This article explores Alexander Pope's experience as a translator of the Iliad and the Odyssey, particularly his engagement with Homer as a poet and his biographical tradition. The study focuses on how Homer features in Pope's correspondence as he worked on the translations, how the Greek poet is described in the prefatory essay by Thomas Parnell and Pope's own notes to the text, and finally how his physical presence materializes in the illustrations within Pope's translations. The article suggests that, by engaging with the biography of Homer, Pope explores issues such as poetic authority and divine inspiration, promotes his own translations against European competitors, and ultimately establishes himself as a translator and as a poet. Throughout the process, Homer appears as a presence that forces Pope constantly to challenge himself, until he feels he can stand a comparison with the greatest poet ever.

I never share the feeling of those who go so far in their anger against men of their own race that they not only take away their enemies' annual crops but also destroy their trees and agricultural equipment, thereby leaving no opportunity for reparation. Instead, those who do that seem to me to be extremely short-sighted: the more they assume to be terrorizing the enemy by ruining their land and taking away all their hopes of earning a living – not just for the present, but also for the future – just that much more do they brutalize others and so create a hatred of themselves that is never removed.

Atticus: Lucus quidem ille et haec Arpinatium quercus agnoscitur, saepe a me lectus in Mario. Sin manet illa quercus, haec est profecto; etenim est sane uetus.

Qvintus: Manet uero, Attice noster, et semper manebit. Sata est enim ingenio; nullius autem agricolae cultu stirps tam diuturna quam poetae uersu seminari potest.

Atticus: Indeed I recognize that grove and this Arpinate oak, which I’ve often read about in the Marius. If that oak still stands, it must be this one; for old it certainly is.

Quintus: Of course it stands, my dear Atticus, and it will always stand, for it has been planted in the imagination. Indeed no farmer’s cultivation can produce a plant as long-lasting as that which is sown by the verse of a poet. De legibus 1.1

The image of the Marian oak begins De legibus with almost postmodern abruptness. This is in part due to the absence of an authorial preface, such as the long statement of purpose partially preserved in De re publica 1.1–14, which leaves De legibus without a chronological or situational frame of reference. The result is that the treatise begins in a particularly Platonic fashion, as the contemplation of an object in the natural landscape proceeds into a discussion of its symbolic meaning, setting up the dichotomy between perception and reality, ficta and vera, the past and its memory.

The story of Gyges has come down to us in several versions. These include a summary of a version recorded by Nicholas of Damascus, which may descend ultimately from the Lydian historian Xanthos; a fragment of a dramatic version by an unknown Greek author; a brief description by Plutarch; Justin's summary of a version by Pompeius Trogus; and a version by Ptolemy Hephaestion of Alexandria, summarized by Photius. But the most famous and oldest fully extant versions of the story are those told by Herodotus and Plato.

The earthquake of 62/63 ce was a catastrophic event for Pompeii and Campania. The destruction and death toll were extensive and it is clear that the city of Pompeii was still recovering and rebuilding when the eruption of Vesuvius happened. This article takes into consideration the mental and emotional damage that the earthquake caused and the way in which Seneca and the archaeological record help us to perceive strategies of consolation and therapy. Seneca discusses this earthquake in Book 6 of his Naturales quaestiones and hopes to lead his reader from the shock of the earthquake to a more comprehensive understanding of the physical causes of the tremor. The cultural memory of events not witnessed directly (such as Seneca's write-up of the Pompeii earthquake) makes us all survivors and ‘turn[s] history into a memory in which we can all participate’. If trauma ‘spreads via language and representation’, Seneca wants to limit what exactly is traumatic about this event and employs his creative rhetoric to do so. His account demonstrates how Stoic physics and ethics are connected and moves the reader from his or her fear of earthquakes to the fear of death at the root of the anxiety. Seneca carefully alters the valence of certain terms as well as selected memories of the earthquake to encourage his reader to transcend his or her fear and view earthquakes as natural occurrences, not anomalies to be dreaded. He does this through strategies identified in modern trauma theory as useful for post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and this article investigates how contemporary trauma theory can help us understand aspects of Seneca's remedy. Seneca's repetitions of certain events and terminology works to reassess and renovate them from a philosophical angle – in essence it turns potential ‘flashbacks’ and ‘triggers’ into beneficial sites of memory and the means of recovery. Survivors often relive the trauma again and again – Seneca's work alludes to this, but now makes the victim actively revise how to make such iterations part of the recovery.

One of the main concerns of Plato's Phaedrus is rhetoric. This concern pervades the dialogue right from the opening scene, where Phaedrus – someone with an obsessive and conspicuously superficial attachment to speech-making – is seen taking a walk in the country, having just come from hearing the great orator Lysias deliver a display speech (πíδϵιξις). There follows a sequence of three speeches: Phaedrus' reading of Lysias' speech, followed by Socrates' two speeches. In the latter half of the dialogue, the scene shifts from a presentation of rhetoric to an extended discussion about rhetoric. In particular, it presents an extended critique of contemporary rhetoric, and outlines what Plato takes to be the ‘true τχνη’ (techne – ‘art’, ‘craft’, or ‘science’) of rhetoric.

Why is it that literary criticism, at least where classical authors are concerned, must always go from one extreme to the other? Mr. Catlow's article on Horace's Soracte ode is a case in point. Nisbet and Hubbard, in their effort to ‘show how a very literary poet takes over themes conventional in various genres and adapts them to his new idiom’, may have underplayed the originality on which Horace himself so often and so emphatically insists and the imaginative qualities to which his poetry owes much of its perennial appeal. Understandably, Mr. Catlow reacts against this approach; but in his interpretation of the imaginative and evocative qualities of the ode he not merely underplays but altogether ignores Horace's literary pedigree, the lex operis within which Horace (like all other classical poets) wrote, the formal structure of the ode itself, and finally the context of the collection within which this particular ode occupies a prominent and carefully chosen place.

This scene constitutes the first meeting between Antigone and her sister Ismene since their dramatic parting at the end of the first scene, in which, as Jebb says (Antig. Introd., p. xxix), there has been shown to be ‘a spiritual division which no emotional after-impulse can cancel’. It is plainly seen that Ismene can never rise to taking part with Antigone in Polyneices’ burial; Antigone realizes this; so do the spectators, and no further scene should be required to emphasize it.

The second act of Plautus' Mostellaria begins (348ff.) with the panicstricken return from Piraeus of the slave Tranio. He has seen at the harbour his master Theoropides, just returned from abroad; now immediate and drastic action will be needed to prevent him from discovering what his son Philolaches (abetted by Tranio) has been up to during his absence. The first essential is to hustle Philolaches and his drinking-companions indoors before the old man has time to get home. Only when that has been done will Tranio have leisure to think out a plan for duping his master. It takes 28 lines (371–98) to clear the stage; then, having at last got the drinking-party safely inside the house, Tranio can tell Philolaches what he wants him to do. His final instruction (404) is:

Clauem mi harunc aedium Laconicam iam iube ecferri intus: hasce ego aedis occludam hinc foris.

The Augustan constitution—if we may use this word, for which there is no ancient equivalent—is as important a subject as the large number of modern writings devoted to it would suggest, and to judge by their contradictory character, it is a difficult one. Anyone who attempts, as I am attempting to-day, yet another general statement, and that within the compass of a single paper, must hedge himself around with protestations and admissions of what he is going to leave out. I must also at once forestall the criticism, frequently launched at students of this subject, that I am the dupe of ancient propaganda, inscriptions including the Res Gestae, and the coins. I fully appreciate that their insinuating suggestions are constantly misleading; and yet they, as the principal contemporary sources, are what I chiefly propose to quote to you to-day. I must also concede that these sources show a meticulous correctness of terminology, concerning matters such as the legal nuances distinguishing various powers, which must have been lost on considerable sections of the general Roman public. But these sections of the public should not be the concern of a student of the Augustan constitution. His concern is rather with the governing class, the fabricators of this insidious publicity. They, at least, were very far from averse to constitutional niceties; and incidentally, against those who stress the ignorance of the public, these hard-headed men would never have taken so much trouble if nobody was going to be impressed by it.

But I am not plunging into the full intricacy of their efforts to-day; for the compass of one paper requires simplification, and one way in which I shall simplify is by ignoring the many nuances between different categories of power, and considering them as subdivided into two main categories only—on the one side that sort of power which was part of the legal and formal machinery of the State, a potestas, including some powers carrying imperium and some lacking it, and on the other side all those media of authority which were not based on any potestas.

‘Here the prince held a review in the park and took a muster of our countrymen and they amounted all told to 11,000 heavy-armed and about 2,000 light-armed infantry. Thence he marched to—, a populous town, where he halted five days. More than three months’ pay was now owing to the troops and they came often to his gates and demanded it. He talked hopefully and tried to put them off, but was obviously worried. For it was not like him to withhold money when he had it. At this place the wife of a neighbouring king came to the prince and, it was said, gave him a large sum of money. At any rate he gave the troops four months' pay. This queen had a body-guard of her own men, but according to camp gossip the prince knew how to pass the sentries. Thence he proceeded another two marches further inland to another large town. There he halted three days and there, it was said, the queen asked him to show her his army. This was in accord with his own wishes. So he held a review of our countrymen and of his own troops. He ordered our men to draw up in their accustomed order of battle, each general in command of his own contingent. So they formed up four deep. The prince inspected his own forces first and they marched past, the horse by squadrons and the foot by companies.Then he inspected our men, driving up and down the lines in a chariot, and the queen following in an armoured wagon.

Towards the end of the winter 1939–40 I was asked by a nephew, who is the Mayor of a Midland town and had to request his Council to confer the freedom of the borough on some notable, whether there was not in Demosthenes an appropriate compliment for him to quote, expressing the high qualities of the candidate for the honour. I guessed that my nephew had a vague recollection from his school-days of the De Corona, and I found what I thought was in his mind in § 84—the spurious decree granting a crown to Demosthenes because he had always been friendly to the city, and had always said and done all the good in his power on its behalf. My nephew was pleased and used the quotation in his speech. I was then moved to explore the De Corona for myself, and very soon was startled by remarkable parallels to events in Europe in 1940; and the idea of this paper came to me. In the presence of experts, may I ask indulgence for my ignorance? My knowledge of Greek history, especially of this period, is but the sediment of what was never more than a very small cupful.

The first 150 years of the Roman Empire, from the settlement of Augustus in 27 b.c. to the death of Hadrian in a.d. 138, saw the emergence of Rome as a power which in various ways was to influence the future of Europe, the Near East, and the whole civilized world for many centuries. Among other aspects too numerous to mention, a new system of government emerged, and a new theory of the place of the ruler in the state. On the emperor depended all prosperity, from him alone came the blessing of peace, and he was the sole source of victory. It is a period, therefore, in which the emotional and psychological relationship between ruler and ruled is of interest and importance, as it was in Elizabethan England.

I happened to be looking through one of the volumes of Lyra Graeca when I came across the fascinating account, in Pollux's Word-Book, of some of the games played by Greek children, the jingles that go with the different games, and their titles.

It is surprising how many first impressions of the sight of Rome have been put on record. Some of these first impressions are unashamedly imaginary and come to us mediated by or through a persona. This is a common ploy in Augustan poetry, and it is worth remembering that none of the great Augustan poets was a Roman of Rome, so the impressions attributed to the persona may well reflect those of the writer on his first coming to the metropolis as a young man or boy. First impressions can be conveniently divided into two groups. Some are just that, first impressions, with no hint that the visitor might have had some expectations of what would be seen and experienced. A second group, perhaps the more interesting one, distinguishes itself by a shared anticipation: their actual impressions on visiting the city are not really ‘first’ impressions at all. Few have ever brought to Rome an innocent eye: even in antiquity many visitors always already seemed to know what they were going to see there. Considered chronologically, the very first impressions of Rome of this second group were formed in the imagination, by hearsay, by reading, or in modern times by seeing images of the city: theirs is a virtual Rome. When they finally visit the ‘real’ Rome there often occurs a disjunction or contrast; it might be of enhancement.

This comment occurs in the closing sequence of the epitaphios of 431/0 attributed to Pericles. The speech was delivered at the public funeral held for Athenian casualties in the first year of the Archidamian War. The earlier part of the speech was devoted to praise of the characteristics, practices, and values of the Athenians as a democratic and imperial community. The features which Pericles is reported as stressing were those which ‘made Athens great’, those by which her dominance was shown. From these is derived the glory achieved by those who died ‘as became Athenians’ (2.43).

The casualty lists in the Trojan War, owing to their late publication, are not very accurate, but they have some interesting features. The named casualties of officers total 238, and unnamed 26. Other ranks are not recorded. Of these 24 seem to have been wounded only, though in some cases it is left uncertain whether a man was only wounded, and not killed. To the wounded must be added Ares and Aphrodite, who obviously could not be killed, though they seem to have suffered considerably. Apparently the Gods and Goddesses who engaged in the fighting had a convention that they must not kill anyone themselves: they only interfered by encouraging their respective sides, and protecting certain favourites or balking their would-be killers. Ares, Apollo, Aphrodite, and Hephaestus were thus active on the Trojan side, and Athena, Hera, and Poseidon for the Greeks. Unlike us, the early Greeks appear to have been more proud of the killers than sorry for the killed.

Starkie wrote of this scene (Ach.393–489) that it was ‘perhaps the most successful piece of Aristophanic burlesque in existence'. Recently Dearden has written that the rag-borrowing scene exists only for the sake of the Euripidean parody. ‘Euripides is introduced into the play (it becomes apparent) to provide Dicaeopolis with rags in which he can plead his case before the Acharnians – though before he actually speaks to them he finds it necessary to apologize for these very rags (498). The whole scene is an obvious and elaborate parody of the spirit of Euripides’ plays and in particular of his realism in dressing his heroes in rags and it can hardly be claimed that providing the rags is the main object: they are, rather, the means of satirizing elements of his tragedies.’ I agree that Aristophanes is making fun of Euripides here, of his parentage and personality, his tragic style and dramatic technique, his presentation of a hero who is crippled or blinded and dressed in rags. But there is more to be said for, and about, the scene than that it equips Dicaeopolis and mocks Euripides.