The novels of Ernst Eckstein were almost as widely read in England and America as those of Ebers. Some of them equal or even surpass Ebers’ best work. Quintus Claudius (1881), gives a splendid portrayal of life in Rome under Domitian. The author has presented in a single story practically the whole life of Rome, and has described the most noted characters of the time. “The life and manners of all classes at this period were never painted with a bolder pencil than by Eckstein in this masterly romance, which displays as much scholarship as invention.”[26] In this review a better expression than “invention” would be “a gifted imagination and a deep insight into human nature.” In Quintus Claudius, the character of Domitia is interpreted in an entirely different way from that in which Baring-Gould interpreted it in Domitia (1898); but this does not mean that either author was untrue to history, since little is known of her, save that she and her Emperor-husband were at variance. In Eckstein’s novel the intrigues of Domitia really furnish the central theme, rather than the affairs of the imaginary Quintus Claudius, who spurns her and loves Cornelia. Quintus and Cornelia are very finely characterized, the former being by no means perfect, and subject to the vices of the time, although he later becomes a Christian. Among historical characters the poet Martial is portrayed as the court parasite that he was. The conspiracy against Domitian is described with historical accuracy and fine realistic effect. The book ends with the murder of Domitian and the accession of Trajan. Nerva is mentioned but not as an emperor.
In Prusias (1882), Eckstein rises to the greatness of his theme. The story is that of the revolt, in which Roman slaves, under the leadership of Spartacus, rose against Roman oppression. The character of Spartacus, in every respect true to history, is made to represent democracy and freedom. Coming, as it did, shortly after the Civil War had settled the slavery question in America, Prusias had a wide reading here. To supplement the fine character of Spartacus, Prusias, the technical hero of the story, is also represented as magnanimous and farsighted, well-fitted to aid the great general of the slaves in inspiring them to fight for freedom. By a stroke of genius, Prusias, who first appears in the disguise of a Chaldean magician, is conceived to be the brother and agent of Mithradates, King of Pontus. Rome’s two most powerful enemies are thus allied against her. While Prusias does much of the planning of the conspiracy, he does not overshadow the general of the slaves. The truly great historical character, Spartacus, is presented with a power not since equaled in fiction, and only approached by the Rev. A. J. Church in his excellent book for boys, Two Thousand Years Ago (1885), written shortly afterward. Prusias also portrays life in the city of Rome under the republic with accurate detail.
In The Chaldean Magician (1886), Eckstein portrays life at Rome under Diocletian. The varied phases of the many-sided life at Rome are brought into the picture in many ways, and Diocletian’s persecution of the Christians is given its due place. But as the title implies, the author gives especial attention to the magic arts which were practiced by Chaldean astrologers at Rome. The character of the “Chaldean Magician” had been in Eckstein’s mind when he was writing Prusias, and he took the opportunity of giving it greater prominence in his novel named for such a character. In fact, from the date of this novel, the figure of the Chaldean astrologer supplants that of the priest who deals in “Egyptian magic,” in those novels which deal with magic imported from foreign lands to Rome. It became the fashion for wealthy Romans to keep a Chaldean astrologer in their household, and such a character appears in Baring-Gould’s Domitia, and in Mr. W. S. Davis’s A Friend of Caesar.
Eckstein’s greatest novel of Roman life was Nero (1889). It was impossible for him to surpass the portrayal of the general life of Rome, which he had already made in his earlier novels; but in dealing with life in the time of Nero, he found the greatest opportunity to display his talents. In his faithfulness to the life and history of the time he prepared the way for the two other authors who have written great novels dealing with Nero’s time,—Canon Farrar in Darkness and Dawn (1892), and H. Sienkiewicz in Quo Vadis (1895). He was also closely followed by Hugh Westbury in Acte (1890), and by two writers of books for boys, the Rev. A. J. Church in The Burning of Rome (1892), and G. A. Henty in Beric, the Briton (1892). Eckstein’s keenness in portraying the court intrigues of Agrippina, Seneca, and Tigellinus, shows his understanding of human nature. But his greatest triumph is in the analysis of the character of Nero. The early boyhood of Nero, and his ingenuous love for Acte, who is kidnapped and kept hidden by the agents of Agrippina, are revealed with genuine sympathy. And Nero’s later development is traced step by step, with a fairness that makes him appear the victim not only of his own weakness, but of circumstance. In his revelation of character, as shown in his handling of the character of Nero or of Spartacus, Eckstein surpasses even the notable work of George Ebers.
It is not intended to overemphasize the importance of the influence of German scholars and authors upon the English novel of Roman life. The influence of work such as that of Becker upon the English novel of Roman life may be described as follows: (1) It stimulated many English scholars to study the life of ancient Rome with a similar insistence upon accuracy in regard to the most minute details of history and archæology; in one or two instances an attempted imitation of work like Becker’s is seen in the work of pedantic authors of the novel of Roman life. (2) It served as one of the influences, which led popular writers of the novel of Roman life to realize the need for at least some accurate study of the history and life of Rome. The influence of German novelists such as Ebers and Eckstein, upon the English novel of Roman life, is seen in the more thorough scholarship which such English novels display,—especially after the publication of Eckstein’s Nero, which is the first of a series of important novels portraying life in Nero’s time. This series, as has been said, includes not only Farrar’s great novel, Darkness and Dawn, and other English fictions, but also the fine work of the Polish author, Sienkiewicz, in Quo Vadis (1895). In speaking of the thoroughness of German scholars, it might be said that in some instances German novelists such as Ebers, seem occasionally to have made the mistake of assuming that a mass of particulars heaped together can be shaped into the aspect of a general truth. In pursuing the details of a picture of Roman life, they have lost sight of its larger lines sometimes; but, on the whole, very rarely. We must not forget that there were English scholars, who played their part in impressing upon historical novelists the necessity for accuracy. But the German authors of novels of Roman life, produced so many good novels of this kind in so short a time, that their influence is seen in the work of English novelists, both in regard to the subjects which English writers have chosen, and in the methods of presenting such subjects taken from Roman life.
Few novelists have made the mistake of attempting to include in a novel such work as appears in Becker’s Gallus. But in one or two instances, novelists have tried to crowd their pages with antiquarian knowledge, putting into their narratives matters which Becker would have placed in his Excursus. This pedantic display of knowledge is in itself a defect, and we shall consider separately two novelists who proved to be guilty of it. Miles Gerald Keon, British Colonial Secretary to Bermuda, wrote, in 1866, a novel called Dion and the Sibyls. This was published in London. In spite of its pedanticism, it contains some interesting similarities to the much greater work of General Lew Wallace in Ben Hur (1880). Like Ben Hur it deals with the time of Christ, and a further similarity is seen in the fact that the author does not make the mistake of portraying Christ as one of the central figures, and does not lay much of the scene in Jerusalem. Keon’s hero, Dion, also, like Ben Hur, is not too closely identified with Christianity, though he is invited to expound its doctrines before the Emperor. Scenes in Judea in Dion and the Sibyls include the banquet at which John the Baptist is beheaded, and a pedantic display of knowledge is made in repeating things told of Herod Agrippa, Herodias, Berenice, and the high priest Caiphas. This display of pedantic knowledge is further seen in the part of the narrative which tells of Dion’s meeting with Dionysius the Areopagite, who becomes St. Denis, and brings Christianity to Gaul. But most of the scene of Keon’s novel is laid in Rome, and in this part of the story the characters of Tiberius, his brutal eunuch Lygdus, and the wily Sejanus, are portrayed in such a way as to show the author’s indefatigable search for details. The only really good scene in the novel is that in which the young Paulus, of the Æmelian family, subdues the famous “Sejan horse” in the amphitheatre. The story of this vicious horse became a tradition, so that Mr. E. L. White would have done well to give the name “Sejanus” to a similar animal in Andivius Hedulio (1921), a novel of the time of Commodus; (instead he turns the name into Selinus). In Keon’s novel Paulus was directed how to overcome the horse by the sibyl of Cumæ, and as the title suggests, the magic spells of such witches appear prominently in the story; the use of a “love-philtre” suggests The Last Days of Pompeii (1834). The mention of a famous acrostic, whose initial letters spell the Greek word for fish, remind one of the use made of this symbol of the early Christians, which appears in later novels of Roman life, notably in Darkness and Dawn (1892), and Quo Vadis. But Dion and the Sibyls is mentioned at this point as an example of pedanticism in the novel of Roman life.
Another example of pedanticism in the novel of Roman life is seen in The Money God; or The Empire and the Papacy (1873). It is needless to mention the various matters of detail which the author, M. A. Quinton, mentions in order to display his pedantic knowledge; but it is sufficient to say that he is very learned indeed, and has read extensively in the works of the Latin authors.[27] In some instances he is very inaccurate in the deductions which he makes from his reading, and there are some notable mistakes in topography. The one redeeming feature of the novel is its remarkable handling of a chariot-race scene; the details of this scene are so similar to the details of a scene in Ben Hur (1880), that it seems possible that Lew Wallace may have known of Quinton’s work. While the scene of the Money God is partly laid in Rome, it does not portray Roman life, but rather presents certain details of Roman life in an arbitrary manner, and in confused order. A Roman marriage ceremony is described, and the methods of Roman money-lenders are explained in this arbitrary way. Quinton also wrote Aurelia: or the Jews of Capena Gate, a few years before The Money God, but I have been unable to obtain this book. In Dion and the Sibyls, and in The Money God we have two very pedantic novels, which, nevertheless, mention some of the things which are mentioned in Ben Hur. But before considering Ben Hur itself, let us retrace our steps to the year 1843, and from that time follow the course of the popular melodramatic novel of Roman life. This kind of novel represents the class in which Ben Hur more properly belongs.
As has been said, the growing insistence upon thoroughness of scholarship, which is seen in the work of both German and English scholars, resulted not only in a somewhat direct imitation of the methods which appear in Becker’s Gallus (1838), by a few pedantic novelists; but more especially in an attempted exhibition of scholarship by “popular” novelists, who wrote novels of Roman life after this date. These “popular” novelists were men who either turned out novels by the score, or produced a few novels of the made-to-order variety; who sought for material with the idea of obtaining “grist for the mill,” rather than of writing a masterpiece. Such novelists have in most cases relied for their appeal upon the use of melodramatic material; but even these “popular” novelists soon came to realize the necessity of sound scholarship to any author who intends to attempt a novel of Roman life. In the class of “popular” novelists, we shall also include those novelists whose principal desire seems to have been to tell a “rattling good story” or to present a series of gorgeous pictures from the life of the past,—though in some cases a more serious purpose seems to underlie work of this description. We shall begin our review of the “popular,” melodramatic novel of Roman life with the novel of Ellen Pickering, which appeared in 1843; but the “gorgeous romance,” which is a direct development of the “popular” novel, did not reach its height until considerably later. After 1843 all true novels of Roman life make at least some pretense of thorough scholarship.
Ellen Pickering, an American authoress, who turned out a score of “popular” novels, wrote as one of the last of them, Julia of Baiae; or the Days of Nero (1843). She clearly shows her realization both of the necessity for thorough scholarship in matters of history, and of her own shortcomings in such matters. This is plain from the diffidence of her preface to the novel, and from the fact that it was published anonymously. The story of the death of Burrus, and the appearance of Vespasian in the Praetorian guards, are matters introduced not in strictly historical order. But otherwise the book has no great faults. It is, however, not even intended as a great novel, and is only cited here in illustration of the fact that a reasonable display of scholarship was coming to be demanded even of popular novelists. Julia of Baiae appeared two years after the last of the Rev. Ware’s novels (Julian, 1841), and was dedicated to the Rev. Fred. J. Goodwin, M. A., Rector of St. George’s Church, Flushing, N. Y. Yet, while it contains a story of the martyrs, it is not to be considered a story of religious instruction, but as an attempt at a popular novel with a rather feeble essay at classical scholarship.
Wilkie Collins, who wrote Antonina in 1850, is a curious example of a novelist possessed of rather high talents, yet turning out novels which were made to the order of the popular taste, and did not have the stamp of permanence. Collins belongs to the school of Dickens rather than that of Scott; and he develops the melodramatic side of Dickens, while dispensing with Dickens’ humor. In fact, in Antonina, Collins goes back somewhat toward the style of the Gothic romancers, who preceded Scott. Bleak mountainsides, dark caverns and rushing torrents suggest the “Gothic” terror. The labyrinth motive appears as one of the principal motives of the story, in that its chief character, a priest of Serapis, spends his life in digging a secret passage through the walls of Rome, that he may thwart the Christians by letting in the pagan invaders. This motive is also used in a description of the secret passages under the temple of Serapis. Another “Gothic” element is shown in the ghastly scene at the banquet where guests and host resolve to die before leaving their couches. While the story describes the siege and sack of Rome by the Goths in 410 A. D., the invaders are made to appear less like the real Goths than like the characters of the “Gothic” romancers. In fact, the few historical characters of Antonina are not very well done, and its history is not very good. But in writing this, his first novel, Collins realized that he must be fairly accurate in matters of history,—and in his descriptions of Roman life in Antonina he sometimes achieves fine realistic effect.
It would be unfair to brand the excellent work of Henry W. Herbert as that of a “popular novelist,” since he displays a profound scholarship not usually found in the “popular novelist.” But it may be fair to consider that one of his aims was to tell a “rattling good story,” and in this he was certainly successful. His one important novel was called The Roman Traitor; or Days of Cicero, Cato, and Catiline, and was published in Philadelphia in 1853. It is a powerful story of the conspiracy of Catiline against the Roman republic in 63 B. C. The character of Catiline is portrayed with masterful strokes, while those of Lentulus, Cethegus, and other conspirators, are also well-done. Cicero, Cato, and the young Julius Caesar, also appear in a natural light, though of these three, only Cicero is made to play an important part. Scenes in the Senate and in the houses of the nobility are life-like, yet not over-done. The author has succeeded admirably in portraying real men and women, their thoughts, desires and passions. Scenes of politics, luxury, and intrigue, ring true to life. Speeches assigned to Cicero, Caesar, and Cato, are literal translations from the works of Cicero and Sallust. Yet the author makes them seem as real as though the words were being spoken today. He also shows a thorough knowledge of the topography of ancient Rome. Certain “Gothic” elements appear in the story, especially near the end, where the scene is a dark, dismal recess, overlooking a fearful chasm. But the general style surpasses that of any Gothic romance and is suggestive of Scott. Fine as it is in its portrayal of Roman life, The Roman Traitor is even finer in its telling of a remarkable story. It is also the only really effective handling of the conspiracy of Catiline in the form of fiction.
The chief aim of Major G. J. Whyte-Melville in The Gladiators (1863), is obviously to present a “gorgeous romance,” replete with hair-raising episodes. Whyte-Melville, who is the first of the brilliantly sensational writers of the “gorgeous romance” of Roman life in English, is well known for his novels of sporting life in England. In The Gladiators he portrays the brilliant and corrupt society of ancient Rome in the first century, A. D., in a way which suggests his knowledge of a similar brilliant sporting society in modern England. In his use of history in The Gladiators, Whyte-Melville is fairly accurate. While not a man of profound scholarship, he fortunately found his historical material in a compact and readily accessible form, in the work of the Jewish historian Josephus. There is not much genuine history in the first part of The Gladiators, in which portion the scene is laid in Rome; but in the latter part of the novel, the author followed Josephus, in his wish to find plenty of exciting and romantic episodes. It is interesting to note, for example, that the story of the secret passage through the walls of Jerusalem (which illustrates the labyrinth motive), was taken by Whyte-Melville from Josephus. Many other instances could be cited of Whyte-Melville’s indebtedness to Josephus. Croly, it will be recalled, followed Josephus to some extent, but made a more scholarly and imaginative use of his material. The latter part of The Gladiators, in which the author relies more on the guidance of history, is better than the first part of the story, and contains some really fine descriptions of episodes in the siege of Jerusalem. However, that part of the story which deals with life at Rome and the defeat of Vitellius is accurate in its portrayal of some characteristic scenes of Roman times. In general, The Gladiators, while it has an impossible plot, and consists mainly of a series of gorgeous scenes, may be said to portray Roman life very well in most of its scenes. It lacks unity in its story and probability in some of its details, and this is what prevents its having a completeness of realistic effect.
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.”
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.
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: