It is well known that Athenian orators, when they made reference to the historical past, usually eschewed prolonged narrative in favour of brief allusions to familiar episodes from Athenian history. Perhaps the most striking exception to this custom is the long and detailed account of fifth-century Plataean history in the pseudo-Demosthenic speech Against Neaera (Dem. 59.94–103). The main interest of this passage, however, lies not in its divergence from contemporary rhetorical practice, but in its clear reliance on Thucydides for its account of the siege of Plataea during the Peloponnesian War. Indeed, it is unique in Attic oratory in the extent of its reliance on an identifiable historical work. Yet, considering its significance, this passage has received very little scholarly attention, and merits a closer reexamination.

Over the last fifty years the world of the palaeographer has been revolutionized by the widespread use of photography. Today a scholar can study a microfilm of almost any codex in the western world in the comfort of his home and compare it with any number of other codices within a matter of minutes. It is no longer necessary to travel long distances, set aside large blocks of time, and spend substantial sums of money in the collation of manuscripts. This fact should encourage modern palaeographers to review the work of their predecessors who were denied these blessings to see if the work of the past lives up to today's standards.

In I 7 Aristotle lays down criteria for what is to count as human happiness. Happiness for man is self-sufficient (autarkes), complete without qualification (teleion haplos), peculiar to humans (idion), excellent (kat' aretēn), and best and most complete (aristēn kai teleiotatēn). Many interpreters agree that in X 6–8 Aristotle uses these along with other criteria to disqualify the life of amusement and rank one happy life above another.

In March 59 Caesar and Pompey presided over the adoption of P. Clodius Pulcher into a plebeian family, thereby rendering the former patrician eligible for the tribunate. The immediate purpose of the dynasts' action was to silence the contumacious criticism of Cicero, whose Pro Antonio had gravely offended Caesar. And the gesture was effective: for a time at least, Cicero withdrew to his country estates. For Cicero – like everyone else in Rome – anticipated that, once tribune, Clodius would move to exact revenge for the dishonour done him during and after the Bona Dea trial. For the remainder of the year Cicero made preparations to fend off his enemy, and principal among his resources was the personal guarantee of his friend Pompey the Great. Pompey, who regarded Clodius as his creature, took it to be a point of honour that he should shield Cicero from harm's way. But the Vettius affair changed everything. Regardless of who masterminded the scandal and despite all protestations to the contrary, the Vettius affair left Pompey estranged from Cicero, a reality that Cicero could not fail to recognize. After the Vettius affair Cicero could not prudently rely solely on the dynasts' promises – if ever he did. Yet the means by which Cicero endeavoured to secure his own safety – independent of his relationship with Pompey or Caesar – have not been adequately appreciated by modern scholars. They incline, quite naturally in view of the events of 58 which followed Cicero's exile, to see the contest over Cicero's fate primarily as a struggle between the dynasts, especially Pompey, and Clodius. Such an attitude, however, tends to cause one to overlook an often cited but infrequently discussed stratagem of Cicero: according to Cassius Dio, Cicero induced L. Ninnius Quadratus, a tribune of 58, to stand up against the legislation which Clodius promulgated upon his entering the tribunate. This arrangement indicates that Cicero was trying with considerable energy to look after his own interests. It is the purpose of this paper to attempt to explain the means by which Cicero hoped to thwart Clodius as well as the machinations by which the erstwhile patrician outwitted his opponent.

Here in the proem to his fifth book Lucretius is praising the philosophical achievements or discoveries (‘reperta’) of Epicurus through favourable comparison with other discoveries of traditional heroic or divine figures; first, in this passage, with the products of bread and wine associated with the gods Ceres and Liber (Bacchus), and later with the deeds of the god-hero Hercules. This technique clearly derives from the σ⋯γκρισις of formal rhetoric, one of the basic exercises (προγυμν⋯σματα, exercitationes primae) through which composition was taught in ancient schools, and Lucretius begins with ‘confer’, an imperative which has something of a formulaic force in rhetorical comparisons. But it is not the purpose of this note to point out the rhetorical qualities of this passage; Lucretius' treatment of Ceres and Liber has other important literary and philosophical associations, links which have not been noted or explored by scholars.

The Stoic theory of knowledge was founded by Zeno on a perceptual and crudely materialistic base, but subsequently developed into an elaborate theory involving λεκτ⋯ which has proved difficult to reconstruct. The evolution of the school, influenced not only by internal differences but also by interaction with the Platonic Academy, certainly contributed to this development. Hence any adequate reconstruction of the Stoic theory of knowledge must take account of the differences among the positions of the different representatives of the school with respect to the criticism put foward by the Academics. I propose here to clarify Zeno's position, showing how Arcesilaus' criticism helped to expose certain lacunae and thus to bring about changes in doctrine on the part both of Zeno himself and of his immediate successors.

The beginning of the seventy-sixth poem of Catullus appears to cause some modern readers considerable dismay. One may instance the reactions of R. O. A. M. Lyne: ‘Our first reaction to the beginning of this poem may be one of incredulity’ (The Latin Love Poets [Oxford, 1980], p. 31); ‘The effect of such language is to imply an outrageous and implausible self-righteousness’ (ibid. 32); of K. Quinn: ‘a self-righteousness that makes us feel a little uncomfortable’ (The Catullan Revolution [Melbourne, 1959], p. 77); or of G. Williams: ‘this is sheer melodrama, a deft and surprising reversal of “count your blessings”’(Tradition and Originality in Roman Poetry [Oxford, 1968], p. 410); and, further down, on ‘si vitam puriter egi’: ‘This could be simply priggish or outrageous or both, but he does not mean it as a general statement’ (ibid.)

Plutarch, at De Stoicorum repugnantiis 1038e–1039a (= SVF iii. 211), quotes and briefly discusses a fragment from Chrysippus' On Zeus (Περ⋯ το⋯ Δι⋯ς). This quotation is to some extent paralleled by the scrap, taken from Chrysippus' On the Gods (Περ⋯ Θε⋯ν), which immediately follows at SR 1039a (= SVF Hi. 212). Both quotations are again referred to by Plutarch at De communibus notitiis 1061a (a testimony also included in SVF iii. 212). Although the correct constitution of the text is controversial, it is at least clear that the fragment from the On Zeus deals with the fact that not all virtuous acts are ipso facto also praiseworthy. Plutarch characteristically creates a first and more general contradiction between the On Zeus text and other passages in which Chrysippus argued that virtue and vice do not admit of gradations. In addition, he creates a specific contradiction between it and another quotation, this time from the On the Honourable (Περ⋯ καλο⋯), in which Chrysippus seems to draw the conclusion that the good is praiseworthy.

The phrase ire ad scopulum has long been the victim of a conspiracy of silence. The caput coniurationis, one might say, is an editorial prejudice against the transmitted text born of a rather misguided enthusiasm for Vossius' conjecture capulum. That conjecture has been a reliable fixture in the modern Lucretian vulgate since Havercamp first printed it in his text of the de rerum natura (Leiden, 1725). Before the publication of Havercamp's edition, however, scholars had not baulked at the transmitted text, rightly glossing it as a nautical metaphor for ‘ruin, destruction’: in the words of Lambinus (Paris, 1565), ‘ad interitum: translatum a navi, quae infligitur scopulo’. But after the appearance of Havercamp's edition editors and commentators strangely refused to give due consideration to the reading of the manuscripts, ignoring it for no better reason than a presumption of error. I propose, therefore, in the following discussion to expose the fallacious reasoning that undergirds such a presumption and to vindicate ire ad scopulum.

In a recent article I observed that Livy sees a dialectic at work in Roman history over the course of the reigns of the first four kings. The first king, Romulus, is associated with physical (i.e. military) strength and is devoted to war. His successor Numa is devoted to peace and to the advance of religion, law and the civilizing virtues. The Romulean thesis, having been answered by the Numan antithesis, reasserts itself in the reign of the third king, Tullus Hostilius. This time, devotion to war is even more intense: Tullus is ferocior (1.22.2) than Romulus. Excessive devotion to war, however, entailed the neglect of other things: towards the end of his reign, during a plague to which he himself eventually fell victim, Tullus turned to religion, hoping that the gods would end the pestilence if he could balance his Romulean devotion to war with a Numan concern for sacra. But his efforts were too late and inept. It was not until the reign of the fourth king, Ancus Marcius, that a synthesis was achieved. Ancus had a medium ingenium that fused the Romulean and Numan tendencies. The adoption of the ius fetiale by the Livian Ancus symbolizes this synthesis: the ius fetiale was a martial (i.e. Romulean) ritual, but it also acknowledged the Numan claims of religion and right.

As befits the proem to so original and immense an undertaking, this passage echoes, in order to retort them upon their inventors, the mythopoeic commonplaces of other ancient schools. One such commonplace was the assertion that some man was the first to effect a revolution in life or thought: those who held with Empedocles that Pythagoras was the first to see beyond his generation, or with Aristotle that Thales was the earliest cosmogonist and Plato the first discoverer of happiness, must learn that neither scientific truth nor human felicity was known before Epicurus. A figure dear to Plato and his admirers was that of the Gigantomachy: if he himself professed to fear that contemporary atomists would drag the heavens to earth, and Aristotle showed similar apprehensions with regard to some of Plato's own interpreters, they were right to foresee the destruction of their own systems, wrong to suppose that this portended anything but deliverance to mankind.

In his vigorous analysis of Dido's soliloquy J. Henry confronts the problem of line 543: ‘How comes it that, having just decided that she will not go with the Trojans, that they would not even receive her if she went, she so immediately inquires shall she go with them, alone or accompanied?’ He suggests that the words introduce ‘a new category of objections’; hitherto the issue has been between herself and the Trojans, but now she reflects that the Trojans are not the only people she has to deal with. To go alone is but to run away from her own people, and she cannot in the circumstances of their recent arrival at Carthage ask them to sail with her. ‘Even more impossible to leave Carthage than to go with Aeneas.’

The true relation between these scenes and historic fact is more mysterious and less simple. The metamorphosis takes place on a higher plane. Historic events and the poet's inner experience are stripped of everything accidental and actual. They are removed from time and transported into the large and distant land of Myth. There, on a higher plane of life, they are developed in symbolic and poetic shapes having a right to an existence of their own. The fact, therefore, that the subjection of the storm is described in a simile for a moment highlighting a very important sphere of the poem (namely that of the historical world) is more decisive than a possible allusion to the younger Cato.

The interplay of Greek and Roman motifs in the Marcellus eulogy at the end of the Sixth Book of the Aeneid presents a complicated study in literary history. The association of roses with the dead is more Roman than Greek, but perhaps not so much so as one might imagine. Roses are not entirely absent from the Greek milieu, and in fact Vergil apparently drew on Greek rose motifs for the eulogy. Archaeology reveals that roses were an important symbol on tomb stelai, along with the epigraphical references to roses. In general the rose in Greek inscriptions was reserved for girls, but at least one is for a boy, and another for a youth of twenty-two. Moreover, Vergil may well have been alluding to Bion's (?) Lament for Adonis, where the rose motif has striking importance.

The magnificence of Augustan Rome is the indispensable setting for Ovid the urbane love poet, rusticitas is the one unforgivable sin. Yet in Ovid's perpetuum carmen cities are for the most part invisible, at best incidental backdrops; the countryside, present in many vividly drawn landscapes, constantly thrusts itself on our attention, a place where mysterious powers menace the individual's identity. This neglect of the city makes a striking, and deliberate, contrast with the Aeneid, a ktistic epic whose meaning is governed by constant reference forward to the ‘altae moenia Romae’. Ovid, whose main epic time-scale does include the foundation of Rome, devotes five words to the making of those walls. The one major exception to this indifference to the central theme of Virgilian epic is the Theban episode in Metamorphoses 3.1–4.603. The story of Cadmus and his family forms a self-contained unit within the flux of Ovid's epic of transformation. It tells of a ktisis that goes wrong: Cadmus obeys Apollo's injunction to found a city (3.13 ‘moenia fac condas’), but in the end the exile who had founded a new home is driven into a second exile: ‘exit | conditor urbe sua’ (4.565f.).

The utterances of Claudius were celebrated, or rather notorious. Suetonius, like Tacitus himself, points out that he could be eloquent but that, especially when he spoke impromptu or added unrehearsed remarks to a prepared speech, he revealed that he had no sense of what was appropriate to his dignity as Princeps, or to the time, place and audience. The biographer cruelly collected various examples of his subject's verbal ineptitude.

In Satire 3, Umbricius states his intention to leave Rome and delivers a long explanation of his decision, an explanation which develops into an invective against life in Rome. In the lines quoted above, Umbricius lists the ‘skills’ which (he implies) are essential for success at Rome, ‘skills’ which he does not possess. The list comprises various mendacious, nefarious and criminal activities; Umbricius' stated inability to undertake such activities reinforces his claim to be a simple, honourable man (e.g. lines 21–2). In this list is his claim ‘I have never examined frogs’ entrails'. TLL glosses this passage ‘(sc. ueneni indagandi gratia)’ (TLL inspicio 1951.70), the view taken by Friedländer too (‘zur Bereitung von Gift’). Courtney takes a different view: ‘Presumably not for poisoning, which inspicere would hardly suit, but of divination … of an oriental type.’

The historian of ancient medicine has in recent years enjoyed one advantage over his more literary colleagues, the regular accession of substantial new texts by major authors. These have included not only fragments preserved on papyri and the membra disiecta gathered from later encyclopaedias and medical writings, but also complete treatises, some consisting of several books. There is, however, one drawback. Very few of these new texts are preserved in their original language, or even in a mediaeval Latin translation; most are to be found in versions done into Syriac, Arabic, or Hebrew, and hence they remain inaccessible to the average classicist without the intermediary of a further translation into a Western language. Besides, when such modern translations exist, they are not always easy to locate, even in the best-regulated libraries, and the supposed aridity of their contents acts as a further barrier to the dissemination of their information to students of ancient history and ancient philosophy. This paper is intended to bring to wider notice the most recent of such arrivals, and, by concentrating on what it has to say about Antonine society, to draw the attention of ancient historians to material that they might well overlook.

at ego tibi sermone isto Milesio varias fabulas conseram auresque tuas benivolas lepido susurro permulceam, modo si papyrum Aegyptiam argutia Nilotici calami inscriptam non spreveris inspicere. figuras fortunasque hominum in alias imagines conversas et in se rursum mutuo nexu refectas, ut mireris, exordior. ‘quis ille?’ paucis accipe. Hymettos Attica et Isthmos Ephyrea et Taenaros Spartiatica, glebae felices aeternum libris felicioribus conditae, mea vetus prosapia est; ibi linguam Atthidem primis pueritiae stipendiis merui, mox in urbe Latia advena studiorum Quiritium indigenam sermonem aerumnabili labore nullo magistro praeeunte aggressus excolui. en ecce praefamur veniam, si quid exotici ac forensis sermonis rudis locutor offendero. iam haec equidem ipsa vocis immutatio desultoriae scientiae stilo quern accessimus respondet. fabulam Graecanicam incipimus. lector intende: laetaberis.

The following excerpt from Proclus' Commentary on the Timaeus appears as Fr. 37 in the edition of the fragments of Numenius by Des Places.1 It is the aim of this study (1) to ascertain the original place of the fragment in his work, and (2) to show that it belongs to a second-century school of allegorical commentary on the ancient theologians, and particularly on Pherecydes of Syros, of which Numenius will have been one of the brightest luminaries.