Denys Page, discussing this poem in his classic Sappho and Alcaeus, seemed unimpressed by its aesthetic merits. In his note on line 7 he says: ‘The sequence of thought might have been clearer.... It seems then inelegant to begin this parable, the point of which is that Helen found O Krλλιστον in her lover, by stating that she herself surpassed all mortals in this very quality’ (p. 53). His interpretative essay phrases further objections. ‘In a phrase which rings dull in our doubtful ears, she proceeds to illustrate the truth of her preamble by calling Helen of Troy in evidence’ (p. 56). About the Helen exemplum itself he says: ‘the thought is simple as the style is artless’ and ‘the transition back to the principal subject was perhaps not very adroitly; managed’ (p. 56). Page's criticism centres on the function of the exemplum of Helen. A close reconsideration of this exemplum, with special attention to the way in which it is embedded in the preceding and following context, will result in a better understanding and appreciation of this poem.

This paper builds an argument against R. D. Dawe, who believes that one of the most famous of all stories is inauthentic and badly told. In his notes on ‘When she showed the robe, after weaving the great web, washing it so that it looked like the sun or moon, then it was that an evil spirit brought Odysseus from somewhere’, Dawe remarks that the web story ‘hardly belongs’ in the Odyssey, and asks: ‘Why “showed”? And to whom? Why the otiose addition of “after weaving the great web”, as if we had not just been talking about that very thing? Answers to these questions will be given in my final paragraph.

To look closely into the epics, and if possible behind them, I will say a word about distinguishing the pre-text from the text. First, oral poets would enlarge and otherwise reshape their material, not always with flawless technique. It may be true but cannot be proven that one such poet, more than any other, created the Iliad, and that the same one, or a different one, more than any other, created the Odyssey.

Poem 31 in our collections of Sappho's fragments is so well-known both through the original version, quoted partially by ‘Longinus’ (De sublimitate 10.1–3), and through Catullus’ adaptation (no. 51), that it is difficult to achieve sufficient distance from one's preconceptions to permit reappraisal. For the poem has in the modern period elicited such startlingly contradictory responses that one wonders whether we may not all along have been missing, or misconstruing, some point which was obvious enough to Sappho and her listeners.

A major source of dissent among modern interpreters of the poem concerns the question of jealousy: is Sappho moved to such convulsions of emotion by jealousy at seeing her beloved girlfriend in intimate colloquy with a man, or is she not? For the situation is, simply put, the following: a man is said to be godlike who sits opposite a certain girl, enjoying her conversation and her laughter. This, says Sappho, makes her boil over with a mixture of passionate emotions. Now one may take these emotions either as a response to the sight of her beloved girlfriend talking to a man (that is, jealousy), or one may refer the emotions described to the love Sappho feels for the girl under ‘normal’ circumstances: the man is simply extraordinarily fortunate (‘like the gods’) in enjoying her affection.

Aeschylus, according to a famous report, described his tragedies as ‘cuts from Homer's great banquets’. The anecdote has the ring of truth, particularly as ‘Homer’ here must include the Epic Cycle, which would hardly have been possible after the fifth century; and there is an obvious source from which Athenaeus might have taken the story, the ’Eπιδημαι of Ion of Chios, which he cites in three other places. This work had the character of a personal memoir describing notable Athenian statesmen, poets, and philosophers whom Ion had known. The emphasis was on their personalities as revealed in their public speeches and private conversation. One of Athenaeus’ quotations from it is about Sophocles, and we know from other evidence that as a young man Ion had met Aeschylus too. The anecdote would have been perfectly in place in such a book.

Euripides' Troades was a work not much studied until the end of World War II. Since then the play, and in particular the part played by Helen and the debate concerning her accountability for her elopement and its consequences, have not ceased to attract scholarly attention. The recent interest in the rhetoric of this agon has thrown additional light on the entire scene, the third and last episode of the play. The debate is occasioned by Menelaus’ announcement (873–5) that the men who captured his runaway wife handed her over to him for execution—or, should he so choose, to take her back home. In the first speech (914–65) Helen tries to persuade Menelaus that she cannot justly be punished with death for having served as the tool of a most powerful goddess. Hecuba, in her answering speech (969–1032), strives to discredit Helen in order to prevent her reinstatement and oblige Menelaus to carry out the death sentence. In this paper I would like to draw further attention to some of Hecuba's arguments. Assuming general acquaintance with current readings of the agon, I shall start with a section-by-section discussion of the old queen's speech and its immediate effect, with an emphasis on significant motifs. Certain further implications will be pointed out at the end of the paper.

The enduring fame of Aeschylus as the earliest of the ‘three great tragedians’ has made him in effect the first dramatist of the Western tradition, in chronological terms at least. At the same time it is worth noting that among the ancients he also enjoyed a reputation as a master of the satyr play, as Pausanias (2.13.6–7) and Diogenes Laertius (2.133) tell us. It is to this kind of drama, which comprised one-quarter of his output as tragedian, that I would like to turn, with particular focus on his Theoroi or Isthmiastai, and its treatment of another visual medium, the plastic arts. Our fragments of this play begin with a figure presenting a chorus of satyrs with artfully wrought images made in their likenesses which bring them a startled delight. In the second discernible scene of the fragment the chorus receivesνεοχμᾰ… θρματα ([c] col. ii 50), usually understood as athletic equipment, which the satyrs find rather more unsettling. The following piece is primarily concerned with the first scene in which the coryphaeus urges his companions to dedicate the depictions as votives on Poseidon's temple, relishing the prospect of the comical, terrifying effect these images would have on his own mother and travellers, the latter probably on their way to the Isthmian games. At least this much is clear from the papyrus (esp. lines 1–22). This part of the fragment has attracted a good deal of attention for the evident ‘realism’ of the images that excites the satyrs so much in the first place.

Jasper Griffin's polemic, in this journal, against what he calls the ‘collectivist school’ of interpretation of Athenian tragedy is welcome, as it encourages clarification of fundamental differences. I do not have the space here to tackle him wherever I think he is wrong, still less construct an argument to the effect that Athenian tragedy was a ‘collective’ phenomenon. Rather I want to do two things. Firstly, the casual reader may have formed the impression that whereas the ‘collectivists’ operate with vague and unsubstantiated notions, Griffin's view has the advantage of being firmly grounded in the ancient texts. This impression I intend to dispel. In doing so I will confine myself to some of G.'s general remarks and to his attack on my own views, as a sample of the quality of his argument. Secondly, I also adduce new material in the hope of advancing the debate on this important issue.

Many scholars argue that only three actors were needed in this problematic scene. I believe four are required. The case for a fourth actor can be made much stronger if we take into consideration the location of the Thracian, Trojan, and Greek camps as presented in the play. This argument has been overlooked in previous discussions of the passage.

In the Phaedrus scientific psychology is an integral part of Plato's outline of scientific rhetoric. An accomplished rhetorician must know all types of human souls (ψυχς γένη, 271b1–2), he must know what kind of soul is affected by what kind of speech, and he must be able to apply this theoretical knowledge in front of an audience, so as to achieve the intended persuasion with unfailing certainty. This knowledge is an essential qualification of a philosopher; it enables him to choose a soul of the right type (λαβῲν ψνχήν προσήκουσαν, 276e6) and plant in it words of wisdom. His words, that is the authentic logos, acquire new life in the soul of the recipient, who in his turn sows their progeny in other suitable souls (276e5–277a3). In the dialogue, Socrates implants the words of wisdom in the soul of Phaedrus, and wishes that Phaedrus may similarly influence Lysias (257ab).

Socrates’ work on Phaedrus permeates the whole dialogue, giving it its dramatic unity, and yet interpreters disagree on it. The late dating of the dialogue, which has been accepted as axiomatic throughout this century, stands in the way of seeing it clearly. Phaedrus in the Protagoras and in the Symposium does not appear like a man who would appropriate the exalted ideal raised before him in the Phaedrus. The majority of modern interpreters therefore cannot see Phaedrus’ conversion to philosophy in the Phaedrus as anything but ironic. I shall argue that Plato in the dialogue does enact his Phaedran ideal of the authentic communication of philosophy, and that this precludes the ironical reading of the dialogue.

πƤΟƩ ΗΔΟΝΗΝ ΛΕƮΕΙΝ

At 2.65 Thucydides says of Pericles that he did not speak to please (πρòς ήδoνν λέγειν): he had no need of such means for acquiring influence, since he already enjoyed it because of his recognized merits. But his successors were on the same plane as one another, each one striving to establish himself as the man first in influence with the demos. And in this drive for ascendancy, they began to allow the people's pleasures to shape the advice they gave (༐τράπoντo καθ’ ήςoνàς τŵ δήμω καì τà πράγματα ༐νδιδóναι).

Among the principal successors to Alexander the Great, Lysimachus is probably the one that has suffered most by neglect in the scanty literary sources at our disposal. His wars with the Getae and their king Dromichaetes are among the few events in his long career which have received more than a casual notice in the historical tradition; no wonder that they have been examined repeatedly both in the context of Lysimachus' political biography and of the history of the region and its Thracian population, the Getae. However, many aspects of the circumstances remain obscure and dubious, and their discussion has more than once ended with the expression of hope that one day new archaeological finds might permit the solution of some of the associated riddles. The recent archaeological discoveries near Sveshtari in north-eastern Bulgaria seem now to warrant a re-examination of these problems.

The speeches of Nicias and Alcibiades in the debate leading up to the launching of the Sicilian expedition (Thuc. 6.9–14, 6.20–3, 6.16–18) contain a significant number of words, phrases, and themes that recur in Thucydides' later chapters reporting the launching of the expedition and its ultimate fate in Sicily. The verbal and thematic echoes often consist of words of sight and hearing; among the recurring themes are rivalry and competition, the contrast between public and private expenditures, and the desire for acquisition and financial profit.

Introduction

As Aristotle himself says, A.Po. 2.13 is an attempt to provide some rules to hunt out the items predicated in what something is, namely to discover definitions. Since most of this chapter is devoted to the discussion of some rules of division (diairesis), it may be inferred that somehow division plays a central role in the discovery of definitions. However, in the following pages I shall not discuss what this role is. Nor shall I discuss what place division has in the wider discussion of definition and explanation as it emerges from A.Po. 2. 1 shall rather focus on the argument that Aristotle reports and discusses in A.Po. 2.13.97a6–22, and which our extant sources ascribe to Speusippus. As will become clear later on, this argument undermines the possibility of giving any definition, and Aristotle deals with it here because he can block it by exploiting some properties of the method of division.

In this article I try to give a precise meaning to the political terms which are used in the sources, and to use those terms for an understanding of political developments. I take these developments in their historical order, and at the end of each period I assess the value of the evidence. I finish with reflection on the contributory system and the hegemony of the Thebans.

Metaphysics Z.ll has in recent years received considerable attention, because of its importance for the exposition of Aristotle's psychology, which for some time now has been an immensely popular topic among Aristotelian scholars. Z.ll has proved contentious, however, especially over its statement of Aristotle's criticism of Socrates the Younger, who was wont to make a certain ‘comparison’ in the case of animals. Virtually nothing is known about this Socrates the Younger, nor is it known exactly what ‘comparison’ he made with animals. But, as most interpreters suppose from the context of Z. 11, his comparison certainly had much in common with that made by ‘some', who argue that natural objects, like man, are comparable to geometrical figures, like the circle, with respect to their relationship to their matter (1036b7–12). Just as the physical matter of circles, such as bronze, stone, and the like, are no part of the essence of the circle, so too the physical matter of man—flesh and bones—is no part of the essence of man. This comparison may hold true, even if, unlike circles, man is in fact found only in a single sort of matter, because the case of man may be like the counterfactual case in which all circles happen to be made of bronze. The bronze would still not belong to the essence of the circle; it would just be difficult psychologically to separate circularity from bronze (1036a31-b7).

According to Aristotle, Metaphysics (a) 2.3, 995a7–8, there are people who will take seriously the arguments of a speaker (including, it seems, those of a philosopher) only if a poet can be cited as a ‘witness’ in support of them. Aristotle's passing observation sharply reminds us that Greek philosophy had developed within, and was surrounded by, a culture which extensively valued the authority of the poetic word and the poet's ‘voice’ from which it emanated. The currency of ideas, values, and images disseminated through familiarity with poetry had always been a force with which philosophy, in its various manifestations, needed to reckon. As a mode of thought and discourse which proclaimed its aspiration to wisdom, philosophy could not easily eschew some degree of dialogue with an art whose practitioners had traditionally (and for much longer than anyone had been called a ‘philosopher') been ranked prominently among the sophoi. Even Aristotle, who keeps aloof from the assumption that philosophical contentions stand in need of poetic support, cites and quotes poetry regularly in his own writings in ways which indicate the influence on him of a prevailing mentality that regarded poets and philosophers as pursuers, up to a point at least, of a common wisdom.

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.

When the Macedonians had conquered Greece, city-states continued to exist along-side the more powerful kingdoms, and were often forced to accommodate their policies to the wishes of the powerful kings who were, in theory, their allies. If kings and cities were to co-operate effectively, there would need to be some way of adapting the authority of royal wishes to the theoretical rights of the cities to self-determination.

The contrast between the powers of a king, theoretically all-powerful within his kingdom, and the autonomy of a city did not need to be total. Aristotle, who was acquainted with the Macedonian kingdom, made a clear distinction between kingship and tyranny, between rule by the law and autocracy. He listed Macedonia alongside Sparta and Epirus as kingdoms which were ruled in the interests of all.

THEORIA IN GREEK RELIGION

What was the Greek for pilgrim? If there is no simple answer, the explanation is the great diversity of ancient pilgrimages and pilgrimage-related phenomena. People went to sanctuaries for all sorts of reasons: consulting oracles, attending festivals, making sacrifices, watching the Panhellenic games, or seeking a cure for illness; there were variations in the participants (individuals or state-delegations, small groups or large), and variations in the length of distance traversed to get to the sanctuary; finally, changes occurred in the shape of pilgrimage over time: pilgrimage is not the same in the Hellenistic period as it is in the classical period, and pilgrimage in the Roman world is different again.

If we limit our scope to state-pilgrimage and to the classical period, we find a special vocabulary for pilgrimage in the word θεωρός and its derivatives θεωρέω, θεωρία, and θεωρίς2. θεωρία is the normal term for state-pilgrimage, as we see in the famous introduction to Plato's Phaedo (58b) describing the Athenian pilgrimage to Delos. The corresponding term for a pilgrim is θεωρός, found first in Theognis (Eleg 776), and frequently in the fifth century. The verb θεωρέω can mean ‘go on a pilgrimage to’, as in Thucydides' account of Ionian pilgrimage to the Delian festival (3.101). θεωρίς is the normal Attic term for a sacred ship used to convey sacred delegates to and from a sanctuary. One area where this family of words is never used is that of pilgrimage to healing sanctuaries; if we find any word used there, it is ἱκέτης, in later texts sometimes the neutral σνμϕοιτητής.

All our ancient sources agree on the basic sequence of events after the battle of Pydna on 22 June 168: the consul L. Aemilius Paullus advanced to take possession of the whole of Macedonia and finally managed to capture Perseus, the defeated king, who had taken refuge on Samothrace. Once in complete control of the situation he sent his troops into winter quarters and himself set off on a trip that was to take him round the most famous sights of Greece. Only when he heard of the arrival of the customary senatorial commission did he return to Macedon, settle its affairs, hold magnificent games, and finally return to Italy. Thus far there is little cause for concern, but what most of these events lack is a properly established date. Livy, our only ancient source venturing to date them, places everything up to sending the troops into winter quarters (45.8.8–9) in the same consular year as Pydna and assigns the remaining events to autumn and winter 167 (45.27ff). He thereby creates an awkward gap of somewhat more than a year between the battle of Pydna and the subsequent actions of Aemilius Paullus. A majority of scholars either seem to have ignored this point altogether or silently corrected Livy's chronology by simply shifting the events in question back to 168/ (Julian calendar). Others, ranging from Miiller and Weissenborn to Hammond and Walbank in their magisterial History of Macedonia, have kept Livy's date,4 while only one scholar has actually attempted to argue for a correction of Livy.