When Fielding fathered the modern English novel in 1742, he left his readers in no doubt about his intentions. The Preface to Joseph Andrews states clearly enough that his purpose was to ridicule affectation. The ancient Greek novelists were generally less explicit about their aims: of the five novels which survive complete, four are without any sort of preface, and we can only guess from the text what the authors were trying to do. Probably their sole object was to entertain. But the man who wrote the fifth, Daphnis and Chloe, was evidently a highly conscious artist with clear ideas about the purpose of his art, and he has left us a preface explaining them—or rather hinting at them, for the full meaning of his words is not immediately apparent. The aim of this article is to bring out the deeper implications of the preface, and to interpret the text in the light of them.

Although recent and ongoing excavations of the sanctuary of Apollo Delphinios in Miletus have prompted archaeologists to discuss anew the aetiological references to the same god and his altar at the end of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, these discussions have yet to make any impact on literary scholars working on the poem itself. Indeed, we now know that in archaic Miletus an altar of Apollo Delphinios was erected, as in the hymn, directly upon a sandy beach beside a harbour and was probably the focus, as in the hymn, of some kind of sacrificial ritual, before the annual procession to another famous Panhellenic oracle of Apollo at Didyma. These new revelations provide an incentive for returning to the somewhat puzzling details in the scene on the beach at Crisa in the Homeric Hymn, with its agrarian offering and meal (both of roasted barley) followed by a paeanic procession of musician and singers. I will argue that the Milesian parallels allow us to see more clearly that, like the Delian episode at the start of the Homeric Hymn, the events at Crisa seem to reflect a shorter hexametrical hymn originally composed for a seaside sanctuary at Crisa and then later adapted, again like the Delian section, by a poet intent on praising Apollo as a Panhellenic deity, whose most important place of worship was Delphi. Such an argument leads, finally, to a positive assessment of the recent suggestion that the Homeric Hymn to Apollo does not have a bipartite structure (Delian–Delphic), as is usually assumed or argued, but rather a tripartite one (Delian–Delphic–Crisaean) that organizes the poem into three hymnic movements: birth, oracle, priesthood.

It is widely known that in the first two chapters of his Greeks and the Irrational E. R. Dodds borrowed the terms ‘shame-culture’ and ‘guilt-culture’ and applied them to early Greek society. According to Dodds, the society depicted by Homer knew nothing of guilt or the sanction of guilt: what acted as a motivating force was aidōs, ‘shame’ or ‘sense of shame’, of which the sanction was nemesis, ‘righteous indignation’. In other words, the warriors of the heroic caste were impelled to certain courses of action, or were restrained from others, by aidōs: they were ashamed of ‘losing face’ among their equals or inferiors, and this fear of public indignation kept before the mind of the heroes where their duty lay. As the Archaic age advanced (Dodds contends), the sense of guilt became manifest, without however displacing entirely the assumptions of the earlier ‘shame-culture’.

The year 1983 marks the 2300th anniversary of the outbreak of the Second Punic War, one of the most momentous conflicts in history. The outstanding figure of that war was, of course, the Carthaginian leader Hannibal, son of Hamilcar Barca. His invasion of Italy at the outset of the war was a model of strategic daring and skill. His tactics in destroying the much larger Roman army at Cannae remain a classic exemplar of a battle of envelopment. He came near to bringing down Roman power, a near-miss for which his Roman contemporaries never forgave him, while their descendants accorded him grudging respect or even admiration. These achievements have made him, indeed, the most famous of the adversaries of Rome and one of the three most highly rated generals of antiquity (with Alexander and Julius Caesar). There is some irony in this, for of the three he was the only one to fail ultimately in his enterprise.

ProfessorParatore, in a book that I suspect is too little known to students of Lucretius, has called the Fifth Book of the De Rerum Natura ‘perhaps the richest in poetic inspiration’ in the poem. No part of his subject, it seems, fired the poet's imagination more; and it is the quality of Lucretius' imagination as it is seen in his account of the early history of mankind that I have chosen to discuss. The role of the imagination in the work of the historian is reviewed by Professor G. R. Elton in his book The Practice of History: ‘The discovery of truth requires not only the equipment already discussed–acquaintance with the available evidence and scholarly assessment of it—but also imaginative reconstruction and interpretation. Evidence is the surviving deposit of an historical event; in order to rediscover the event, the historian must read not only with the analytical eye of the investigator but also with the comprehensive eye of the story-teller. The truth is the product of this double process.’ For a good deal of what he says about the history of early man Lucretius had very little evidence as we account it. He had some previous scholarly literature at his disposal, but most of that was theoretical: neither he nor his sources had access to the archaeological and geological record. Yet in certain parts of his subject, as we shall see, this enforced ignorance did not hamper him as much as might be expected, even in comparison with a modern investigator.

Is Menander, in any sense of the word, ‘modern’?1 And if he is, what relevance does this have to the quality of his plays? Such questions will perhaps be asked more in our present age, when some of our critics appear to idolize modernity in art, literature, or music at the expense of quality; and they are questions capable of a wide variety of positive answers. In one way Menander is modern because a large section of his work—the Dyskolos, several hundred lines complete of the Aspis and the Samia, significant fragments of several other plays—has been discovered in Egypt and printed for the first time during the last sixteen years. Or again, Menander is modern because indirectly at least he has influenced the modern world's comedy of manners down to the time of Oscar Wilde and P. G. Wodehouse. He is modern, too, because he writes about the recurrent problems of families, young and old alike, as they wrestle with love and greed, worry about status and reputation, and flounder in a morass of misconceptions. But the aspect of Menander's modernity that interests me most of all is his apparent concern with certain dramatic and stylistic techniques which living writers deliberately apply in their novels and plays, techniques which our modern critics love to label as undisputedly modern.

We read and hear so much about our debt to Greece and Rome in the worlds of literature, law, and language that we are apt to forget that included in the legacy of the Ancient World to us is, to mention only one instance, the problem of the Franco-German frontier. Ought we to be glad the Romans stopped at the Rhine? Would things be better if they had gone farther? It was the defeat of Varus at the Teutoberger Wood that settled the frontier for the Romans; and Augustus with his plaintive cry of ‘Varus, Varus, give me back my legions’ determined once and for all to stop at the Rhine, and so left the Romanized Gauls and Germans in France and the free Germans across the Rhine as a thorny problem for all future time. Where the future is unknown, the present so uncertain, it is to the past we must turn for some definite foundation on which to build.

James Joyce was the first reader of Washington Irving's famous tale of Rip Van Winkle to have noticed that Rip is ‘a lazy Odysseus’, as Andrew Burstein has more recently described him. Rip leaves home for twenty years, just as Odysseus did; however, unlike Odysseus, Rip spends this time not heroically fighting and adventuring but sleeping away his mature years. When he finally returns home, then, it is no surprise that the dog in front of his house ‘has forgotten' him, unlike Odysseus’ dog, who greets his master with a tail-wag of recognition. Irving creates in Rip Van Winkle an ironic and humorous embodiment of an Odysseus/Ulysses who, as quoted above, was ‘more indebted to his sleeping than his waking moments for his most subtle achievements’.

Alcestis not only contains an unusual mixture of serious and comic elements, but the plot itself seems to be pulling in two quite different directions. There is a happy ending in that Alcestis is restored to Admetus, and Admetus contributes to this by his hospitality to Heracles. But much of the play seems to deal with failure: Alcestis is shown to have more to lose by her death than other characters in Euripides who sacrifice themselves, and her sacrifice does not even seem to succeed, in that the life which it gains for Admetus comes to seem worse than death to him. Admetus himself has been criticized for having accepted the sacrifice in the first place, for being concerned with his own suffering rather than feeling genuine grief for Alcestis, and for offering inappropriate hospitality to Heracles.

Two men meet on a battlefield; it is getting late, towards the close of a long day's fighting, the first since Achilles deserted the Greeks. The catalogue of this day's deadly confrontations, which has filled much of Books 4 and 5, looks as if it is about to get another victim's name appended to it. Homer introduces the episode at 6.120 by setting the scene as if for a duel, but ends it not only without a fight but with what appears to be a reconciliation, when they finally (6.232) leave their chariots to shake hands. This, if nothing else, has made the meeting of Glaucus and Diomedes famous; with its amiable, irenic outcome, and its unique emphasis on mutual understanding, the scene is widely regarded as an oasis of common decency amid the war-ethos of the surrounding books.

Fragments and summaries are all that survive of the two primary epics which originally covered the fall of Troy: the Little Iliad of Lesches and the Iliou Persis of Arktinos. I shall also be referring to the late Post-Homerica of Quintus Smyrnaeus. Certain details in Virgil's narrative imply that he and Quintus knew the same source material, though for my purpose here Quintus is chiefly used to indicate another possible mode of narrative treatment, particularly of the relation between the Sinon and Laocoon stories.

Interpreting the Aeneid in terms of symbols is nowadays a fashionable and respectable procedure. It can also be highly dangerous, as some of its practitioners frankly admit. For example, Michael C. J. Putnam writes: ‘Any attempt, however sympathetic and careful, to delineate or clarify a poet's special, often private, symbolism, is subject to many hazards. I am not unaware of the difficulties of moving over a terrain wherein the already subtle boundary-line which separates critic from creator grows dimmer still.’ A sterner warning comes from Robert A. Brooks at the beginning of his article on the Golden Bough: ‘The oak-spirit and the King of the Wood, the mistletoe and the Queen of the Dead are all impressive concepts. But if the “real meaning” of the golden bough lies in these or near them, then Vergil must be considered an artist after the fashion of the late David Belasco, who painted the back of his stage sets as well as the front. What is happening on the stage or in the poem we may suspect to be illusory or subsidiary; the real action may be taking place in the carefully prepared but invisible recesses of the scene, approachable only by those who have a pass backstage. This is not Vergil's method …’ The warning should be heeded, even though the writer is citing an extreme case.

The story of the Greek settlements in Sicily and southern Italy is not commonly regarded as one of the 'central themes' of Greek history. For long periods, the paucity of documentary evidence means that there is little story to tell anyway, and when a history of events is possible, it is often because those events are closely linked with the more fully documented history of Greece itself. Such an occasion occurred in 415, when the Athenians decided to send a fleet to western waters, and subsequently to undertake the siege of Syracuse. These events, so vividly narrated by Thucydides in the polished narrative of Books 6 and 7, are often studied today, but many modern readers start with a disadvantage shared, as Thucydides would have us believe, with the majority of Athenians of his own day - ignorance of Sicily and its inhabitants. Thucydides responded by giving his readers an account of the various peoples who inhabited Sicily, to impress upon them the number and power of the cities and settlements on the island (6.2-6). This article offers a short introduction to the political situation the Athenians encountered in South Italy and Sicily. It is written with a minimum of documentation, apart from references to the text of Thucydides. (The spelling of proper names follows that used in the Penguin translation, from which quotations are also taken; some suggestions for further reading are given at the end.)

The purpose of this paper is an examination of the metaphors of life as warfare and life as a journey in the prose writings of the philosopher Lucius Annaeus Seneca. The discussion will centre on the essays and letters; the tragedies will not be directly considered. The philosopher's use of these metaphors will be related to a review of the teachings of Seneca and of the Stoic school on death and on certain other central Stoic concepts.

Although the last phase of Republican Rome is so familiar to us, Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus remains a figure rather than a man. His was the statue beneath which the murdered Caesar fell, and he is still for most of us the figure in the background: Shakespeare passed him by. His vast fame has left the man himself remote.

It was his tragedy that he could not read the writing on the wall. It was partly clouded for him, as all things gradually became clouded, by the deepening shadow of his own portentous greatness. With his solid abilities, too, he had not a streak of genius or political insight. History can show few worse statesmen. He became the chief agent of the doomed Republic without realizing that it was doomed, and lived quite uninspired by that republican idea which animated men so different as Cicero and the younger Cato.

If he had not been outclassed, and defeated in battle, and finally eclipsed, by Julius Caesar, he could have lived in history as the Roman Empire's mightiest architect. He claimed with some reason to have subdued three continents. If not a great general, he was certainly a very good one, and in his younger days he could always get the best out of his soldiers. He was, above all, a good organizer. His campaign against the Mediterranean pirates, whom he swept from the seas in three months, was an unqualified triumph.

He was stabbed to death at Pelusium by hangers-on of the Egyptian court 2,000 years ago on 29 September.

Very few critics have ever admired the structure of Euripides' Andromache. The enigmatic comment of Aristophanes' hypothesis, τò δε δρﾶµα τωv δεvτερωv has almost invariably been taken as meaning that the play is second rate, not that it came second in the trilogy or in the competition, and this is largely blamed on the structure. Most critics admire the first portion of the play dominated by Andromache, some are willing to tolerate the middle section concerned with Hermione, and many find the last portion, the sorrows of Peleus, effective, but almost no-one likes the combination of the three. It takes a rugged individualist like A. W. Verrall to say: ‘[The story is] in dexterous combination and moral interest one of the best among the extant remains of Attic tragedy.’

In his last days, after his defeat at Actium, M. Antonhis sojourned in solitude by the sea declaring that he was going to live like Timon, since the injuries and ingratitude which he hadsuffered from his friends had taught him, like Timon, to distrust and detest all mankind. So both Strabo (17.1.9) and Plutarch relate. Plutarch explains that this man Timon was a citizen of Athens who lived at the time of the Peloponnesian War, to judge from plays of Aristophanes and Plato Comicus, in which Timon was held up to ridicule as a surly misanthrope who repulsed all friendly advances but displayed unwonted cordiality towards the brilliant young politician Alcibiades, because he divined, and gleefully predicted, that Alcibiades would do infinite mischieftoAthens (Ant.69–70; Alc. 16). The reference to the ingratitude of Timon's friends is illumined by Lucian's dialogue Timon, or the Misanthrope, in which Timon, identified as son of Echecratides and demotes of Colyttus, has lavished his patrimony on flattering friends who abandon him once his funds are exhausted, and in consequence he has been reduced to labouring in the fields. Luckily he digs up a crock of gold, and when his former friends reappear one by one in the hope of battening on him again, he repulses them with blows and clods of earth.

The economic role of the state is controversial, even after the collapse of communism and the election of New Labour. The demand that governments get off the backs of wealth-creators has barely diminished since the 1980s; but some still urge control of private and corporate greed in the public interest. There is no sign of such controversy in Greek antiquity; but I shall suggest that the practice of the cities depended on political considerations which reveal comparable principles. All governments, whatever their complexion, now accept some responsibility for general economic well–being, even if their actions may amount to little more than a claim that prosperity will ‘trickle down’ from top to bottom. Numerous functions which would now be identified as economic were performed by Greek cities; after brief preliminaries to set the economic scene, I shall explore them, and try to determine why they were undertaken.

The two ivory tablets in Paris and London, dating from late antiquity and forming parts of one diptych (Plates 1, 2), have been convincingly placed in their stylistic setting by the scholar to whom this article is dedicated. With other works in ivory from about A.D. 400 and with the Rothschild cameo, they form a ‘classicistic’ group, some manufactured in Rome, some in Milan. The cameo probably refers to the marriage in A.D. 398 of the young Emperor Honorius to Maria, daughter of Stilicho. We may assume that the diptych under consideration here also has reference to an aristocratic wedding, although its iconography is quite different. It shows not the portrait of a bridal pair, but two female figures, hitherto regarded as pagan priestesses. It is not these figures, but the tabulae ansatae at their heads that give support to the hypothesis that the diptych was made on the occasion of a marriage between the two families named on the tablets, the Symmachi and the Nicomachi. Matrimonial unions between members of the pagan aristocracy in officially Christian Rome may not only be presumed, but in the case of the Nicomachi and Symmachi may be actually shown to have happened. The following observations would seem to provide appropriate reinforcement for reference to a wedding on iconographic grounds.

Afoolish fondness for domestic pets, and a desire to have some kind of animal to share one's hearth and home, is usually regarded as a characteristically British trait, and it seems at first sight scarcely probable that the ancient Romans would have had any sympathy with such a sentimental weakness. Yet, if we turn to the literature of the notoriously practical Romans, we shall find plenty of evidence that they enjoyed the possession of those engaging companions no less than we do, and that they ranged over a wide field in choosing an object for their affections.

There can be no doubt that birds were first favourites with all classes of Roman society, and the first instance which springs to mind, no doubt, is that of Lesbia's sparrow, immortalized in the verses of Catullus. Two poems were written in its honour, one describing its happy lot as Lesbia's darling and delight, and one, the famous elegy, mourning the untimely death of the little bird, Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque. The custom of writing elegies on one's mistress's pets persisted, but with the general increase in wealth and luxury under the Empire, my lady's taste in birds became more sophisticated. The humble sparrow—or was it really a bullfinch?—which cheered Lesbia's heart would have been regarded with disdain by Ovid's Corinna. Her affections were centred on a psittacus, one of those jewel-bright parrots from the East, and especially from India, which are frequently mentioned in Imperial days, forming an elegant addition to the salons of society.