Aeschylus' account of the sacrifice of Iphigeneia in the Agamemnon has elicited an extraordinarily wide range of interpretations–a critical response which, in its veryproductivity, may signal a central aspect of the description itself. While more recent explications have been profitably informed by research in cult and ritual, there remains, I would like to suggest, an important literary possibility which merits consideration, particularly in a text where so much has been shaped from a close and profound engagement with the Homeric tradition. The description of the sacrifice (Ag. 228–47) is forcefully carried by enjambement from one stanza into another by the sheer weight, as it were, of the force that crushingly silences, βίαι χαλινὦν τ᾿ άναύδωι μ⋯νει (238). In the midst of much that is dark and difficult to construe, the composition yields a sudden effusion of colour, a striking trail of saffron. The sense of concealment, of a figure enveloped or enshrouded, which has been suggested by the phrase πέπλοισι περιπετή (233), opens on to an image of unfolding, the falling spread of a robe caught in itsflow towards the ground, κρόκου βαφάς δ ⋯ς πέδονχέουσα (239).

In the light of the remarkable changes of political colour which Aeschylus has undergone in the hands of scholars, there is a certain amusing irony about the fact that the satyr-play which followed the Oresteia was the Proteus. Sadly, we know too little of the Proteus to say whether it would have resolved this debate about the Oresteid's political stance, though one may have one's doubts.

Madness and emotion could be said to share, to a certain extent, their definition as kinds of human response to influences from their environment. The connection between madness and emotion is stressed in modern psychological observations establishing strong links between the causation of madness and human emotionality. Despite the fact that similar insights were absent from Greek medical theorists, or indeed from other contemporary writers, this would come as no surprise to either Sophokles or Euripides. Both tragedians handled their material in such a way as to demonstrate how the strong pressures of familial or social influences can lead to mental disturbance. While it is most probably Sophokles who, for the first time, turns to the influence of internal forces in the process of madness, the lack of subject matter in his surviving plays allows us little scope for further comparison. On the other hand, Euripides seems to have dedicated more of his portrayals to madness. These portrayals offer an almost unique opportunity to examine the introduction, not only in drama but perhaps in the whole of Greek literature, of the emotions as contributing factors in madness.

W. R. Connor has argued that Theopompus' critical attacks on almost all the leading figures in Greek history suggest he was writing a ‘history without heroes’. This article will argue that a similar principle applies to Theopompus' attitude towards Herodotus and other earlier historians: all fell short of his ideal, and, in the final analysis, Theopompus had but one literary hero: himself. Theopompus' mysterious Epitome of Herodotus, I will suggest, is best taken not as an independent work, but as a portion of the Philippika in which Theopompus incorporated and adapted a significant body of Herodotean material. This fact, taken together with Theopompus' polemical statements about his predecessors, suggests that Theopompus boldly challenged Herodotus on his own turf, confident he could improve upon him.

Anyone who picks up a collection of fragments of comic poetry is likely to be struck by the large number of references to eating fish. There are shopping-lists for fish, menus for fish and recipes for fish-dishes, with the ingredients and method of preparation graphically described. Aristophanes and others dwell in several places on the charms of eel wrapped in beet-leaves. Other writers describe preparations for a great fish-soup, or the dancing movements of fish as they are fried. Undoubtedly Athenaeus is responsible for this preponderance among the fragments of Comedy of passages concerned primarily with food, especially fish, but some of the fragments are rather long in themselves and indicate, at the very least, that cooks were important characters in many plays, and that dinner-parties must have figured significantly in many plots. Outside Comedy, references to fish-consumption are somewhat fewer in number, but perhaps even more surprising when they do occur. It seems strange that Demosthenes, in discussing Philocrates' betrayal of his city, should think it at all relevant to state that he spent his ill-gotten gains on fish, or that Aeschines, attacking Timarchus on a capital charge, should dwell on his fondness for fish. Moreover, references to fish occur also in philosophy and the Hippocratic corpus. In fact, the frequency with which ancient authors seem to have written about fish reveals almost a preoccupation. The consumption offish clearly held a significance for the Athenians which needs to be uncovered and explained.

Whilst Theophrastus (Char. 17.8) implies that the logographos had a great deal of control over the oral version of a forensic speech and what went into it,2 the part played by the logographos and the client in the content and circulation of the oration after oral delivery is controversial, and has attracted a fair share of attention.3 Sir Kenneth Dover argued that joint or composite authorship of the speech (i.e. client and logographos together) could take place, and that it was the client who could publish the speech after the trial and was free to include his own remarks.4 Thus, as Dover would have it, in the case of Lysias (and of other orators too if joint composition occurred), no unique style of that orator could be discerned in his speeches as we have them today. This composite authorship was first questioned by T. N. Winter,5 and denied even more vigorously by S. Usher,6 who argued that responsibility for a speech's later circulation lay only with the logographos, who also revised the speech as he saw fit.7 Their arguments, which nicely complement each other, are convincing enough on the evidence we have (although a case will be made below that in certain circumstances some, but probably not many, speeches appear to be the work of joint authorship). However, two other factors may be brought in as further support: the stylistic nature of the revised speech and the extent of literacy. The argument of this paper is that the composition of the final circulated speech was beyond the ability of the ordinary client and could only have been produced by the logographos.

When entering into a legal agreement, it is not unusual for one of the parties to ask the other to provide some security so as to ensure that the latter's obligations under the agreement will be fulfilled. There are two basic forms of security, personal and real. In personal security for a loan, the borrower arranges for a third party to come forward and to promise the lender that he will fulfil the borrower's obligations in the event that the borrower does not make interest payments or repay the principal. In real security, the borrower pledges some of his property, either movable or immovable, as security to the creditor. If the borrower defaults, the creditor has the right to seize the property pledged as security, and, if he wishes, to sell it for cash in lieu of repayment.

In any list of famous last words, Socrates' are likely to figure near the top. Details of the final moments of celebrities tend anyway to exert a peculiar fascination upon the rest of us: life's very contingency provokes a need to see lives nevertheless as meaningful organic wholes, defined as such precisely by their final closure; so that even the most trivial aspects of their ending can come to seem bearers of profound significance, soliciting moral reflections apparently not less urgent for their being quite unwarranted. From earliest times, this fascination with last moments has come to be concentrated in particular upon last words: situated at that most mysterious of borders, between life and death, they seem to look backwards and forwards at once, judging the speaker's own past life from the vantage-point of a future realm he is about to attain and hinting at the nature of what awaits us all from the perspective of that past life he still – however tenuously – shares with us. A moment earlier, and there is no reason to privilege any one discourse of the speaker's above another; a moment later, and his lips are sealed for ever. Only in that final moment can he seem to pass an unappealable judgement on himself, to combine in a single body two incompatible subjectivities, the one suffering and extremely mortal, the other dispassionate and transcendent. If he is a thinker or a man of action, this is his last chance to summarize a lifetime's meditation or experience in a pithy, memorable aphorism.If he is a celebrated poet, he can be imagined to have composed his own epitaph; if he is a Hellenistic poet, he may even in fact have done so.

Plato targets the encomiastic genre in three separate dialogues: the Lysis, the Menexenus and the Symposium. Many studies have been devoted to Plato's handling of the funeral oration in the Menexenus. Plato's critique of the encomium in the Lysis and Symposium, however, has not been accorded the same kind of treatment. Yet both of these dialogues go beyond the Menexenus in exploring the opposition between encomiastic and philosophic discourse. In the Lysis, I will argue, Plato sets up encomiastic rhetoric as a foil for Socrates' dialectical method; philosophic discourse is both defined and legitimated by way of its opposition to eulogy. In the Symposium, Plato offers a much more complex critique. First, he illustrates and comments on the vices that inhere in the encomiastic genre. Second, he juxtaposes Socrates' ironic ‘praises’ of his interlocutors with traditional encomiastic discourse, thus inviting the reader to explore the relation between Socratic irony and the rhetoric of eulogy (and censure). And, third, the Symposium exhibits two untraditional ‘encomia’ – Socrates' eulogy for Eros and Alcibiades' for Socrates – that illustrate and interrogate the false ontology underlying the rhetoric of praise.

Old scholarly myths die hard. It was K. F. Hermann, the discoverer of the ‘Socratic period’ in Plato's development, who first proposed (in 1839) that Book 1 of the Republic must originally have been an earlier, independent dialogue on justice, parallel to the Laches on courage, the Euthyphro on piety, and the Charmides on temperance. Hermann also introduced the separatist enterprise of analysing the rest of the Republic into three or four distinct compositional stages. Analytical proposals of this sort were then formulated by a number of other scholars, including Krohn, Usener, and Rohde. The notion of an earlier, partial publication seemed to be supported by two bits of external evidence: a statement in Aulus Gellius that ‘about two books’ (duo fere libri) of Plato's Republic were the first to appear; and a number of striking parallels on the community of women between Republic 5 and Aristophanes' Ekklesiazousai, produced c. 392 B.C.

In the second century of our era the Athenian Platonist, Atticus, claimed that it was clear not only to philosophers but perhaps even to ordinary people that the heritage left by Plato was the immortality of the soul. Plato had expounded the doctrine in various and manifold ways (ποικίλως καì παντοίως) and this was about (σχεδόν) the only thing holding together the Platonic school. Atticus is but one witness to the prominence accorded the soul in discussions and debates among later Platonists. But while questions concerning the origin, constitution, and destiny of the human soul are relatively well attested for Middle Platonism, not to mention Neoplatonism, we know much less about these topics among Plato's immediate successors in the Academy, Speusippus of Athens (c. 408–339) and Xenocrates of Chalcedon (396–314). Both wrote treatises on the soul (περì ψυχ⋯ς), but these have been lost along with their other, numerous writings. Because the least that can be said is that Speusippus and Xenocrates upheld the immortality of the soul (as would be expected), any snippet of information that might tell us more deserves close consideration.

In Physics 2.8 Aristotle argues for his natural teleology by arguing for the goal-directed character of nature (or biology). The argument that he develops with the most care is directed against those natural philosophers, like Empedocles, who maintain that the results of natural processes which benefit organisms, such as teeth, come to be through chance (198b16–199a8). Aristotle counters by arguing that because the beneficial results of natural processes occur regularly, ‘always or for the most part’, they cannot be the outcome of chance, which would yield beneficial results only irregularly. Thus such results must come to be only for the sake of some end. This argument against chance has received the most attention from scholars, but Physics 2.8 contains another argument for the goal-directed character of nature, which has received relatively little attention because it does not seem to offer much argument for natural teleology. The argument depends upon an analogy between action and nature, and it simply maintains that since human action (of which art is an example) and nature are analogous, and since action is goal-directed, so too is nature. The argument is of interest, despite its neglect, because it seems to prove nothing to us and yet Aristotle puts it forward confidently as advancing his view about the goal-directed character of nature. The argument from analogy should claim our attention because it provides important evidence for the basic spring behind Aristotle's natural teleology. The fact that Aristotle takes for granted the strength of the analogy with human action in his argument for the goal-directedness of nature suggests that he holds human-like goal-directedness to be a condition of intelligibility that must be met by any intelligible process of coming to be, whether human or natural.

In this paper I will reconsider the doxographical text about Aristotle in Clement of Alexandria's Protrepticus 5.66.4:

οὐδ⋯ν δ⋯ οἶμαι χαλεπ⋯ν ⋯ντα⋯θα γεν⋯μενος κα⋯ τ⋯ν ⋯κ το⋯ Περιπ⋯του μνησθ⋯ναι· κα⋯ ⋯ γε τ⋯ς αἱρ⋯σεως πατ⋯ρ, τ⋯ν ὅλων οὐ νο⋯σας τ⋯ν πατ⋯ρα, τ⋯ν καλο⋯μενον ‘ὕπατον’ ψυχ⋯ν εἶναι το⋯ π⋯ντος οἴεται· τουτ⋯στι το⋯ κ⋯σμου τ⋯ν ψυχ⋯ν θε⋯ν ὑπολαμβ⋯νων αὐτ⋯ς αὑτῷ περιπε⋯ρεται. ⋯ γ⋯ρ τοι μ⋯χρι τ⋯ς σελ⋯νης αὐτ⋯ς διορ⋯ζων τ⋯ν πρ⋯νοιαν, ἔπειτα τ⋯ν κ⋯σμον θε⋯ν ⋯γο⋯μενος περιτρ⋯πεται, τ⋯ν ἄμοιρον θεο⋯ θε⋯ν δογματ⋯ζων.

Writing of Terence's Andria (‘The Girl from Andros’) in 1952, Duckworth said: ‘In the Andria the second love affair is unusual; Charinus’ love for a respectable girl whose virtue is still intact has been considered an anticipation of a more modern attitude towards love and sex. More frequently in Plautus and Terence the heroine, if of respectable parentage, has been violated before the opening of the drama (Aulularia, Adelphoe), or she is a foreigner, a courtesan, or a slave girl' (Duckworth (1952), p. 158). Perhaps in 1993 it does not seem quite so ‘modern’ that Charinus is not only in love with a respectable virgin but wishes to marry her.

Callimachus' Victoria Berenices has received a good deal of scholarly attention since its first publication in 1976, both from textual critics, attempting to clarify uncertain readings, and from specialists in Latin poetry, eager to trace allusions to Callimachus in Vergil, Statius, or Ovid. While the search for Callimachean influence on the later texts has proved quite fruitful, it opens up the possibility of reading certain issues inappropriately backwards into the Hellenistic material. The discovery of (limited) parallels may lead to an assumption of complete agreement that misrepresents the earlier, more fragmentary text. I would like to consider one particular incident in the Victoria Berenices that has fallen prey to this fate, namely the reception of Heracles by the farmer Molorcus

By the time his Teubner De Officiis had reached its fourth edition, C. Atzert was running out of hope. So great was the number of the still-accumulating manuscripts ‘ut paene desperaverim in seligendis et ordinandis eis’. In fact, there were hundreds more of which he knew nothing. My own list approaches seven hundred in all, and there will be others lurking still. The present paper aims to impose some order on this vast army.2 It sketches in new detail the interrelationships of the old witnesses to the ξ tradition, and the transition to a twelfth-century Vulgate (Ψ); it throws light on the early story of the ξ family; and it makes a start on the task of showing how the f stream, from the twelfth century onwards, fitfully mingled with the Vulgate (for the stemma, see Fig. 1). It could never have been written without the help of Marina Luttrell and of countless friends and colleagues who provided information about manuscripts I could not see for myself

The paragraph in the first book of the Georgics, running from lines 118 to 159, which describes the loss of the golden age and man's subsequent history, has been very diversely interpreted. But one sentence, at 145f., has been especially controversial:

labor omnia vicit

improbus et duns urgens in rebus egestas.

This note brings to light some instances of Vergilian borrowings from Lucretius and Catullus in the composition of the Dido episode. The way in which Vergil adapts these sources and combines them in the depiction of tormented love is discussed and it is suggested that a consequence of this is to invest the image of love eating Dido internally with a significance beyond that of an erotic topos.

Early in Aeneid 3 Aeneas visits Delos and approaches the temple of Apollo with a request for advice on the destination for which the refugees should head. There is an immediate response to his questions (Verg. Aen. 3.90–2):

uix ea fatus eram: tremere omnia uisa repente,

liminaque laurusque dei, totusque moueri

mons circum et mugire adytis cortina reclusis.

Acontius argues that there was nothing wrong with the trick he played on Cydippe – the end justifies the means.

Heinsius and Dilthey doubted the authenticity of this couplet, whilst Bornecque bracketed line 26 alone. Line 25, however, contains a familiar elegiac theme, and line 26, with one small emendation, is rhetorically sharp.

All the MSS have uni in line 25, but many editors have found this unsatisfactory, preferring to read unum and punctuating the line in various ways: Burman prints ‘iungerer? unum’, Showerman, Goold and Palmer ‘iungerer, unum?’ Of these, the latter is the more attractive (Acontius wants one thing and one thing only – union with Cydippe; he is not interested in trying to cheat her financially, which is what fraus would most immediately suggest), ‘iungerer uni’, however, is perfectly good, and should be retained: uni means not ‘you alone (as opposed to several girls)’, but ‘you alone (as opposed to any other girl)’, cf. OLD s.v. unus 8 ‘one in particular, one above all others’. Acontius is paying Cydippe a compliment – she is the only girl for him, and nobody else will do. This is a common theme in Latin love elegy, cf. Prop. 2.7.19, [Tib.] 3.19.3–6, Ovid, Ars Am. 1.42: ‘elige cui dicas “tu mihi sola places”’.