The Agricola of Tacitus differs from other surviving biographies of antiquity. It exhibits some features more characteristic of an oration, yet the preface and composition of the biography as a whole recall Sallust's Iugurtha and Catiline. Then, the central biographical section of the work is interrupted by an excursus on the geography and peoples of Britain, and an historical outline of the Roman occupation of the island. It has been argued that the style of these chapters would be more appropriate to history than to biography, and this same historical style recurs in the pair of commanders' speeches which precede the account of the battle of Mons Graupius.

It is no doubt often salutary, even a necessary condition of progress, that we should shelve the great problems of a preceding generation without precisely solving them; but a controversy may be shelved too soon, and I fear this may have been the case with the great ‘Thucydidean question’ as it stood in the days of Wilamowitz and Schwartz. The analysts said some wild things, and their disagreements about early and late passages, or about the range of an editor's activities, have been found disheartening. For these or other reasons, since Schadewaldt's brief and stimulating book of 1929, scholars seem mostly to have stopped dissecting the text and taken to examining the qualities which Thucydides displays all through it.

Iphigenia at aulis presents many problems to the literary and textual critic. Among these the problem of the prologue is as clear-cut as it is controversial. It may be summarized as follows:

(1) Our text opens abruptly with an anapaestic dialogue between Agamemnon and the Retainer (1–48), instead of the usual monologue in trimeters.

In reply to a question from the Retainer, Agamemnon launches into a long iambic narrative (49–114), describing much that the Retainer must know already, and with no sign, for more than sixty lines, that the Retainer is being addressed. Moreover 49 {Ἐγ⋯νοντο ۸ήδαι…) reads like the first line of a conventional opening monologue.

In 1824 Eduard Gans, in the course of a study of inheritance law, had occasion to deal with the class of women known in Athens as epikleroi—daughters of a deceased man who, in the absence of sons, were married to their nearest relative, with the estate of the deceased passing to the son or sons of the new union. ‘For these,’ he wrote, ‘… the basic concept throughout is not that, in the absence of descendants, they themselves appear as inheritors, but rather that they are inherited along with the property by the collaterals.’

It has long been a commonly held belief among classicists that traditional Romans frowned upon male homosexuality and associated it with the influence of Greek culture. There have always been exceptions to this belief, but when Paul Veyne published the following remarks in his 1978 article ‘La famille et l'amour sous le hautempire romain’, his views were quite heterodox:

Il est faux que l'amour ‘grec’ soit, à Rome, d'origine grecque: comme plus d'une société méditerranéenne de nos jours encore, Rome n'a jamais opposé l'amour des femmes à celui des garçons: elle a opposé l'activité à la passivité; être actif, c'est être un mâle, quel que soit le sexe du partenaire passif.

Of all the works attributed to Ovid but of disputed authenticity, the epistle of Sappho to Phaon is notoriously the one which has most perplexed scholars. Most philologists at the end of the 19th century asserted the Ovidian paternity of the epistle; but in recent years the discussion has flared up once again, especially following an important contribution, tending in the opposite direction, by R. J. Tarrant, and today, above all in Anglo-American studies, the pendulum seems to be swinging more in the direction of inauthenticity, according to the movement typical in debates of this kind. The present article obviously does not intend to discuss the whole question once again nor to reaffirm tout court the attribution to Ovid, but brings to the attention of scholars certain arguments which should not be neglected in the discussion (and which point in the direction of authenticity). I do not mean to underestimate the linguistic, stylistic, and metrical anomalies which scholars up to Tarrant and beyond have imputed to the epistula Sapphus, but rather to indicate some characteristics, above all of compositional technique, which have not been considered but which I think have a not insignificant weight in the debate on authenticity.

There has been no major critical edition of Velleius with commentary since that of Kritz in 1840. Kritz, who took into account Sauppe's long essay on Velleius of three years earlier, was preceded by Ruhnken, whose commentary appeared in 1779. During the century which followed Kritz's work several valuable editions without commentary were produced, the last of which, by Stegmann de Pritzwald (1933), almost coincided with the essay and bibliography devoted to Velleius in Schanz-Hosius (1935). These two contributions of the thirties remain standard to the present day.

The story of Actaeon of Corinth is a slight, rationalized, romantic version of the original Boeotian myth, and as such has occasionally received a brief notice. In the Corinthian story Melissos his father (or Habron his grandfather) had rescued Corinth from an attack by Pheidon of Argos, and was therefore held in great honour by the Corinthians. The boy Actaeon was torn to pieces not by his dogs but by bis drunken Bacchiad admirers, and after the murder Melissos, unable to get legal redress from the Corinthians, cursed them publicly at the Isthmian festival and jumped over a cliff. Plutarch and Diodorus name the Bacchiad Archias as the chief culprit, and Plutarch ends with Archias' departure to found Syracuse and his eventual death there. The story has an historical not a mythical setting, and has attracted some slight attention from historians, either in the hope of light on the obscure question of Pheidon's relations with Corinth, or because of the chronological implication that Pheidon reigned a generation or more before the foundation of Syracuse. In neither aspect has its evidence been rated high, and that is not surprising, especially since attention has been concentrated mainly on Plutarch's story. I believe, however, that we can distinguish an earlier version, and that the historical implications of this original are less disreputable.

Galen's æuvre presents a remarkably varied body of texts–varied in subject matter, style, and didactic purpose. Logical tracts sit alongside tomes of drug–lore; handbooks of dietetics alongside anatomical investigations; treatises of physiology alongside ethical opuscula. These differences in type have received some, though as yet insufficient, scholarly attention. Mario Vegetti demonstrated the coexistence of two ‘profili’ or images of the art of medicine: Galen presents the art as an Aristotelian deductive science, on the one hand, and as a technician's craft, on the other. The former image, offering an ambitious elevation of the doctor's cultural status, has medicine as a philosophical episteme analogous to the mathematical sciences, exercised above all to provide causal accounts and logical demonstrations, and centred on the knowledge of anatomy. The second image is that of the clinician, concerned with the body in its pathological manifestations and using as its prime model the ‘pre-anatomical’ theory of the humours. And the content of the treatises shifts in relation to this dual image: ‘profilo alto’ and ‘profilo basso’ are reflected in different types of work. Polemical writings such as the Protrepticus, as well as the great treatises of anatomy and physiology, De usu partium and De naturalibus facultatibus, present medicine in the former light, while works like De temperamentis or Quod animi mores base themselves on humoral pathology and accord with the earlier, artisan-like image.

Athenaeus preserves an intriguing description by the otherwise unknown writerMoschion of a giant grain-ship, the Syracusia, built by Hiero II of Syracuse in thelater third century B.C.1 The account is extremely circumstantial. Besides a fulldescription of the ship's layout, Moschion gives such details as the name of thearchitect (Archias of Corinth), the size of the construction-force (well over 300), the construction time (a year), details of the launching arrangements devised byArchimedes, and even the procedure for judging crimes committed on board.

The friendly expatriate ladies of the chorus in Helen enter having heard loud lamentation issuing from the palace, while engaged, like the Φ⋯λα of the chorus in Hippolytus 125ff., in spreading laundered crimson textiles to dry in the sun. The central theme of ‘hearing cries’, with the verb ἒκλυον and nouns of utterance (185–6), is reminiscent also of Medea 131ff., where the opening words of the Parodos ἒκλυον Φων⋯ν, ἒκλυον δ⋯ βο⋯ν… allude to Medea's loud utterances ἒсωθεν in 96ff. (ἰώ…) and 111ff. (αἰαî…): here, as there, the Parodos exploits the familiar motif of βοηδρομ⋯α.

It has frequently been remarked by critics of Petronius (though usually merely in passing) that the entry of the monumental mason, Habinnas, in the Cena Trimalchionis is modelled on that of Alcibiades in Plato's Symposium. Yet surprisingly enough the parallel has not found its way into the commentaries, nor has it ever been analysed in detail. In fact it can stand as an interesting illustration of the use of literary allusion in the Satyricon.

I start with two contradictory statements: (1) Jaeger, Aristotle (Eng. trans.), p. 330: ‘Thus all indications point to a late date for the origin of the philosopher's zoological works.’ (2) D'Arcy Thompson, Historia Animalium (Oxford Translation), Prefatory Note: ‘It can be shown that Aristotle's natural history studies were carried on, or mainly carried on, in his middle age, between his two periods of residence at Athens.‘

Among the artifacts produced by nineteenth-century Quellenforschung, few have exerted more influence or endured more censure than the lost Hellenistic epyllion which, as reconstructed by G. Knaack, told of the journey of Phaethon to the palace of the sun-god and his disastrous ride in the solar car. Relying chiefly upon the two versions of the story told by Ovid in his Metamorphoses (1.747–2.398) and Nonnus in the Dionysiaca (38.105–434), and applying techniques comparable to the stemmatic method of textual criticism, Knaack traced every shared feature of these two accounts to the inevitable lost Hellenistic ‘original’. Details from Lucian (Dial. Deor. 25) and Philostratus (Imag. 1.11), who were also presumed to have read this lost poem, helped to fill in the blanks. Knaack's thesis illustrates the extremes of which source criticism was capable at a time when it was naively assumed that Roman poets were capable of little more than literal translation of their Greek models. In the early part of this century, a reaction set in against Knaack's method, when it was alleged that there was no common source for the two poets and that Nonnus derived his account of Phaethon directly from his reading of Ovid. The case was first made by J. Braune, who examined four episodes common to both works – Phaethon, Cadmus, Actaeon, and Daphne – and argued that correspondences between the two are due to imitation of Ovid by Nonnus. Braune's arguments did not win complete acceptance; it is noteworthy that even his supporters were not entirely convinced by three of his four test passages, for which abundant evidence survives of sources earlier than Ovid.

It is notorious that Xenophon omitted all notice of the foundation of the Second Athenian Confederacy, and alluded to Athens' alliances in the 370s so sparingly that if the Hellenica was the only evidence for the period it would hardly be possible to infer the existence of the Confederacy. All that could be said would be that the raid of Sphodrias so embittered the Athenians (5. 4. 63) that they joined with the Thebans in resisting Sparta (5. 4. 34), rinding in the course of the war the allies who mysteriously appeared in the account of the Peace of 372/1 (6. 3. 19) and who probably included the Corcyraeans (5. 4. 66). By contrast, Diodorus (15. 28 and 29) was explicit, and the best modern account of the foundation, that of Accame, is rightly attentive./

Every winter in the classical period, on a specifically chosen day, Athenians gathered together to mourn the men who had died in war. According to Thucydides, the bones of the dead killed in that year lay in state for two days before being carried in ten coffins organized by tribe to the dêmosion sêma where they were buried and then a speech was made in honour of the dead men by a man chosen by the city. As his description makes clear, this ceremony was a public event attended not only by citizens and foreigners, but also by the female relatives of the dead men. Other sources report that the polemarchos put on the agôn for those who died in the war and these contests included musical, athletic and hippic competitions. The war-dead also received sacrifices. The occasion combined burial with cult and games usually afforded to the divine, although how exactly this combination worked in practice is not clear because Thucydides, our single best source for the Epitaphia, focusses on the burial and the oration given by Pericles in the winter at the end of the first year of the Peloponnesian War.