The more I study Aeschylus the more clearly I perceive how much he tells us of his characters. The exhibition of character is not his main purpose, and he spends less space upon it than Sophocles or Euripides, not to mention more modern dramatists, but his touches are so sure that the final picture is surprisingly complete. In one case this is generally admitted. Few will dispute that Clytaemnestra is one of the most vivid and striking figures in all tragic drama. But she is an exception, and Aeschylus shows her to us more fully than any of his figures except the still enigmatic Prometheus. (Eteocles in the Septem makes as many speeches as Clytaemnestra, but they are less revealing.) In most of his plays the speeches allotted to the characters are so scanty, and so much dictated by the requirements of the action, that one has to know the play very well before one perceives how much the spare touches of character reveal. That point was only impressed on me when I started to learn the Agamemnon by heart. Then I really grasped it and will try to illustrate it.

Agamemnon himself is the best illustration to begin with, for he is less complex than his wife. He conforms to a well-known type, which most of us have met. He combines an imposing façade with inner weakness. Aeschylus, it is true, does not directly mention his appearance. That we learn from Homer (Iliad iii. 166 f.); and it is noteworthy how close Aeschylus keeps to Homer in depicting Agamemnon.

Aman's character is judged not merely by his public services and his political views but also by his private life and individual interests. Similarly the history of a nation is to be read not only in its military exploits, its constitutional experiments, its art and literature, but also in the social habits and predominant interests of its citizens. Just as a garden mirrors the character of its owner, so the gardens of a nation reflect the character and the degree of advancement of the State. It is no coincidence that the popular garden of the Roman Republic was the simple kitchen garden, while under the Empire pretentious landscape gardens were the vogue. The vitalizing energy of the Republic found an outlet in the productive vegetable plot: the elaborate but sterile gardens of the Empire were symbolic of incipient decay.

Until the first century b.c. almost all Roman gardens were cottage gardens. Their plan and culture were governed solely by practical needs. From them the mistress of the house used to replenish her larder and medicine-chest and adorn the family shrine with flowers. Pliny the Elder reminds the luxury-seeking populace of a later date that in the past at Rome a garden was the poor man's estate: it was the only market he had from which to provide himself with food. The prime function of a garden was to make its owner self-sufficient. This self-sufficiency was more easy of attainment in ancient Italy than in more northerly countries, for the diet of the Romans consisted, for the most part, of salads.

I

We are often told nowadays that the whole business of war, especially command and administration, is becoming increasingly difficult and complicated as more and more different weapons, each more highly specialized than the last, are brought into service. But the undoubted truth of this contention must not lead us into the error of supposing that ancient warfare was a simple matter between forces composed of nothing but infantry and cavalry. Many of the battles of antiquity, indeed, are made more interesting by the presence of unusual and intriguing armaments; and though some of these may now seem largely obsolete, it does not do to be too sure—was not the Home Guard armed with pikes in its early infancy?

Let us consider, then, the parade state of Antiochus’ army at the battle of Magnesia. After his defeat at Thermopylae in April 191, it will be remembered, he had fled to Ephesus, and by the end of the following year he was ready for the Scipios with an army of 70,000 men. ‘Most of the peoples of the Empire were represented, from Dahae horse-archers of the Caspian to Arabs mounted on dromedaries. It was strong in cavalry—at least 12,000 horse, light or “cataphract”—in light-armed infantry … archers, slingers and javelin men; it included, besides 54 elephants, that engine of war dear to the Ancient East, the dreaded scythed-chariots.’

Here, surely, is a sufficiently varied assortment of nationalities and armaments to show that manifold alliances and specialized equipments are not peculiar to the twentieth century.

The trouble with Greek is that too few are taking it. This is a great loss, for Greek has unique cultural value and is in itself the most educative item on the highly varied menu for young minds which our schools set forth. A small percentage of students are taking Greek, and finding it a real benefit. But there are surely many more who could be profiting from a substantial helping of Greek yet are not. Why? And can anything be done to remedy the situation?

I would like to diagnose the ill and suggest a feasible cure—one which has worked out quite satisfactorily in practice in over ninety schools of the United States and Canada where a new technique has been used the past few years. Considerable interest in this experiment has developed in England and Scotland, and it has been repeatedly suggested to me that I describe the innovations entailed, for wider notice and under-standing on the part of those who might find it adaptable to their own needs. The following report endeavours to meet this desire.

It is a harsh fact, in Britain as across the Atlantic, that under present educational conditions and economic urgencies the proportion of able young students who can afford to devote six or more years to intensive study of Greek is very small. Why not take up their problem and work out a compromise? If we can assure them that on a special method and programme they could in only two years (at four or five hours a week) learn enough Greek to read a substantial portion of at least one major author before the two years are up, would not many of them accept the opportunity and take that much Greek at any rate? It would mean, too, in practice, many more students taking Greek, if only on a short-term basis.

It is hard, at a distance of some two thousand years, to know when a metaphorical word in an ode of Horace is only a faded remnant of its original self, and when it was felt by Horace's contemporaries as a living image on which the poet was relying for a particular effect. Any attempt therefore to assess the force of an image is liable to be not only subjective but possibly unsound as well; we cannot always know enough about the stage of development of a word at the moment of use, nor about the composition of the soil on which that word was designed to fall. Still, it is possible to note some differences in the quality and intention of the imagery employed.

One of the more interesting features of Terence's dramatic work is the evidence in it of frequent conflict between the dramatist and the dramatic conventions of his day. To some instances of this conflict, represented by criticisms, explicit or implicit, of convention, attention has been drawn by Sir Gilbert Norwood in his book on The Art of Terence. But even he has perhaps not followed up the fuller implications of Terence's critical attitude in determining the nature of his drama. My purpose in this article is to show that there was one convention against which, above all others, Terence consistently rebelled, namely, the convention of the slave who manages the action; and I would even go so far as to suggest that his success as a dramatic artist is, to a large extent, dependent upon the way in which he solved the problem of the slave.

The heroic age of Greece, like the heroic age of western Europe, practised trial by combat. For a combat to be judicial (a) it must be single combat, (b) it must be of numinous import, as evidenced among the Greeks by a connexion with divination in the form of oracle or prophecy, and (c) there must be a dispute the issue of which is to depend on the result of the combat. Not all single combat is judicial, for such a combat may be fought simply for honour and not to decide a dispute, as when Hector and Ajax fight on a challenge of Hector's to the best of the Achaeans to decide which shall have the honour of killing the other and bearing his arms away in triumph (Iliad H 77–83).

The institution of judicial combat is illustrated by a golden passage in the Iliad in Book Γ describing the duel between Menelaus and Paris. The Achaeans and the Trojans agree, after a challenge by Paris, that Menelaus and Paris shall fight in single combat, the terms being that if Paris kills Menelaus he is to retain Helen and her possessions, while if Menelaus kills Paris, then the Trojans are to return Helen and her possessions and pay the Achaeans a proper recompense. After performing the due rites Agamemnon formally recites these terms and threatens to fight to the end if the Trojans should break their word. Hector and Odysseus mark out a space and settle by lot which of the two combatants is to throw his spear first, while the Trojan and Achaean spectators pray to Zeus for death to the man who is responsible for bringing all the trouble on them.

Many and various have been the approaches to Virgil's Georgics. Dryden once stated roundly that they were ‘the best poem of the best poet’. The director of a well-known botanical garden maintains, rather oddly, that they are the best thing for starting boys on botany. It is worth while to try to discover what Virgil himself thought he was doing, and for what readers he intended his poem.

Let me first recall the circumstances of his upbringing. He spent his childhood on his father's farm, amid the sights and sounds and smells of the country. But by his fifteenth year he was sent to school at Cremona, and from there on to Milan, after which he completed his studies at Rome and near Naples. There is every indication that his bent was for literature and philosophic speculation, and no good evidence that he was ever himself a farmer. By 37–6 B.C., when he was 33, he was already established as a poet, and with Varius had become the nucleus of Maecenas’ circle. He had run through the gamut of pastoral poetry, and was on the look-out for fresh woods and pastures new. His intense love of the country, attested in every line of the Georgics, would in itself suffice to account for his choice of subject, and the impact of Lucretius’ recent masterpiece for his choice of form.

At the close of his breathless baroque overture Virgil alleges pity for the ignorance of the rustic as his motive for writing, but that is simply part of the game.

In a previous issue of Greece and Rome (vol. xiii, June 1944) there appeared some remarks on the division of tongues which subsists in Greece to-day, the tongues specified being Katharevousa (‘Purified’ or ‘Purifying’ Greek), Demotiki (Popular Greek), and a newspaper language which is blended from the other two in varying proportions according to the linguistic tastes, and sometimes the political affiliations, of the newspaper proprietors. The territory controlled by the partisans of these rival idioms was also broadly sketched in the same number. ‘Katharevousa is the official and formal language, used in Government publications and statements, business correspondence, non-fictional books and treatises, law courts, University lectures (although not so much at Salonica as at Athens) and formal conversation.’ ‘Demotiki is the language of conversation, of song, of popular novels and periodicals (and also of most serious creative works of literature) and the spoken language of trade and business.’ And then the essay attempted to show the main characteristics of the two idioms and their respective relation-ships with classical Greek.

Nothing, however, was said of the struggle for linguistic supremacy between Katharevousa and Demotiki, which has been one of the out-standing and most stimulating features of life in Greece since the time of the War of Independence. As a rule, political differences are the principal cause of internal dissension among the Greeks, but at more than one point during the last hundred years people were ready to believe that the language problem would oust politics from its post of honour as the predominant Hellenic interest.

‘In the study of history’, says Livy in the preface to his work, ‘the most salutary and profitable advantage to the reader is that he sees before him examples of every kind set out in their true light. From them he may choose for his own benefit and that of his country what to imitate and what to avoid.’ Whether Livy's moralistic attitude to history is legitimate or not, the fact that he always has a moral purpose clearly in mind lends a unity to his work which bears a compelling appearance of truth. All events, all actions are recounted, interpreted, and judged according to a single norm: how far they reflect and illustrate the glory of ancient Rome or the decline of his countrymen from the Golden Age of times past. It is the purpose of this article to examine the part accorded to women in this scheme, and the history will be judged not as a factual record but, as Livy would have expected, as a work of art and moral instruction.

In view of the interest of Columella's De Re Rustica it is strange that it is not better known. Indeed, it is difficult to secure a text of it, since the last complete edition was published in the eighteenth century and the nearest approach to an English edition is a short selection from his works published in Dublin in 1732.

As to the man himself our knowledge is derived almost wholly from his own writings. His full name was Lucius Junius Moderatus Columella. He was a contemporary and friend of Seneca, who lived from 4 b.c. to A.D. 65 and, like Columella, was a native of Spain, and of Seneca's brother Gallio, proconsul of Achaea, who figures in the Acts of the Apostles (xviii. 12) as ‘caring for none of these things’, and also died in A.D. 65. The elder Pliny (A.D. 23–79) quotes freely from Columella. Without going into further detail, I think we may say that the De Re Rustica was probably published in the sixties of the first century A.D.

Columella was born and spent his early years at or near the town of Gades, the modern Cadiz, in the south-west corner of Spain. He does not mention his parents but often speaks of his uncle Marcus, who was also a keen agriculturist and lived in the Spanish province of Baetica in which Gades was situated. Possibly Columella lived with his uncle during his early years. At some period of his life he found himself on military service at Tarentum, where an inscription has been discovered which describes him as a military tribune of the Sexta Legio Ferrata, which is known to have been recruited at Gades.

‘Perhaps you can draw a cypress’, says Horace (A.P. 19), a remark which many Latin poets seem to have interpreted as a challenge. Not that the poets, with the exception of Ovid, wasted many words on the cypress itself, although all are very careful to mention it. Usually it is accompanied by some gloomy epithet, feralis (Ovid, Trist. 3. 13. 21; Virg. Aen. 6. 216) or funebris, or has some remote allusion to the funeral pyre (e.g. Lucan 3. 442; Stat. Theb. 4. 464). Homer, on the contrary, preferred a more cheerful epithet ε??ώ??ης.

But the cypress is by no means the only tree in the forest, and the poets take good care to let the reader know it. The Romans thought that there were some parts of poetry, and particularly epic poetry, in which they could improve on the Greeks, and word-painting was one of these. Where the Greeks usually contented themselves with a terse epithet, the Romans loved to dip their brush in bright colours and lay them on thick. Such descriptive passages have their place in poetry, but their employment needs to be regulated carefully in accordance with the requirements of the subject. In epic particularly they should not delay the course of the action, but, as it were, provide a pleasant oasis wherein the reader can rest after perusing the account of some more strenuous activity. The forests we find in Latin verse usually contain far more trees than are generally found on an oasis, but they do provide a convenient resting-point in the action, and at the same time give the poet an opportunity of displaying his powers of word-painting.

Socrates. Good-morning, Eleutheros. Obviously something delightful has happened to you, to make you leave your work so early in the day—and to hurry along too, with your head in the clouds and a smile on your face, not even recognizing your friends! And Polytechnos has thrown down his chisel, too! Whatever is the good news?

‘This language [Latin] was my mother tongue’, says a country squire, Michel Eyquem de Montaigne (1533–92), in the first volume of his Essais, c. 25. This is how it came about. Before the boy could speak his father engaged as tutor a German latinist who did not know a word of French. Orders were given that no member of the household was to speak anything but Latin in the boy's hearing. The father and mother as well as the servants, including the chambermaid, picked up the foreign language; ‘we became so soaked in Latin that it flooded the villages around us, and even to-day (1580) the Latin names of artisans and tools are still heard in the neighbourhood. I was above six years of age before I understood any more French or Périgordin than I did Arabic’ (i. 25). He tells us elsewhere that the only verses he ever composed were in Latin. Among his tutors was the Scottish poet Buchanan, a distinguished latinist: Scott tells us that the Laird of Tully-Veolan ‘read the classic poets, to be sure, and the Epithalamium of Georgius Buchanan’ (Waverley, c. 13).

At the age of six Montaigne was sent to the ‘Collège de Guienne, the best in France’. There, under the influence of the macaronic jargon spoken around him, his Ciceronian diction soon ‘became debased’ (s'abastardit). ‘When I was about seven or eight, I used to escape from all other pleasures to read the Metamorphoses of Ovid, the easiest book known to me, and, because of the subject-matter, the best-suited to my feeble age.’

The plough, which looks so clumsy and uncouth, changes its character. In conjunction with your team of horses, it becomes a glorious galleon, which you steer proudly over the rolling fields like some mariner of old. It is no longer an ugly, awkward, inanimate thing, but a delicately flexible instrument, which responds to your lightest touch … Not that the poesy of ploughing is continuous. The length of the lines is determined by the head-lands; it is broken into verses by each strike-out, and, if you wish to continue the simile, into different poems by the different fields. Such a nuisance these breaks are! Why cannot one plough one long straight furrow for ever without these petty hindrances ? But, this being impossible, one is forced to turn, to let the plough grate clumsily along the head-land, then to turn again into the work, and swing away on a new tack, happy and interested once more.

'Tis true I am no physician, but I would suggest in all sincerity that three months’ steady ploughing would cure any man of a nervous break-down. For ploughing is a mental tonic of great power. The ploughman is master of the situation. Nothing can stop him. Little by little he changes the surface of the earth. The plough may be slow, but it is so very sure. As the strip of black on the east side of that piece of prairie grew slowly wider and wider until it neared the west boundary, I was forced to marvel at the relentless power of the plough.

InGreece and Rome, vol. xvii, No. 51, pp. 128–9, Mr. E. Laughton, referring to pp. 140 ff. of Mr. S. A. Handford's The Latin Subjunctive, put forward Cicero, Att. 3. 20. 1 (‘tibi venire in mentem certo scio quae vita esset nostra, quae suavitas, quae dignitas’) as an example of the imperfect subjunctive in an indirect question in primary sequence, where a preceding imperfect or pluperfect tense has not been employed in mitigation of the violation of sequence. In vol. xviii, No. 54, p. 138, Mr. Handford replies that esset probably means ‘would be’, as Tyrrell took it in Cicero in his Letters, and adds ‘so we are still without a clear example of imperfect subjunctive used in a primary sequence indirect question to express durative (or iterative) action’. In vol. xviii, No. 55, p. 18, Mr. Laughton ‘retreats fighting’, but hopes that ‘some day Mr. Handford's challenge may meet with an unequivocal response’.

In paragraph 3 of the Praefatio to book x of Seneca's Controversiae we read, of the brilliant, but casual declaimer, Scaurus, ‘ex his omnibus sciri potest, non quantum oratorem praestaret ignavus Scaurus, sed quantum desereret’ (‘all this goes to show, not how great an orator the lazy Scaurus was, but how great he missed being’). The variant scire posset in excerpt. Montepessulana can safely be ignored. Though I am sure we should all wish to see an example quoted from a more reputable author than the Elder Seneca, this sentence, occurring as it does in a carefully written preface, confirms Mr. Laughton's intuition that this ‘rational mode of expression’ is not impossible in Latin when the sense of the dependent verb is ‘obviously durative’.