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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

In Book 19, chapter 9 of the Nodes Atticae Gellius describes the birthday party of a young Greek of equestrian rank at which a group of professional singers entertained the guests by performing poems by Anacreon, Sappho, ‘et poetarum quoque recentium ⋯λεγεῖα quaedam erotica’ (4). After the singing, Gellius goes on, some of the Greek συμπόται present challenged Roman achievements in erotic poetry, excepting only Catullus and Calvus, and criticized in particular Laevius, Hortensius, Cinna, and Memmius. Rising to meet this charge, Gellius’ teacher of rhetoric, Antonius Julianus, admits the superiority of the Greeks in what he calls ‘cantilenarum mollitiae’ in general (8), but to show that the Romans too have some good erotic poets, he recites four early Latin love epigrams, by Valerius Aedituus (frs. 1 and 2), Porcius Licinus (fr. 6), and Lutatius Catulus (fr. I). The same three poets are listed in the same order in Apuleius’ Apology in a list of amatory poets which he provides in order to establish precedents and thus invalidate his prosecutors’ referral to his erotic poems in their accusation (Apul. Apol. 9). Catulus is also enumerated in Pliny's list of Roman dignitaries who composed ‘uersiculos seueros parum’ like his own (Ep. 5.3.5), and an amatory epigram of his is cited by Cicero in De Natura Deorum 1.79 (fr. 2). We possess no further evidence connecting the other two with the composition of either erotic or, more generally, ‘light’ verse, but a poem by Porcius Licinus on Roman literary history is attested by several sources including Varro, Suetonius, and Gellius himself.

Our limited evidence for the formula of the Roman sponsio is enough to clear up lingering controversy about two otherwise obscure speeches preserved only in testimonia and fragments. The elder Cato wrote a speech whose title is variously cited by our sources: ‘si se Caelius tribunus plebis appellasset’; ‘in M. Caelium si se appellasset’; ‘contra M. Caelium’ (Fest. p. 266L); ‘in Marcum Cae[ci]lium’. On the reasonable postulate that these are variations on a single original, the fullest expression is relatively easy to reconstruct: ‘si se M. Caelius tribunus plebis appellasset’.Doubts about the sense of these words have led to more radical proposals which have little to recommend them, especially in view of the new analysis I intend to offer. The conclusion among those who have attempted to explain the obvious reading has been that the title of the speech is a condition contrary to fact referring to a hypothetical situation to which the speech responded: some have suggested that Cato wrote the speech against the possibility that Caelius might make an accusation against him; Antonio Cima suggested that Caelius had made a speech against Cato without naming him and that Cato had responded, ‘if Caelius had meant to refer to me… ’.

That Sallust owed a considerable debt to the writings of Cato the Censor was observed in antiquity, and the observation has often been discussed and expanded on by modern scholars. The ancient references to Sallust's employment of Cato are mainly in the context of his adoption of an archaic style, and specifically Catonian vocabulary. But the choice of Cato as a model had an obvious significance that went beyond the purely stylistic. Sallust's works articulate extreme pessimism at the moral state of late-Republican Rome, and do so partly by contrasting the modern age with a prelapsarian time of near-untrammelled virtue, brought to an end only by the fall of Carthage and the consequent dominance of Roman power, which in turn led to moral corruption. Similarly, Cato famously stood in his own day for moral rectitude—and specifically appealed to past virtue as the standard to which he wished to hold his contemporaries. Sallust, by writing in a Catonian style, aligns himself with that tradition.

I shall argue the likelihood that Vergil took Aeacus’ speech as his model for Charon's, as part of Aeneas’ newly created journey through Vergil's expanded topography of Hades.

The four Greek verses just quoted, addressed by Aeacus to Heracles, and Heracles’ reply in twelve, were first published separately by Rabe, and then inserted by Page as verses 16–19 and 20–31 between surviving frs. 1 and 2 of P.Oxy. 2078, to be ascribed in all likelihood to the lost Pirithous of Euripides, rather than to the slightly later Critias.

Ovid regarded the Epistulae Heroidum as a collection with a consistent theme. He indicates as much at Am. 2.18.18–26, where he describes the unified conception of nine or ten of the Heroides as the result of Amor's insistence that he be an elegiac poet:

In his account of Nero's last months Suetonius describes the various ways in which the emperor, after he heard the news that Galba had decided to take on the leadership of Vindex’ revolt, tried to raise troops and to extract money from the inhabitants of Rome. On top of all this, so says the biographer, Nero incurred invidia by profiteering from the high price of grain, and this invidia grew greater because it happened too that while the inhabitants were suffering from hunger, news came that a grain ship from Alexandria had arrived carrying nothing but sand for the court wrestlers (Nero 45.1: ‘ex annonae quoque caritate lucranti adcrevit invidia; nam et forte accidit, ut in publica fame Alexandrina navis nuntiaretur pulverem luctatoribus aulicis advexisse’). Although this episode undoubtedly belongs in 68, there is little to be said for the argument, now generally accepted, that this shortage of grain was caused by L. Clodius Macer, legionary legate of Africa Proconsularis. As I hope to show, the dearth resulted from Nero's own attempts at self-defence.

Only we must guard against this—not to strain our voice too roughly when conscious of a full stomach or (recent) sexual intercourse or physical fatigue. Many politicians and sophists experience this, being induced to engage in competitive debates, some through considerations of glory and ambition, others for pay or political contests. Thus our fellow citizen Niger, when a professional sophist in Galatia, happened to have swallowed a fishbone. But as another sophist had appeared on the scene from abroad and was engaged in declaiming, Niger, fearful that he give the impression of having yielded to the newcomer, himself gave public performances, although the fishbone was still stuck in his throat. A serious and persistent inflammation in consequence developing, as he could not endure the pain, he submitted to a deep surgical incision from without. The fishbone was then removed through the wound site but thereafter the wound itself, becoming troublesome and purulent, caused his death.

The Latin word ulpicum is attested thirty-one times. The literary texts in which the term occurs range in date from the second century B.C. to the seventh century A.D. It denotes a plant used in antiquity both as a foodstuff and as an officinal substance in human and animal prescriptions, but discussions of ulpicum in the work of classical scholars show that there is no agreement about its identity. This lack of clarity consequently obfuscates the understanding of the passages in which reference is made to the plant. Furthermore, those students of ancient medicine, botany, and horticulture who depend on translations receive an inaccurate and even misleading impression of the original Latin sources. I propose to demonstrate the present unsatisfactory state both of translations of the term and of efforts by classical scholars to identify the plant, then to review the data supplied by the ancient sources. Following this, I shall suggest that what Latin writers referred to as ulpicum is, in fact, the plant known to modern botanists as Allium ampeloprasum L., ‘great-headed garlic’. Finally, I shall investigate its function in the Roman diet and pharmacopeia.

One of the best-known bits—perhaps the best-known bit—of the inscription of Diogenes of Oinoanda is frs. 2–3, in which the author explains what motivated him to display Epicurean doctrines in epigraphical form.

In chapter 6 of Alcinous’ Handbook of Platonism we find a discussion of categorical, hypothetical, and mixed syllogisms. Alcinous distinguishes three figures of the hypothetical syllogism, and illustrates each figure with a syllogism based on an argument from Plato. Here he remarks in passing that most people called the second hypothetical figure the third and that some called the third figure the second. We may assume that those who called the third figure the second and those who called the second the third were the same. In a parallel passage, Alexander of Aphrodisias advocates the same ordering of figures of hypothetical syllogisms as Alcinous, and reports that Theophrastus, in the first book of his Analytics, had the second and third figure in reverse order. Combining these passages, we can infer that at the turn of the second century A.D. there existed two different views on the ordering of the figures of the hypothetical syllogisms, of which one goes back to Theophrastus, whereas the other presumably was the result of a later change.