In the first term of last year I had two classes with whom I was reading the Iliad. In the Classical Studies class we had to read and discuss the Iliad in Richmond Lattimore's English translation, and in the Greek IIA class we read Book I of the Iliad in Greek.

In an article in CP 80 (1985), 33–34, entitled ‘Odyssey 21.411: the Swallow's Call', Luis A. Losada drew attention to the apparent oddity that the sound of Odysseus' bow-string, as he twanged it after stringing it in the presence of the suitors, is compared to the note of the swallow, since, for the most part, the swallow's twittering cry, in terms of sound quality, is traditionally associated in much of later Greek literature with either barbarian unintelligibility, loquacity, or sometimes lamentation – none of which is at all appropriate here. He suggests instead that a ‘thematic connotation’ was alluded to by Homer – the migratory cycle and vernal return of the swallow, and concludes that ‘the swallow and its call might well be called a quintessential metaphor for the idea of returning…No more appropriate bird call exists – the singing bowstring heralds the hero'sreturn.’

My aim in this paper is to discover in what sense, if any, Aristophanes can be considered relevant to our society in the 1980s. If we call a classical author relevant to contemporary society, we may mean that he or she presents issues and problems for which we can find modern parallels and from which we may gain a deeper insight into our own current affairs. Aristophanes deals with a wide range of social and political problems of the kind which recur in all cultures, as well as with the practicalities of everyday life, so that when dealing with these problems he is ostensibly as relevant now as he was in his own day. But is there anything in the nature of Aristophanic comedy which constrains us from making the kind of modern connections which we might wish to make? L. Spatz says ‘Aristophanes speaks directly to us through such topical themes as the battle of the sexes, the scandals of power politics, and the underdog's need to strike back at his oppressors. But sometimes this relevance results in a misunderstanding of his original intention.’

Plutarch's account of the condemnation and punishment of Alcibiades by the Athenians (Plut. Alc. 22.5) includes the following statement: … ἔτι κα καταρσθαι προσεϕηφίσαντο πντας ἱερεĩς κα ἱείας, ὧν μóνην φασ Θεανὼ τν Μνωνος Ἀγρυλθεν ντειπεīν πρòς τò ϕφισμα, φσκουσαν εὐχν, οὐ καταρν ἱρειαν γεγονναι.

The biography of Atticus by Cornelius Nepos, covering the last eight decades of the Republic and written at the precise moment of the establishment of monarchy by Octavian, ought always to have been treated both as one of the best introductions to the period, and as an exposition, from a unique angle, of some of the values expressed in Roman society. But now, more than ever, there may be a place for a brief essay which attempts to bring out both some values exhibited in this particular text and the way in which these were taken up, distorted, and deployed in the propaganda of the Augustan regime. For, first, the larger background of late-Republican scholarship, antiquarianism, historiography, and biography has been fully explored by Elizabeth Rawson; second, Joseph Geiger has argued for the originality of Nepos as a writer of political biography; third, we have a major study of the ethical models which it is the purpose of the biography to hold up for emulation. Finally, John North, in an important review-article on recent works on Roman religion, has identified three significant characteristics of late-Republican religiosity: a scholarly or antiquarian perception of religious change, often seen as decline; the identification of religion as the subject of a particular form of discourse; and a shift in focus within the sphere of religion, from the community as a whole to great men within it. All three come together, as we will see below, in the passage of Nepos' biography in which he records how, some time in the 30s B.C., Atticus suggested to Octavian that the now roofless temple of Juppiter Feretrius on the Capitol should be repaired.

All works of art reflect the time in which they are created, but the mark of a good artist is that his work will transcend the limitations of his own era and thus construct a series of bridges over the gap of centuries.

One of the more endearing of the seventy-eight treatises which make up the Moralia of Plutarch is one entitled ‘On not minding your own business'. The Greek title, Περ Πολυπραγμοσνης, reminds us momentarily of Plato's famous definition of justice in Republic 4, which is to do your own thing (μ πολυπραγμονεῖν). Plutarch was indeed an ardent Platonist, but here he is concerned not with political philosophy but with social habits. The treatise reminds me of nothing so much as of a famous Lancastrian comedian of my youth called Norman Evans, who in a sketch called Over the Garden Wall assumed the transvestite role of a nosy female neighbour, simultaneously pegging out clothes and retailing juicy items of gossip. For Plutarch, after defining this nosiness or πολυπραγμοσνη as ‘an unhealthy and harmful state of mind, a fondness for learning the misfortunes of others, a disease apparently free of neither envy nor malice’, condemns the common tendency to pry into the social origins of neighbours, their debts, and their private conversations. He likewise condemns people who read their friends' letters, and who watch sacred ceremonies which it is μ θμισ ρν (perhaps he had in mind Clodius' gate-crashing of the rite of Bona Dea). Such inquisitiveness, says Plutarch, is invariably accompanied by a wagging tongue, for what these people gladly hear, they gladly blab about: a ἃ γἔρ δως κοουσιν, δως λαλοσιν Pascal in his Pensees says much the same thing: ‘Curiosity is only vanity. Most often we only wish to know in order to talk about it.’