But it was the bright side of ancient society which Pliny loved to describe. Without his Letters we should have had no notion of the warm and tender friendships—of the simple pleasures—of the loving charities—of the lofty ideals of so many of the élite of Roman society in the second century.
It has been well said that Pliny felt that he lacked the power to write a great history, such as that which Tacitus, with whom he was closely associated, or even his younger friend Suetonius in an inferior degree, have given us. So he chose, fortunately for us, to strike out another line altogether, a perfectly new line, and in his ten Books[23] of Letters he gives us simply a domestic picture of everyday life in his time.
They were no ordinary Letters; we can without any great effort of imagination picture to ourselves the famous Letter-writer touching and retouching his correspondence. Some modern critics in judging his style do not hesitate to place his Latinity on a level with that of Cicero. Renan, no mean judge of style, in words we have already quoted, speaks of “la langue précieuse et raffinée de Pline.”
The subjects he loved to dwell on were sometimes literature, at others, the beauties of nature, the quiet charms of country life—“me nihil æque ac naturæ opera delectant,” he wrote once. He eloquently describes the Clitumnus fountain, and the villa overlooking the Tiber valley; very elaborate and graceful are his descriptions of scenery; yet more attractive to us are his pictures of the “busy idleness” of the rich and noble of his day.
Curious and interesting are the allusions to and descriptions of the reading of new works, poems, histories, correspondence, etc., before large gatherings of friends. Some of these “readings,” which evidently formed an important feature in the society of the Empire, must often have been sadly wearisome. Our writer, for instance, describes Sentius Augurinus reciting his own poems during three whole days. Pliny expresses his delight at this lengthy recitation, but he confesses that these constant and lengthy recitations were deemed by some tiresome. His own Letters were read aloud to an appreciative audience, who would suggest corrections and changes.
Pliny was quite conscious when he wrote these famous Letters, that he was writing for no mere friend or relative, but for a wide public. He evidently hoped that they would live long after he had passed away; it is doubtful, though, if he had ever dreamed that they would be read with interest and delight for uncounted centuries. For instance, he naively expresses his delight that his writings were sold and read in Lyons, on the banks of the distant Rhone.
He has been accused by some, not otherwise unkindly critics, of writing for effect—of putting upon paper finer feeling than was absolutely natural to him; some of his descriptions of nature, for instance, savoured of affectation. There may be some truth in this criticism. But it only proves, what we have taken some pains to assert, that this intensely interesting correspondence was most carefully prepared—revised and redacted possibly several times—that he wrote to impress the public. Indeed, throughout the whole collection there are numerous marks of the most careful arrangement.
At the same time there are many natural touches in which his very faults are curiously manifest; so in reading these letters, in spite of occasional bursts of a possible artificial enthusiasm, we are sensible that his inner life, his real self, live along his charming pages; for instance, his curious conceit in his own literary power comes out in such passages as that in which he compares himself not unfavourably with his dear friend, that greatest master of history, Tacitus. There were other writers of great power and of brilliant genius, but “You,” so he writes to Tacitus, “so strong was the affinity of our natures, seemed to me at once the easiest to imitate, and the most worthy of imitation. Now we are named together; both of us have, I may say, some name in literature; for as I include myself, I must be moderate in my praise of you.”
In the midst of these striking pictures of the day and of the society of the quiet and comparatively happy times of the Emperor Trajan—in the last and perhaps the least interesting Book of his correspondence—the one generally known as the tenth Book, which contains his semi-official Letters to the Emperor, and some of Trajan’s replies,—stands out the great Christian episode in his government of Bithynia and Pontus, by far the most valuable notice that we possess of the numbers and of the influence of the Christian sect in the first years of the second century, only a few years after the death of S. John.