Aelivs donatvs, the note d grammarian of the fourth century of our era, wrote commentaries on Terence and Virgil. The commentary on Terence has been preserved, though in a curiously heterogeneous form which thus far has defied analysis. The most plausible supposition is that our present text is a conflation of two commentaries, one by Donatus himself, and one by Euanthius, whose work was obviously utilized for part of the introductory note on comedy. But even if this is the right statement of the question, the question remains to be solved. The problem of the commentary on Virgil is, unfortunately, more simple, or at least is universally adjudged more simple. We have extant Donatus's life of Virgil, his dedicatory letter to Lucius Munatius, and his introductory remarks on Bucolic poetry. The commentary itself, save for scattered references in later grammarians, glossaries, and commentaries, has been lost.

Procopius states that the Colchian Lazi had neither salt nor grain nor any other good thing; for this reason they always engaged in trade with the Romans around the Black Sea:

A hexametrical couplet from Aristophanes' lost Amphiaraus has in the past been interpreted as a fragment of an oracular response

The role and precise significance of Intelligible Matter in the philosophy of Plotinus has been neglected or dismissed with many questions unanswered. In view of the fact that, unless this role can be properly understood, the whole doctrine of the procession of the Second Hypostasis must remain mysterious, this paper is intended to shed light on two important aspects of that Hypostasis: the nature of Intelligible Matter itself and the relation of that Matter to the Forms.

Shortly after his arrival at Carthage, while he is waiting for Dido to meet him, Aeneas finds that the walls of her temple are adorned with pictures of the Trojan War. Sunt hie etiam sua praemia laudi, he cries to Achates, sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt. The description of the pictures which follows is a remarkable example of Virgil's ability to use a traditional device in such a way as to strengthen and illuminate the main themes of his poem. It is my object here first to reinterpret one of the scenes which has been misunderstood, and then to discuss how Virgil has chosen and arranged his episodes so that the description of a picture gallery becomes a part of an epic poem.

The Iliad is rich in references to stories that have only incidental relevance to the main narrative. These digressions, as they are often called, have usually been assumed to reflect a wealth of pre-Homeric legend, some of which must a have been embodied in poetry. The older Analysts tended to explain the digressions in terms of interpolation. Whether regarded as genuinely Homeric or as interpolated these myths were considered as something existing in an external tradition. More recent scholars have been prepared to admit that Homer may invent from time to time. For example, Sir Maurice Bowra observes that ‘the poet seems sometimes to invent a detail which looks as if it referred to some story outside his immediate subject but is in fact an invention brought to serve a passing need’.

From a careful and persuasive analysis of Sophocles' debt in the Ajax to Homer's picture of Hector and Andromache's farewell in Iliad 6, P. E. Easterling concludes that in the Ajax ‘we have the paradox of an author's distinctive originality finding expression through his reading of another's work’. In what follows I wish to show that the validity of this statement extends to an aspect of the play which is touched upon by Easterling (indeed in an illuminating way), but which I would like to single out for special attention: the preoccupation with the problem of what constitutes noble action, or, in the play's own terminology, what is the nature of εὐγένεια.

Mirko Canevaro and Edward Harris, in their recent CQ article (henceforth C&H), have rejected, as forgeries or reconstructions of post-classical origin, all the laws and decrees appearing in the text of Andocides' speech On the Mysteries (77–98) and purporting to be the documents which the speaker, at six points in that passage, directs the clerk to read out. I have no quarrel with their arguments (pp. 100–19) for rejecting the documents presented as the decree of Patroclides (§§77–9), the decree of Tisamenus (§§83–4), and a series of new laws passed in 403/2 b.c. (§§85–7) – though in this last case, with the exception of one phrase, the genuineness of the laws themselves is confirmed by the fact that they are cited verbatim by the orator in the surrounding text (§§88–9, 93, 94, 99). I shall be concerned here only with the last document of the group, a decree ascribed to Demophantus (§§96–8), which C&H discuss at pp. 119–25.

It has been a widespread belief among historians of antiquity that Athens’ importance on the political scene declined rapidly after 338, and especially after 322; Athens, so it is assumed, succumbed to the will of Alexander and, later on, of his Diadochoi. Of course, it cannot be denied that Athens found itself in a very precarious and sometimes impossible position. Yet the attitudes of Athens towards one king or the other, as well as its status, vary considerably until 261, the end of the Chremonidean War against Antigonos Gonatas, king of Macedon.

Certain aspects of the Athenian relationship with the various monarchs are reflected in the decrees of the assembly, passed in honour of royal officials, as well as in the decrees conferring the highest honours (proedria of the games, sitesis in the Prytaneion, and a statue) upon Athenian citizens who belonged to a king's court. My purpose is to examine precisely the image that Athens projects through the above-mentioned decrees with regard to its relations with the various rulers and their officials; and these in relation to its perception of its own position on the military and political scene on different historical occasions.

Plato's examination of False Statement (Sophist 259 D–263 D) is, like many of his discussions in the later dialogues, a mixture of complete lucidity with extreme obscurity. Any English student who seeks to understand it will of course turn first to Professor Cornford's translation and commentary; and if he next reads what M. Diès has to say in the Introduction to his Budé edition of the Sophist he will, I think, have sufficient acquaintance with the views of modern Platonic scholars on the subject. For myself, at least, I have not gained any further understanding from other writers than these two.

The controversy between the Anomalists and Analogists has not, I think, attracted as much of the attention of scholars as it deserves. It was perhaps not a very practical matter, though, as I shall point out presently, it probably had indirectly some important practical results. The interest of the controversy lies rather in the spirit in which it was conducted. Anyone who reads for instance Varro, De Ling. Lat. VIII. 31–32, where the anomalist argues that as in life variety of furniture and the like is necessary for aesthetic enjoyment, so in language anomaly is desirable; or IX. 24, etc., where the analogist argues from the unchanging order that prevails in the heavenly bodies, in the tides, in the continuity of species, will feel that he is moving in a world of thought very different in one way from our own, though in another rather like it. By the analogist language is conceived as a world in itself, much as we conceive of the visible world. Its phenomena are being laid bare and constantly reveal fresh signs of law and order. The investigator sometimes finds facts which prima facie suggest anomaly, but he is as confident that behind them must lie some unifying principle as the scientific man of to-day is with regard to the phenomena of the visible world, as impatient of the suggestion of disorder as he is of any miraculous interference with the order of nature. Even the anomalist, sceptic as he is, approaches the question not in a spirit of mere denial, but of aesthetic consideration. We get a glimpse of a lost point of view. The world of words had a glamour and a wonder for them which it cannot have for us.

Plato's Sophist begins with an attempt to arrive by division at a definition of a Sophist. In the course of the attempt six different descriptions are discussed and the results summarized at 231 c-e. A seventh and final account may be said to occupy the whole of the rest of the dialogue, including the long digression on negative statements. The first five divisions characterize with a considerable amount of satire different types of sophist, or more probably different aspects of the sophistic art. The sixth division (226 a–231 b) is very different. To quote Cornford's words, ‘satire is dropped. The tone is serious and sympathetic, towards the close it becomes eloquent’.

Anaxagoras’ theory of matter offers a problem which, in bald outline, may be stated as follows. The theory rests on two propositions which seem flatly to contradict one another. One is the principle of Homoeomereity: A natural substance such as a piece of gold, consists solely of parts which are like the whole and like one another—every one of them gold and nothing else. The other is: ‘There is a portion of everything in everything’, understood to mean that a piece of gold (or any other substance), so far from containing nothing but gold, contains portions of every other substance in the world. Unless Anaxagoras was extremely muddleheaded, he cannot have propounded a theory which simply consists of this contradiction. One or the other proposition must be reinterpreted so as to bring them into harmony. Some critics attack one, some the other; some try to modify both. Mr. C. Bailey has recently published a fresh attempt to reconstruct the theory in a form consistent with itself. But the result, as he admits, is arbitrary and (above all) uneconomical. These defects, like all the contradictions and obscurities found in other accounts of the system, can be traced to the second proposition: ‘There is a portion of everything in everything’, or rather to the construction put upon it. The language is crude, vague, and ambiguous. What does ‘everything’ mean? Has the first ‘everything’ the same sense as the second ? If taken to mean that there is a portion of every material substance in every material substance, the proposition leads to a result for which ‘uneconomical’ is an indulgent epithet.

It is a commonplace of modern criticism that every text is to be located within a complex network of cultural practices and material. Students of the ancient world may sometimes feel at a disadvantage; we simply do not have as much information as we would like in order to contextualize thoroughly. This has been especially true in the study of Platonic dialogues. The meagre remains of the writings of the sophists against whom Plato measured himself and of the art to which he refers (to mention only two areas) entail that analysis of Plato is often confined to the structure of his philosophy. Of course, the requirements of Plato's arguments must always be assigned primary importance; the relative lack of information about Plato's cultural context has not prevented detailed exposition of his method and achievements. Occasionally, however, a kindly fate allows us to set a dialogue, or part of it, in its appropriate material and ideological context and to create an interface between literary, philosophical, and archaeological evidence. Such evidence may not alter our evaluation of Plato's arguments on the analytic level, but it can enrich our appreciation of his literary artistry and recapture for us some of the resonance that his work would have had for a contemporary audience.

In the 23rd book of the Iliad, Menelaus loses second place in the chariot race because of a manoeuvre by Antilochus. So, after Antilochus claims the second prize as his and dares others to fight him for it with their fists, Menelaus rises before the assembled heroes, sceptre in hand, to initiate a formal proceeding against him (571ff.). First he makes the charge: Antilochus has insulted his aretē and endangered his horses. He then calls upon the leaders of the Argives to judge fairly between them. But at this point he states that he will judge the case himself – in both instances the verb for ‘to judge’ is δικάζειν. He then calls on Antilochus to follow an involved procedure and finally to swear an oath that in running the race he did not purposefully use a trick. But despite the fact that Menelaus said during the race that Antilochus would not take the prize without swearing an oath (23.411), we do not know later what the result might be if Antilochus were to accept Menelaus' challenge and to swear the oath. Homer has him sidestep the challenge and concede the prize.