its kind. Not only does it show thoroughness and accuracy in scholarship, but it has very genuine characterization and atmosphere. The spirit of Veranilda is the spirit of the time it describes,—the spirit of disillusion, unrest, and uncertainty amid scenes of strife, sorrow, and decay. Yet there are gleams of hope to be found in Gissing’s great novel, which portrays life in and near Rome in the “Era of Justinian.” While the outward, physical life of fallen Rome is portrayed accurately, as it would appear to the eye, the special excellence of Veranilda lies in its exact reproduction of the spirit of the time with which it deals. In this respect it probably excels any other historical novel in English,—bar none,—and deserves a high position as pure literature. Moreover in his portrayal of life in the past, Gissing has not failed to establish its connection with life of the present; realistic effect is never lacking in Veranilda. Yet even when portraying life in the most general terms, Gissing continually shows the same selection and preference for the esthetic, the same search for the beautiful, which marks the work of Walter Pater in Marius the Epicurean.

The plan of Veranilda is more complete than that of most historical novels; it deals chiefly with real historical characters and actual historical events, yet there is not too much formal history in the novel. It was carefully written after a most thorough study of the best modern writers, (especially Gibbon), who deal with the age of Justinian and Belisarius, and of the remains of the literature of the time. The scene is Rome and Central and Southern Italy, and local color is obtained not at second-hand, but from the author’s direct observation of the places he describes, and a careful review of extant documents concerning them. Gissing had spent some time travelling in Italy and Veranilda may be considered his most original novel. In selecting the scene and the time of Veranilda, Gissing evidently intended to write a novel which should convey a sense of Rome’s former greatness. The center and source of power of the Roman Empire had shifted to Constantinople, though even here the power of Rome was none too strong. Felix Dahn’s two novels, A Struggle for Rome, (1876), and The Scarlet Banner, (1894), deal with the same period with which Veranilda deals; The Scarlet Banner being concerned with the overthrow of the Vandal king, Gelimer, by Belisarius. A Struggle for Rome, is like Veranilda in its subject matter, since it is concerned with the struggle between the Ostrogoths and Belisarius, and mentions some of the same characters that appear in Veranilda. The characterization of Totila, the Gothic king, especially suggests Veranilda. But while A Struggle for Rome is Dahn’s greatest novel, it does not appear that Gissing was so much indebted to it in Veranilda, as to original historical sources. The period with which Veranilda deals comes somewhat after the true end of Pagan Rome, and no novel will be discussed which deals with a later period.

Gissing preserves a fine unity of effect in making the events of his story center about Rome, and not about Constantinople. “The Eternal City” lies there as of old, and its inhabitants cannot shake off the feeling that it still is “eternal.” The wise Justinian is to them a foreign tyrant, under whose governor they are harshly oppressed. The great commander Belisarius, though he has temporarily defeated the Goths, has now left Italy, and is no longer thought of as deliverer of Rome; the fame of Totila is spreading. Throughout this book, with its descriptions of ruined towns, ruined families, and the ruins of the City of Rome itself, one feels the former greatness of Rome. Everywhere is decay, everywhere is to be seen a dying out of the best elements of Roman civilization. Many of the scenes which form the setting for the principal action in the story, are typical of this lingering death of the great city. While everywhere the old Rome is dying out, is there springing up anything new to take its place? Even though the novel is incomplete, one can see that the author means to show conclusively that the Goths will furnish new life, and new strength, to Rome and to civilization.

In Hypatia, Kingsley had portrayed “the dying world” of Rome, especially in the chapter headed by that phrase. In Marius the Epicurean, Pater had pointed out the coming downfall of Rome in several different ways. He had said, for example, that the Germanic tribes, whom Marcus Aurelius defeated, were merely the advance guard of a vast body of wandering tribes destined to overrun the Roman world. Marcus Aurelius in his triumph over the Germans, appeared to Marius, “chiefly as one who had made the great mistake,” as a man who had failed. “The most Christian” Stoic Emperor, in pursuing his thoroughly Roman policy of enforcing worship of the gods with an iron hand at Rome, and ruthlessly subjugating peoples on the frontiers of the Empire, had failed to save Rome from becoming more and more a nation of “coarse, vulgar people,” an Empire that failed. In Veranilda we see the impressive remains of that great failure. Its psychology, like that of most of Gissing’s work, is the psychology of failure. As the decayed condition of his old home appears to be symbolic of failure to Marius, near the end of Marius the Epicurean, so all through Veranilda the decay of material things seems to symbolize the downfall and death of “Eternal Rome.” Yet the gleams of hope, which appear through the gloom, are symbolic of a new life. While no such large contrast is made in Veranilda, as is made in Hypatia, the hope of Christianity in a failing world is made very real.

Aside from the scene depicting the murder at the villa, there are few sensational scenes in Veranilda. Moreover, in most of the scenes of importance, it is noticeable that only a limited number of people appear. The greater part of the novel is pitched in a minor key. There are countless incidents of importance, whisperings, doubts, uncertainties; trivial words often have a hidden meaning, trifling actions assume great importance. The remains of Rome’s grandeur are suggested in the character of Flavius Anicius Maximus, a worthy descendant of an ancient and noble family; and his sister Petronilla serves to keep before our minds something of the uncompromising pride of any descendant of an old Roman family. A similar pride appears in the characters of the Deacon Leander and Vigilius. But more fitting messengers of God are the holy Abbott Benedict and his monks. The scenes about the monastery are drawn with a masterful touch; one feels the genuine influence for good, which the holy Abbott has over Basil, and the real help which he gives to Basil, in the difficulty with which Basil is confronted. St. Benedict appears as a man who leads a genuinely spiritual life, with insight enough to solve all of Basil’s difficulties.

Veranilda herself is a truly radiant figure, and it is in justice that the novel is named for her. She does not often appear upon the scene, it is true, but the sincerity of her character and her overwhelming loveliness are drawn with convincing strokes. Her innocence at all times, especially when in Marcian’s power, and her faith in those into whose care she is entrusted, are points of strength in her character, not of weakness; and she proves herself truly great in her forgiveness of Basil. In his delineation of character especially, Gissing has at times equalled the exquisite touches of Pater. How little is told of St. Benedict or of Veranilda, yet how definitely their characters are impressed upon the reader! Veranilda is beyond question, the character who best represents beauty of body and soul, in the novel of Roman life, and, I believe, surpasses Pater’s Marius in representing a “soul naturally Christian.” In any case, one feels that in Veranilda, as in Marius the Epicurean, there always exists the esthetic conception of an inseparable connection between physical and spiritual beauty. Gissing followed Pater in showing that the life of Rome could be portrayed as being far from entirely physical and material; and he showed more definitely than Pater, that Roman life could be presented in the form of a novel, with realistic effect, yet with the exercise of a discriminating selection of the finer elements of subject matter, and in a style delicately fitted to portray these finer elements.

A review of esthetic elements to be found in the novel of Roman life would not be complete without some consideration of two recent novels by Mr. Eden Phillpotts, Evander, (1919), and Pan and the Twins, (1922). Mr. Phillpotts has shown his appreciation for classic art in The Joy of Youth, while another of his novels, The River, shows his love for the beautiful in nature. Mr. George Moore says, “Morality is but a dream, but beauty is real;” his novel, The Brook Kerith, is not considered here as a novel of Roman life, but in it the author often harks back to the beautiful pagan world. There is something of this in the two novels of Roman life written by Mr. Phillpotts. As has been said, George Ebers had written, A Question; The Idyl of a Picture by His Friend Alma Tadema, (1881), which presents the beauties of pastoral life in semi-mythological classic times in pre-historic Sicily, and suggests Evander in subject matter. In Marius the Epicurean, Pater had said, “Farm life in Italy, including the culture of the olive and the vine, has a grace of its own, and might well contribute to the production of an ideal dignity of character, like that of nature itself in this gifted region. Vulgarity seemed impossible.” The ideal beauty of a simple, outdoor life, centering in the farmer’s hut, appears in Evander, a novel which portrays life in prehistoric Italy and abounds in beautiful pastoral description. In its portrayal of life, Evander shows somewhat the same discriminating selection of esthetic elements to be seen in Marius the Epicurean. and Veranilda; but unlike the work of Pater or Gissing, Evander has a rich and picturesque humor. Here, in Mr. Phillpotts’ novel, is optimism in contrast to the detachment of Pater, and Gissing’s somewhat continuous pessimism. Mr. Phillpott’s light, humorous, cheerful style in Evander, makes the novel rank far below Marius the Epicurean and Veranilda as a work of art, and is a concession to popular taste; yet it has a virtue of its own. Many readers, who would find Marius the Epicurean too serious, could read Evander with pleasure and profit.

Evander portrays life in Italy when marriage was just coming into fashion; it is really a satire of the “triangle” of the ordinary man, the genius, and the woman who does not know her own mind. But it truthfully represents the beginnings of things most characteristically Roman; especially the Roman ideals of the home, the community, and finally law, ideals which sprang from the simple, austere, agricultural life of the prehistoric Romans. The author is right in representing as real to these primitive Romans, “nymphs, goat-foot fauns and other immortal creatures of lake and mountain, vale and forest, who spied upon humanity with wonder when the world was young.” Among other gods, Pan, under the Latin name of Faunus, appears to a mortal woman, in Evander, as he had done in Mr. James Stephens’ novel, The Crock of Gold; and the humorous, delicately satiric style of Evander at times suggests Mr. Stephen’s work. In portraying life “when the world was young,” the author of Evander seems to ask, “Why should it grow old?” And in portraying ancient pagan life as a satire on modern life, he does not fail to show that the ideals and aspirations of man have changed but little.

Pan and the Twins, (1922), as its title suggests, makes a similar use of the god Pan, and is a novel written in a style similar to that of Evander. It differs from Mr. Phillpotts’ other novel of Roman life in including historical material. Not very much history is brought into Pan and the Twins, but when historical events are mentioned, they are made vividly significant, and are rightly interpreted. The scene is laid chiefly on a country estate near Rome, and in the time of Valentinian, though other Roman Emperors are mentioned. Even more than Evander, Pan and the Twins suggests Mr. James Stephens’ The Crock of Gold, but is a better constructed novel and a finer piece of art. The satire of Pan and the Twins is delicate but very pointed at times, as when Theodosius convinces the Christian bishop that it is not his duty to the State to have Arcadius burned alive. Its humor is equally delicate, but no one could fail to laugh at the spectacle of one of the Emperor’s favorite bears, which escapes from its cage at the amphitheatre and becomes very much worried that “malefactors” are no longer provided as its daily food.[36]

While its philosophy is at times “sugar-coated,” Pan and the Twins offers a very strong plea for sanity in religion and life, and suggests that they are one and the same thing. Moreover, in its portrayal of life, it distinctly seeks for elements of beauty. With a few delicate touches, the author presents in his heroine a figure of ideal physical and spiritual beauty, not unlike Gissing’s Veranilda in conception. In portraying Roman life, coarser elements are kept in the background. One is made to feel the existence of the horrors of the amphitheatre, the inconsistencies of the Church, and much of the varied life of Rome. Roman customs, as, for example, the marriage ceremony, are correctly described. But in the foreground of the picture appear always scenes amid the sunlight and pure air of the Roman country landscape. Pan and the Twins is not a great novel, but one that contains much beautiful writing. The scenes which it portrays are selected chiefly for their esthetic appeal, but are real, none the less; not inconsistent with life, past or present. It is not necessarily either “pagan” or Christian; but seems to undertake to show that beauty cannot be defined entirely in terms of morality, Christianity, or paganism. Pan and the Twins ranks far below such a consummate piece of art as Marius the Epicurean, but successfully presents the esthetic, in terms more readily appreciated by the popular taste.