In 1928, Friedrich Solmsen argued that Aristotle's Posterior Analytics was largely composed before the Prior Analytics. Ross rejected Solmsen's position in 1939, and a rather lengthy series of rebuttals and counter-attacks between the two scholars followed. Quite recently, Jonathan Barnes has revived this issue with arguments in favour of something very close to Solmsen's thesis: that Aristotle first developed a theory of demonstration (‘apodeictic’) before he had worked out the syllogistic, and that the Posterior Analytics was originally conceived against this background. Subsequently, when Aristotle formulated a syllogistic, he is supposed by Barnes to have revised or added to the contents of the Posterior Analytics so as to make syllogistic the logic of Aristotelian science. Thus, Barnes says: ‘the syllogism is in fact an incidental adjunct to the theory of demonstration: the theory can be formulated without reference, explicit or implicit, to Syllogistic, and it could have been discovered by someone who knew nothing whatever about the Syllogism’ (pp. 33–4).

Crime pays, says Polus at Gorgias 473. Socrates, on the other hand, maintains two propositions in the face of universal opinion:

Aristotle (Rhet. 3.9) distinguishes two types of style, the ‘periodic’ or ‘rounded’ (λ⋯ξιςκατεστραμμέη) and the ‘non-periodic’, ‘strung-on’ or ‘continuous’ (λέξιςε;ἰρομένη).* The latter is typical of prose in its young and unsophisticated state, and Aristotle is not much interested in it; his discussion of the periodic style is much longer, with subdivisions being introduced and numerous examples given. His basic definition of the period is not, however, clear, and the point has seen some controversy. There are two possibilities. (1) He defines the period ‘rhythmically’ (as I shall call it). The essential feature of the period is that its beginning and end are marked off by specific metrical rhythms (discussed in the preceding chapter, 3.8, where Aristotle recommends the paean).1 (2) He defines it ‘logically’. The period is a syntactic structure with an inner cohesion produced by the logical, pre-planned arrangement of its parts according to the requirements of the whole.2 The current consensus at least of written opinions is that Aristotle intended the first;3 I believe that the issue can be settled fairly decisively in favour of the second.

When Festus said to Paul: ‘Much learning doth make thee mad’, Paul's answer was the instinctive defence of a scholar under attack: ‘I am not mad, most noble Festus, but speak forth the words of truth and soberness’. Whether poets were mad or sober has been a question for critics ever since Gorgias pointed out the incompatibility; it is less frequently debated why scholars unlike poets should need to affirm their sobriety. I should like to concentrate on one aspect of ancient criticism, that of problem-solving, in order, as I hope, to put into a different perspective the whole business of what Alexandrians did with texts. Inevitably perhaps it will be argued that I am neglecting the vast philological and lexical labours of the Alexandrians and failing to appreciate their subtlety in textual criticism. I hope that my criticisms will not be construed in this way; yet I believe that the Alexandrians have been idealized and their critical attitudes over-simplified. By taking a problem from antiquity and setting it in its context, I will be trying to give what I consider to be a more correct perspective to the labours of our ancient predecessors.

There is no general agreement among scholars that Aristotle had a unified concept of phantasia. That is evident from the most cursory glance through the literature. Freudenthal (p. 53) speaks of the contradictions into which Aristotle seems to fall in his remarks about phantasia, and explains the contradictions as due to the border position which phantasia occupies between Wahrnehmung and thinking. Ross, in Aristotle (ed. 5, London, 1949), p. 143, talks of passages on phantasia in De Anima 3. 3 which constitute ‘a reversal of his doctrine of sensation’ and perhaps do not ‘represent his deliberate view’. This is a serious state of affairs, since De Anima 3. 3 is Aristotle’s main discussion of phantasia. Of passages on phantasia, appearances and images in De Anima 3. 3, Hamlyn says: ‘There is clearly little consistency here’. Even Schofield, who is more optimistic about saving the unity of Aristotle’s concept than the last two scholars, grants that ‘some of the inconsistencies of Aristotle’s account seem more than merely apparent’.1 He thinks of Aristotle’s phantasia as a ‘loose-knit, family concept’ (op. cit., p. 106). My purpose here is to suggest that Aristotle is more consistent in his use of phantasia than his critics will allow him to be. The translation of the term as imagination frequently adds unnecessarily to the confusion, so I shall avoid it and use transliteration instead.

Amynander of Athamania first appears in our sources in 209 B.C. and last appears in 189 B.C. In whatö follows I shall discuss two episodes from within this period.

It can be argued that there was no intellectual figure at work in Rome in the period of the late Republic who had more originality and influence than the Bithynian doctor Asclepiades, who founded an important medical school and was still being attacked nearly three hundred years after his death by Galen, and two hundred years later still by Caelius Aurelianus. His claims to originality rested both on his theory of the causes of disease, and on his methods of treatment. Turning away from the Empiricism recently fashionable, he argued that experience without λόγoς, theory or reason, was useless. His own theory was based on the scientific ideas of the late fourth-century philosopher Heraclides Ponticus, and seems to have postulated not ἂτoμα, tiny indivisible particles, but ὂγκoι, masses, which are continually in motion and splitting into innumerable fragments, θραύσματα, of different shapes and sizes, which re-form to create perceptible bodies. The particles were separated by invisible gaps, πόρoι or pores; friction between particles created the heat of the human body, but jamming of its pores was often the cause of pain and disease. This purely mechanistic doctrine was anathema to Galen because of its insufficient reverence for the doctrines of Hippocrates, and above all for the belief in the sympathy of the various parts of the body, the purposive character of Nature's creation, and her own healing effort; and also for the doctrine of the four, or more, humours.

We have extremely strong reasons for supposing that the exposure of infants, very often resulting in death, was common in many different parts of the Roman Empire, and that it had considerable demographic, economic and psychological effects. The evidence for the first of these propositions has been reviewed or alluded to in several recent publications.1 However, a thorough new study, covering the whole of Greek and Roman antiquity, would be worth while. In the meantime Donald Engels has declared that in the Greek and Roman worlds the exposure of children was ‘of negligible importance’ (‘The problem of female infanticide in the Greco-Roman World’, CPh 75 (1980), 112–20).

A most pleasing recent advance in our knowledge of Callimachus’ fragmentary poems has been the recognition that an elegiac piece, part of which appeared as P. Oxy. vol. 1 no. 14, belongs to him and, one presumes, to the Aetia. Powell (Collectanea Alexandrina, p. 131) already thought of Callimachus as the author, others of Nicander (hence Gow-Scholfield doubtfully included the fragment in their edition, p. 220). Evidence that the author was of some standing is provided by the fact that a scholiast on Nicander, Theriaca 386 (P. Oxy. 2221 col. 11, 17–20) quoted line 4 of the fragment1 (though the additional letters at the start of the line have defied restoration and may be corrupt).2 Great progress came with the publication by M. Gronewald (ZPE 15 [1974], 105 ff.) of P. Mich. 4761, which preserves, almost though not quite perfectly, the beginning of lines 5–15 (underlined on the accompanying text), wherein P. Oxy.

The Culex remains the most bewildering of poems. The consensus of modern opinion holds that it is a deliberate forgery, post-Ovidian in date, purporting to be a work of the youthful Virgil and thus serving to fill the large biographical vacuum in the career of the poet before the publication of the Eclogues. If this is the case, it must be asked why the forger chose to fill that gap with a poem thematically and stylistically so idiosyncratic which nevertheless managed to gain ready acceptance as Virgilian by the end of the first century A.D. This is a very large question, but in postulating the close dependence of parts of the poem on Cornelius Gallus (I), particularly on his symbolism of poetic inspiration (II–V), I hope to go some of the way towards providing an answer (VI). If this article is directed primarily at the problem of the Culex, I would like to think it makes a contribution also to the much more important study of Gallus, whose reputation has suffered somewhat since the publication of those wretched lines from Qasr Ibrîm. Yet, if not a single line of his work had survived, the one thing we could say of his poetry with confidence is that it inspired. Anyone trying to make an assessment of Gallus' poetic achievement should first make a close study of Virgil's Sixth and Tenth Eclogues and then ask whether fragments have ever formed a firm basis for the evaluation of an author's work. Rehabilitation should not be necessary.

I would refer to the introductory paragraphs of J. Diggle's ‘Notes on Ovid's Tristia, Books I-II’ (CQ n.s. 30 (1980), 401–19). His list of modern editions does not include F. Della Corte, I Tristia (Genoa, 1973), which I too have not seen. For Book IV we have an edition (not without merit) by T. J. de Jonge (Groningen, 1961).

Meleager, in assembling the poetic garland of his first epigram, picked palm-leaves to represent Aratus:

Our purpose is protreptic, to broach a subject neglected by researchers and consequently by commentators on Plautus and Terence.1 We mean the relation of rhythm and dramatic meaning in the ordinary stichic iambo-trochaic metres. It is of course a longstanding convention that a commentator writing in usum scholarum will include some account of the basic rules of scansion and prosody and a conspectus metrorum of sorts. Ambitious efforts may be made to analyse the polymetric songs in Plautus, if to label cola is analysis; but there are notorious difficulties in this, for the songs are astrophic and polymorphous, the colometry is uncertain, and it cannot be said that we fully understand the range or relationship of the elements out of which the songs are constructed, or that the rules of prosody in the cantica have been definitively established. Under the circumstances it is understandable that commentators refrain except in the most general terms from relating rhythm to dramatic context in the songs. But it is different with the iambo-trochaic metres. We are on firmer ground here, and there is more of it. Commentators will draw attention to aspects of the playwright's diction such as alliteration, assonance, triadic expression, hyperbaton, and so on, by which emphasis and dramatic ‘colouring’ may be indicated. But very little attention is given to the dramatic and tonal implications of the texture of the iambo-trochaic metres as used for whole scenes or in particular exchanges. This is a pity, because Plautus and the tragedians and even Terence can be shown to have exploited the latitude of realization allowed by ‘the rules’ to underpin the sense of a passage or an exchange.

There is already a copious literature comparing Claudius' oration on the admission of the primores Galliae into the Roman Senate with Tacitus’ account of the speech and of the opposition's case in Annals 11. 23–4. Yet the Emperor's own purpose in speaking as he did still needs some illumination. Scholarly concentration on technical points about the citizenship, on Claudius’ antiquarianism and on his debt to Livy has been fruitful, but it has often distracted attention from Claudius’ immediate aim. Meanwhile, Tacitus’ interpretation has been insidious in colouring our view of what course of action the imperial orator was trying to defend before the Senate.

It is often repeated that at the unsuccessful productions of Terence's Hecyra the audience left the theatre in order to see, on the first occasion, boxers and a tight-rope walker, on the second, a gladiatorial contest.1 The other view, that the spectators remained but demanded other entertainment, is to my mind clearly correct and deserves restatement since the mistaken one is so widespread.

In 56 L. Cornelius Balbus, a native of Gades, was charged with having usurped the Roman citizenship. Most scholars have held on the basis of Cicero’s speech in his defence that the charge was unjustified. This orthodoxy was challenged in 1966 by H. Braunert:1 in his view Balbus’ enfranchisement was illegal because the consent of Gades had not been obtained. More recently H. Galsterer has deduced from this premise the further conclusion that in the second century the Latin ius migrationis was restricted by a rule that no migrant could become a Roman citizen without the consent of the city of his origin. 2 It is my aim to rehabilitate the orthodox view and to show that there is no warrant for Galsterer’s thesis.

Anyone who wants to understand the very considerable art which Apuleius displays in narrating the stories of the Metamorphoses must naturally first describe the various modes of narration which he employs. Such description can scarcely be photographic: it requires its own language of categories and concepts – a language which Apuleius might, or might not, have understood. A valuable modern addition to the vocabulary has been the concept of ‘Point of View’: this concept is used to categorize modes of narration according to the relationship which they set up between reader, narrator and the narrated. The narrator may be more or less involved in the events he narrates; he may know everything about them, or very little; he may relate them as present or as past. The reader may be told much or little of what the narrator knows; he may be made to view the story from the point of view of the narrator, of one of the characters, or even, I suppose, ‘objectively’. This whole sort of categorization has been dear to many authors and critics of this century, but has only recently been taken up by critics of the ancient novels: Chariton, Xenophon, Achilles 1971 (Hägg); Petronius 1973 (Beck); Apuleius 1972 (W. S. Smith), 1978 (van der Paardt).

In the course of giving a brief sketch of the rule of Augustus Dio passes the following remark on the state of public elections:

In CQ n.s. 30 (1980), 127 ff. Mr A. Hudson-Williams clearly and illuminatingly exposes the difficulties contained in these lines. It seems possible, however, to carry the analysis further; and in the following I offer, with Mr Hudson-Williams's findings as a starting-point, some suggestions towards a solution of the problems.