ἂναξ and βασιλε⋯ς are the two most important titles applied to the top stratum of Homeric aristocracy., usually translated as ′lord′ or ′master′, and βασιλε⋯ς, usually translated as ′king′, often apply to the same individuals, and can at times appear to be very close in meaning, allowing translators to render ἂναξ as ′king′ and βασιλε⋯ς as ′lord′. There are, however, significant differences between the two. As Lexikon des friihgriechischen Epos (LfrgE) now conveniently summarizes for us, avat; can be divine or human, can be a master of a state, of gods, of men, of animals, or of his household, and can be used as an address in the vocative, whereas fiaoiXevs is only applied to humans in Homer, often in a political context, and is never used in the vocative.

Recognition of the technical complexity and literary sophistication of Homeric oral poetry1 encourages close, detailed examination of Homeric similes in their immediate context and in the larger context of the poem in which they occur. The similes offer direct access to understanding and appreciating Homeric poetic technique. Even so, this approach to Homeric poetics is, for the most part, often only taken seriously in the case of the longer or ‘extended’ similes in the poems. Careful study of even a shorter simile, one all too likely to be dismissed as merely decorative, can be fruitful as well.2 This paper explores the implications of the analogy in Odyssey 21.48–50 between the creaking sound of a pair of heavy doors opening and the bellow of a bull.

What have the following in common: Epimetheus, Paris, Anchises, and the suitors of Penelope? The ready answer might be that it must have something to do with women, for it requires no great thought to see that the attractions of femininity proved the undoing of three of them, while for Anchises life was never to be the same again after his encounter with Aphrodite. But suppose we add to our first group such figures as Zeus, Priam, Polynices, and Eumaeus? The fates of all these characters as they, appear at certain points in the poetry of Homer, Hesiod, and others give expression i to a network of interrelated sexual and economic anxieties that seem to underlie a { great deal of what the Archaic poets say about the female sex. In this article I 1 propose to explore a particular part of that network, which I have called the ? ‘Pandora complex’, since it is Hesiod′s version of the Pandora myth which provides the classic statement of the male dilemma over women, poised between the conflicting desires for sexual gratification and domestic stability.1

From the Archaic period to the sixth century A.D., as well as in later Byzantine lexica, we find numerous instances of the word TTTJKTIS as the name of a musical instrument. It occurs in some 78 passages:1 enough, one might suppose, to establish its meaning beyond peradventure. Yet of all ancient instrument names, this one proves to be the most Protean. In the earlier sources it designates a harp. Later it is applied to other types of stringed instrument, both to lyres and to lutes. But it does not remain confined to the chordophone category, for in the Imperial period it frequently signifies a panpipe. As no complete collection and analysis of the evidence has ever been made, I have thought it worth while to undertake one.

It has gradually become accepted among historians of ancient culture that the Greeks and Romans always, or nearly always, read aloud. They did not read to themselves, silently, save in rare and special cases. Either they were not able to read silently, or they felt no need to do so, or they did not enjoy doing it even when they were alone.

A recent article on ‘The Number of Speaking Actors in Old Comedy’ by D. M. MacDowell has argued that to perform the plays of Aristophanes required the use of four, but never five, speaking actors.1 Systematically argued, MacDowell presents a cogent case against Henderson (xli–xliv), who has suggested that at times five actors were permitted. MacDowell also presents some very sensible observations on the nature of any prescription which might limit the number of actors. The final paragraphs, however, express considerable discomfort at the earliest work in the extant corpus: 'Akharnians, however, remains problematic, since it has two scenes which may be thought to require five actors' (MacDowell, 335). A tentative solution is offered by MacDowell, which is that 'these scenes were actually performed without a fifth actor, by making very quick changes in the scene with Amphitheos and the Envoy, and by using dolls for the Megarian's Daughters' (MacDowell, 335). Unspeaking performers for the Megarian's Daughters are more likely than dolls, since they must follow orders for movement (Akh. 732, 740–5). Apart from this, I have no doubt that this is indeed how Akharnians was performed, and an examination of the specific comic techniques employed by Aristophanes in the two problematic scenes in Akharnians demonstrates not only the comic desirability of their use, but their applicability to other plays by Aristophanes.

Lines 25–30 of the hypothesis to Euripides′ Hippolytus read as follows:

This is Snell's text:

The dossier of decrees concerning the Deceleans and the Demotionidae of Athens (IG ii 1237) presents fascinating problems and has attracted plentiful discussion. For a long time there has been a division between the view of Wilamowitz and his followers, that the Demotionidae were a phratry and the Deceleans a privileged genos within it, and that of Wade–Gery refined by Andrewes, that the Deceleans were a phratry and the Demotionidae a privileged genos within it.3 Each of these interpretations gave rise to problems; and since the work of Bourriot and Roussel on the gene there has been a reluctance to believe in gene as aristocratic clans able to control their phratries. Recently Hedrick has argued that the Demotionidae were the phratry and the Deceleans the members of the deme of Decelea; and Lambert has argued that the Demotionidae were the phratry and the Deceleans a genos–like body (but not a genos, and not controlling the phratry) which formed a semi–independent group within the phratry and which in these decrees was extending its independence further. These interpretations also give rise to problems: in this paper I attempt to continue the debate and to show that an interpretation on Wade–Gery′s lines is after all the most likely to be right.

Nineteenth–century scholars assumed that the Athenians as a community punished citizens with death, exile, atimia, and fines and used imprisonment only to hold those awaiting trial, those awaiting execution, and those unable to pay fines.1 As they saw it, brief imprisonment in the stocks occasionally supplemented these penalties, but always as additional penalty–never as a penalty on its own. Barkan saw in the use of imprisonment as an additional penalty the likelihood of general penal imprisonment and used evidence from the oratorical corpus to make an argument therefore.2 His argument seems to have been largely ignored–the nineteenth–century interpretation continuing dominant; and the issue, largely unexplored but for a few glancing references in recent scholarship.3 The issue remains, thus, sufficiently vexed to make worthwhile a restatement of the argument for the use of punitive imprisonment. Also, the evidence provides clues worth setting forth as to why and when punitive imprisonment developed. Indeed, these are sufficient to make an argument about the relevance of the development to Athenian political history. For the introduction of penal imprisonment in Athens proves an extremely important historical moment, marking as it does both the completion of a general will institutionalized (in a punishment of consumption of the wrong–doer within, rather than of expulsion from, the community) and a significant point in the establishment of isonomia.

Dotted throughout the records of the turbulent last decades of fourth-century Athens are reports—often frustratingly vague—of prosecutions, many of intellectuals on the charge of (136xxx1). Most belong to the period of Macedonian domination: Theophrastus was one targeted at this time, and we hear also of actions against Demetrius of Phalerum, Theodorus the atheist, and Stilpo of Megara. Even before the Athenian capitulation to Macedon, in the immediate aftermath of the death of Alexander, prosecutions were launched against Demades and Aristotle. These two early (and relatively well documented) prosecutions are generally accepted to have had a political purpose, being attacks aimed at Macedonian sympathizers by the more staunchly pro-democratic Athenian elements; the later trials, however, are poorly attested in the sources and have received less scholarly attention, particularly for their political aspects.

So far, interpreters have not made the import of this last clause clear. F. J. Church (followed later by R. E. Allen) translates the last phrase ‘they act at random’. Burnet says of Adam (who understands ( after this phrase and translates ‘They treat a man just as it occurs to them’) that he seems to have been the first to point out that the meaning cannot be ‘they act at random’. Instead, ‘the phrase expresses indifference’. Adam′s idea, which Burnet here commends, is that the many are thoughtless in their treatment of the individual; and Adam compares 48C below: the many would lightly put someone to death and just as lightly bring him back to life again. The Burnet-Adam point is evidently that the many have a policy of acting indifferently, or just as it occurs to them—by contrast with the ‘at random’ in Church′s translation, which suggests that they act without policy at all.

Aristotle thinks that in order to remember, (1) one must be cognizant of aphantasmaused as a copy of that of which it is a phantasma,and (2) one must be cognizant of the time at which the original (i.e. now remembered) experience occurred (449b22–3, 450b25–451a8). In De Memoria1, he uses the first half, (1), of this schematic account in order to explain certain kinds of mis-rememberings. For instance, he says that mad people sometimes conjure up fantastic images and take them to be memories of past experience; such episodes are mis-remembering, because these people use that which is not a copy as if it were a copy (451a8-l 1). In De Memoria2, Aristotle returns to the topic of mis-remembering (although it may now be more accurate to call it mis-recollecting1) and here he uses the second half, (2), of his schematic account, together with the first, in order to explain additional sorts of mistakes. He claims that we sometimes recall the image of an event and properly use it as a copy, but we get the time wrong (thinking, for example, that an event occurred a week ago, when actually it occurred yesterday), and thus we fail to remember; further, he claims that we sometimes get the time right, but fail to use an image as a copy of the events which occurred during that time. In each case we fail to remember; for in order to remember we must both use an appropriate copy as a copy and (more or less) accurately cognize the time (452b27–9).

‘Quot editores, tot Propertii’(‘For every editor, a different Propertius’) has been a familiar—and much misunderstood—phrase in Propertian scholarship ever since it first appeared in the preface to Phillimore′s Oxford Classical Text of 1901. In its original context it described not an existing situation but rather the chaos that Phillimore alleged would result if editors began to adopt significant numbers of transpositions. Such chaos, however, does characterize the current state of Propertian studies; every interpreter seems to create a different Propertius, who in the last twenty-five years has been represented as a feminist, a neurotic traumatized by the siege of Perugia, an anti-Augustan iconoclast, an apostle of love oppressed by a quasi-Stalinist principate, a decadent pre-Raphaelite, and most recently as the ‘modernist poet of antiquity’.

For a homicidal tyrant Domitian was disconcertingly droll. A number of examples of is ‘sardonic wit’ survive. One of them was so good that Marcus Aurelius supposedly repeated it, and attributed it to Hadrian rather than Domitian on the grounds that good sayings had no moral force if they came from tyrants.3 Domitian also possessed a talent for writing. Suetonius (Dom.2.2, 20) and Tacitus (Hist.4.86.2) claim that his interest in literature was merely a pretence, but Domitian′s contemporaries claim for him genuine ability, and here for once they seem much closer to the mark, as Coleman argues.

In the last twenty years, the study of translation has emerged as a discipline in its own right.1 Scholars in various fields have turned their attention to the linguistic, philosophical, and ideological issues involved in the ‘carrying over’ of ideas from one language into another. This new discipline has a natural affinity with Latin philology, since the Romans may be regarded as pioneers in the art of translation in the West. At present, however, we have only begun to study what they really thought about translation and how they went about doing it. In the present paper,31 will re-examine a valuable but under-appreciated witness: Aulus Gellius, author of the Attic NightsSome of Gellius′ brief essays contain translations from Greek, and a few of them were prepared specifically as exercises in the ars interpretandi.By studying them, we learn how the questions associated with translation were addressed by a Roman litterateur of the Antonine period.

The de primo frigido has long been recognized as an important text for our understanding of Plutarch′s epistemological position. It is the aim of this paper to show, however, that the sophistication of the work, and with it of Plutarch′s epistemology, is not generally given the credit due to it.

Constantine, the first Christian Emperor, bequeathed war against Persia to his son Constantius, a legacy which haunted the next two decades, culminating in Julian′s debacle in 363. Much has been written on the timing, motives, and strategy of these campaigns but the same role model appears at their beginning and end: Alexander the Great. Here, I wish to re-examine the evidence for his presence: recent scholarship has minimized it at one end and maximized at the other.

It is the purpose of this paper to examine how Ammianus, Libanius, and Julian conceived of Roman policy on the eastern frontier from the death of Constantine to failure of Julian′s invasion of Persia. Any consideration of the actual facts is secondary. The predominant conclusion will be that all three saw Rome′s as essentially defensive, her objective as the containment of persistent aggression. This will be seen to hold good even for Julian′s invasion., when they are offered by the sources, are presented in terms of, whether national or that of individuals: Constantius, Julian, Jovian, and. It will become apparent, and is sometimes implied, that these attitudes derive the peace imposed by Rome in 299, with which Rome could well rest content, Persia clearly could not.