The record shows that Poseidon was once worshipped in every part of Greece as a god of general importance to the community. In the glimpse of Mycenaean ritual afforded by the Pylos tablets Poseidon is the chief deity, and the offerings and perhaps also the custom of ‘spreading the bed’ point to agrarian concerns. In each of the main districts of historical Greece he is rooted in tradition: Arcadia, that ancient landscape, is full of ancient cults of Poseidon; Ionia gathers to honour Poseidon Helikônios; ‘all Boeotia is sacred to Poseidon’, according to Aristarchus (Et. Magn. 5.Kypris), and here and in Thessaly he dominates mythical genealogy; the Dorian Peloponnesus is likewise ‘sacred to Poseidon’ (Diod. 15. 49. 4), and at his shrine on Calaureia, the seat of an early amphictyony, Mycenaean antecedents come into question – as at few other shrines in Greece. Yet much of the testimony is antiquarian and retrospective; Poseidon's pre-eminence is more of a memory than a reality. In such a well-documented city as Athens Poseidon has a very small place indeed in public festivities. In Greek literature his authority is slight and his powers are narrow, being virtually confined to earthquakes and storms at sea; he is chivvied by Zeus and flouted by Odysseus, and the reparation which Odysseus is required to make, of establishing Poseidon's worship among landsmen who take an oar for a winnowing fan, is a mocking and belated tribute to his former domain.

Question and quotation marks tend to proliferate in articles which ask whether Homer can provide any historical information about early Greek society. In this article ‘Homeric’ society will refer to the society which is portrayed in the Iliad and the Odyssey. ‘The World of Odysseus’ will refer to the recension of ‘Homeric’ society which appears in M. I. Finley's book of that name. Finley claims that ‘The World of Odysseus’ is a faithful account of ‘Homeric’ society and that the latter is a literary portrait of a real society that existed in Greece some time during the dark ages. As a result of Finley's influential book, ‘The World of Odysseus’, or something very like it, has found its way into most of the history books generally available in the classroom. In this article I wish to reconsider ‘Homeric’ society and to question the propriety of identifying it with either ‘The World of Odysseus’ or any real society.

We generally think of the poetry of Anacreon as coming from an entirely different world from that of the iambists, but among the extant fragments there is some indication to the contrary. With fr. 44 Gentili = 432 PMG iamb. 5 West, an epodic passage, we find Anacreon closest in form to the iambists. Here is the text with the full context from the Etymologicum Magnum (p. 523. 4; after West):

τò δ κνύςα ώς λÉγι ‘Hgr;ρωδιανòς ν τ καθολικ (1. 251. 7, 2. 901. 20 Lentz), εί μν πί τοű ϕυτοű, συγκοπή στιν πò τοű κóνυςα, οίον “χαμαίςήλοιο κονύςης” (Nic. Th. 70). εί δ πί τού παρɛϕθαρμÉνου καί ρρυσωμνου, οÙ συγκοπή οτιν, λλ' πò τοű κνύω, ϕ' οǘ κνύος ϕθορá οȋον “κατà κνύος Ȅχευεν, φίλωτο δ κáρηνα” (Hes. fr. 133.3/5 M—W). γίνεται κνύςα, ώς παρà’ ΑνακρÉοντι ν ίáμβω

κνυςή τις ñδη καί πÉπειρα γίνομαι

σ διà μαργοσύνην.

There is some audacity in adding to the formidable list of articles on Pythian 2, which raise the questions of the structure or thematic coherence of the ode, of its specific occasion and of its relation to Pindar's biography. In this paper my aim is the circumscribed one of showing how a correct analysis of the final section of the poem (lines 72–end) can lead us to a better understanding of the nature of Pindar's poetry, and of the way in which he adapts his laudatory stance to the circumstances and status of the addressee.

νδνουϲα μν Φυγι πολιτν ὧν Φκετο ϰθόνα, αὐτ τε πάνταξυμΦέρουϲ' 'Iάϲονι.

12 πολιτν Π1 codd. et Σ bv: πολίταιϲ V3, sicut coni. Barnes ϰθονοϲ Π1 gE; δ Stob. 4. 22. 30

The two Sophoclean passages by which Page supports his plea that 'πολιτν stands for πολίταιϲ…, being attracted by the following ὧν into the genitive case’ do not inspire much confidence, since both (as he acknowledges) are capable of being explained differently. Further, as a recent writer has remarked, ‘on cherche en vain la raison qui aurait pu inciter Euripide … à écrire πολιτν à la place de πολίταιϲ Le vers n' aurait rien gagné à cette substitution, sinon une obscurité inutile’ (G. Roux, REG 85 [1972], 40).

Glyconic is one of the commonest verse-forms in tragic odes. Examples are abundant enough for its nature to be statistically understood. The purpose of this paper is to examine the characteristics of tragic glyconic a little more thoroughly than current handbooks, 2 paying special attention to antistrophic responsion. The following topics are studied here: (1) aeolic base; (2) dragged close; (3) resolution; (4) compounds.

Interest in νομαστìκωμῳδєȋν began early. Even before the compilation of prosopo-graphical κωμῳδούμєνοɩ in the second century B.C., Hellenistic study of Aristophanes had devoted attention to the interpretation of personal satire. The surviving scholia contain references to Alexandrian scholars such as Euphronius, Eratosthenes and Callistratus which show that in their commentaries and monographs these men had dealt with issues of νομαστì κωμῳδєȋν Much material from Hellenistic work on Old Comedy was transmitted by later scholars, particularly by Didymus and Symmachus in their variorum editions, and was eventually embodied in the scholia, though of course in an abridged and sometimes distorted form. Many of our fragments of Old Comedy, preserved in the scholia or in medieval works of reference as parallels to passages in Aristophanes, are direct evidence of the long ancient tradition of interest in the genre's large element of personal satire. What we find in the scholia should not therefore be treated as representative only of the latest and most derivative stages of ancient scholarship. It is the purpose of this article to argue that the scholia on Aristophanes allow us to see that in matters of νομαστì κωμῳδєȋν certain assumptions about the nature of this type of comic material were persistently made by ancient scholars, and that certain interpretative habits were consequently developed from them. It is my further aim to suggest that this pattern of interpretation has been widely but unjustifiably perpetuated in later work on Aristophanes.

With the publication in 1974 of an inscribed ‘Orphic’ gold leaf from Hipponium (Vibo Valentia) in Southern Italy, and that in 1977 of another, now at Malibu, California, we have a relatively extensive series of gold leaves from graves bearing brief instructions concerning the afterlife. Whether these are Orphic, Pythagorean or whatever, will not be in question here; but the relation between the different texts constitutes a problem interesting in itself, whose dispassionate exploration may also contribute to the eventual understanding of the religious background.

It is generally agreed that the Protagoras recounts a single meeting which took place in the late 430s. If this is correct, then, as has long been recognized, the dialogue contains a number of disturbing anachronisms. It is the purpose of this study to question the supposition of a single dramatic date. I argue that Plato did not record the events of a single meeting in the dialogue, but that he drew upon the action and dialogue of more than one meeting in the course of Protagoras' visits to Athens. If it can be shown that this is the way in which Plato composed the dialogue, then he is not guilty of the glaring anachronisms in the Protagoras with which he is charged. At the end of this study I suggest a reason for Plato's choice of this method of composition. First, however, the evidence for Protagoras' visits to Athens should be considered.

In one of the most disputed passages of Greek literature Plato in the Republic, 7. 528e–530c prescribes astronomy as the fourth study in the education of the Guardians. But what sort of astronomy? According to one school of thought it is a purely speculative study of bodies in motion having no relation to the celestial objects that we see. While this interpretation has rejoiced the hearts of Plato's detractors, who regard him as an obstacle to the progress of science, it has dismayed his admirers. Another school of thought holds that what Plato meant was that astronomers must get to know the real motions of the heavenly bodies as opposed to their apparent motions as seen by us on earth. The opposed interpretations may be set out in the following representative citations from Sir Thomas Heath and John Burnet.

It is often thought that Plato sets himself an important task in the Sophist – that of disentangling different uses, or senses, of the verb einai. Plato is thought to have confused different senses or uses of the verb in his philosophical youth; here he is supposed to correct his mistake, and to mark out a danger area for his successors.1 Plato is also often supposed, by commentators, to have set himself the task of disentangling a second confusion – a confusion between the mē on (what is not) and the mēdamōs on (what is in no way): on this view, the mē on is revealed as the negation of the on, whereas the mēdamōs on is the opposite of the on.

In the year of Eubulus' archonship at Athens (345/4), Timoleon the Corinthian, who had been chosen by his fellow citizens to command at Syracuse, prepared for his expedition to Sicily. He hired seven hundred mercenaries and having put his soldiers aboard four triremes and three fast sailing ships departed from Corinth. Following the coastal route he picked up three further ships from the Leucadians and Corcyreans and then with ten ships in all crossed the Ionian gulf to Italy. Thus far Diodorus Siculus 16. 66. 1–2. In the course of the crossing, Diodorus continues (66. 3), a peculiar and miraculous event befell Timoleon, with the supernatural order coming to the support of his enterprise and foreshadowing his eventual fame and the glory of his achievements. I now quote Diodorus' own words: δι' ὂλης γρ τς νυκτς προηγεῖτο λαμπάς καιομένη κατ τν οὐρανόν μέχρι οὖ συνέβη τν στόλον εἰς τν Ἰταλίαν καταπλεσαι In translation: ‘throughout the whole night he was preceded by a torch that blazed in the sky until the flotilla reached land in Italy’. No more than a single night would, of course, have been required in order to accomplish the crossing of the gulf, with Timoleon presumably heading from Corcyra for the Iapygian promontory as was normal procedure in such transits. Diodorus goes on (66. 4–5) to recount that Timoleon, who had been informed in Corinth that Demeter and Persephone would accompany him on his voyage, recognized the actual assistance of the two goddesses, dedicated his best ship to them and named it Sacred vessel of Demeter and Kore. After diplomatic activity at Metapontum and Rhegium Timoleon proceeded from Italy to Sicily, where he landed at Tauromenium (66. 5–68. 7) still in the year of Eubulus.

When characterizing ta pathē in the Eudemian Ethics Aristotle claims that they are usually accompanied by perceptual pleasure or pain. He says:

λέγω δ πάθη μν τ τοιατα, θυμν ϕόβον αἰδ πιθυμίαν, ὂλως οἶς ἒπεται ώς π τ πολὺ αἰσθητικ ήδον ἢ λύπη καθ' αὑτά.

By affections I mean such things as anger, fear, shame, desire – in general anything which, as such, gives rise usually to perceptual pleasure and pain. (translation by Woods)

Recent work on Callimachus has tended to concentrate on the technicalities of his poetry. Commentaries on the Hymns have dealt exhaustively with vocabulary, metrics, Homeric allusion, historical background. What remains to be done is to use these detailed pieces of work in readings of the individual poems, showing how the commentator's minutiae can be assimilated into an overall view of each hymn. In Hellenistische Dichtung Wilamowitz attempted such an appreciation; but since his time literary approaches have changed considerably. With the thorough commentary of G. R. McLennan as foundation, it may be worth while to make a re-assessment of the Hymn to Zeus in less technical terms. In the reading which I offer here I hope to escape the tyranny of the individual word; but I hope, too, that what I have to say will not appear too loosely founded on the text.

Jasper Griffin, in his recent book on Homer, has suggested that modern critics would do well to pay more attention to the localized insights and the general critical framework of the ancient Greek commentators. In a previous article, ‘Homeric Pathos and Objectivity’, he claimed to show, by careful study of those passages in which the scholiasts found ἒλεος, οἷκτος or πάθος, that ‘the ancient scholars were right to regard pathos as one of the most important elements in the Iliad’. also think this is a potentially fruitful and underdeveloped approach to the criticism of Homer and other ancient authors; and that the term pathos, together with ēthos, with which it is often coupled or contrasted, is one of the most suggestive, though also confusing, of ancient critical terms. I want to begin the story further back in time than the scholia, in the treatises on rhetoric and poetics from which the scholiasts’ critical vocabulary was largely derived. I propose to survey the use of ēthos and pathos as contrasted terms in these treatises from Aristotle to Longinus, in the hope that such a survey will not only clarify the various meanings and associations attached to these terms but will also throw a more general light on ancient critical presuppositions. Both Aristotle and Longinus used the ethos/pathos distinction to contrast the Odyssey and theIliad; and a clearer understanding of the significance they gave to these words may help us to appraise the critical usefulness of their comments.

The elegiac lines in PQasrlbrim inv. 78–3–11/1 (L/2), first edited and ascribed to Gallusby R. D. Anderson, P. J. Parsons and R. G. M. Nisbetin 1979, raise a number of major problems of interpretation yet to be resolved. As is now well known, the papyrus fragment contains nine fairly well-preserved lines: first a pentameter, followed by two quatrains each composed of two elegiac couplets; the two quatrains are carefully marked off from each other and from the lines which preceded and followed them by a pair of signs which have defied interpretation; another such sign can be seen to have marked a similar separation between groups of lines in the next column of the papyrus. One might think that the sets of lines thus marked off were quite separate epigrams, or perhaps excerpts from longer poems, for they are concerned with separate, indeed discrepant, topics – the naughtiness of Lycoris, the morale-boosting effects of Caesar's forthcoming successes, the love-poet's fearless stance before his critics – and they do not seem prima facie to follow logically after one another. However, various unmistakable verbal and thematic connections between them have rightly been pointed out by Nisbet. So what is this sequence of related verses and why is it set out in this way?

Who is the author of this poem and what is its historical context?

Gow and Page are convinced that the author is Crinagoras. Manuscript authority, in the person of the so-called ‘corrector’, supports the attribution. Yet, at first sight at least, the attribution of this poem to Crinagoras raises something of a problem. It does so because the poem evidently relates to what seems to be a contemporary marriage linking the royal families of Egypt and Libya respectively: if the author is indeed Crinagoras, what marriage can this be? Only one such marriage is available: as Gow and Page accurately observe, ‘It is generally agreed that this epigram refers to the marriage of Cleopatra Selene and Juba II’.

The reconciliation between Juno and Jupiter at the end of the Aeneid (12. 791–842) forms the cap to the divine action of the poem. The scene is conventionally regarded as the resolution of the heavenly discord that has prevailed since the first book; in particular, it is normal to see here a definitive transformation of Juno, as she abandons, her enmity once and for all, committing herself wholeheartedly to the Roman cause. So G. Lieberg, for example: ‘I due emisferi di Giove e di Giunone alia fine del poema si ricongiungono nella totalita del mondo divino, garante del glorioso futuro di Roma’ or W. Kiihn: ‘In einem strahlenden, vollen Schlussakkord endet das Gottergesprach.’

The rapid turnover of senatorial families during the Principate is a well-known phenomenon, but one which awaits satisfactory explanation. Comparative evidence shows the rate of turnover to have been unusually high. For example, the old aristocratic families of early modern Europe gave way to new at a much slower rate. Patterns of Roman property-holding and of the transmission of wealth from one generation to the next must have been closely associated with this rapid turnover. When an aristocratic family produced no offspring who reached adulthood, the normal pattern of passing the bulk of the estate from one generation to the next within the family was interrupted. On the other hand, if a family produced many children, it might well become impoverished in the process of providing for all of them. Consequently, to perpetuate the family line with its status intact required careful financial and family planning. It was necessary to use or to take into account the various laws and customs regarding the family, including those regulating division of the estate among heirs, adoption, dowry and so on.

The task of making a new Teubner edition of the Anacreontea has led me to realize how much still remains to be done for the text of these once celebrated but no w little-read poems, for which we depend on the same tenth-century manuscript as for the Palatine Anthology. In what follows I attempt to justify the new emendations adopted in the edition, and one or two old ones which have generally been dismissed