It is curious that so little has been written in English about the Roman land surveyors and their work. Most of the nineteenth-century study of the subject was carried out by German scholars. In 1812 Niebuhr stressed the importance of the extant writings of the agrimensores and suggested that field-work in Italy would contribute to our understanding of them. In 1833 a Dane, Captain Falbe, noticed that the squares into which the land round Carthage was divided had sides corresponding to 2,400 feet and thus equalled a normal centuria. The standard edition of the agrimensores, edited by Blume, Lachmann, and others, appeared in 1848 and 1852. Mommsen contributed to this work, and he and other German scholars extended the study of Roman surveying. Before the First World War it was a Swede, Thulin, who furthered research on the ancient writings. Apart from that in German the bulk of the work on the subject is in Italian.

During the early archaic period, there was considerable interest in the heroic past and the acts of mythical ancestors, especially as embodied in epic. In particular, there are a number of archaic myths dealing with attempts to evade death and to gain immortality, mostly unsuccessful. All Greek heroes are descended from gods: having at least one god (or goddess) somewhere in the family tree is a prerequisite for achieving anything worthy of note. And in a few heroes, this sliver of divinity may be turned into full-blown immortality. It is a recurring theme in Greek myth, therefore, that there is a narrow window of possibility for a hero to escape his mortal status and not have to die. Behind such myths lies the fiction that, in a past age, immortality had been attainable; the heroes of the past might not have been immortalized often, but the chance had been there. This was contrasted with the present duller age, in which immortality was out of reach.

The ‘poetry’ of my title has at least the virtue of brevity as a description of the sort of literature Plato discusses in Books 2, 3, and 10 of the Republic. But in its Platonic sense ‘poetry’ is too narrow a description. Two characteristics recognized by Plato as invariably belonging to poetry (poiēsis) are (i) that what it composes are fictional stories (muthoi) (Phd. 61 b), and (ii) that it composes them in verse (Grg. 502 c; Smp. 205 c; R. 393 d, 601 d, 607 d; Phdr. 258 d). And the sort of literature discussed in the Republic, while it invariably has characteristic (i), does not invariably have (ii).

Pirates were frequently employed by the Diadochoi and the Epigonoi of Alexander as an auxiliary military or naval force, and some examples are given below. Unfortunately, the surviving evidence does not allow us to do more than make the general statement. The evidence for piratical activity is largely in the form of personal anecdotes, and the evidence for the nature of Hellenistic military and naval establishments is nothing more than a record of a few persons and/or positions. The authors of our scant literary sources, especially those who wrote many generations after the events which they describe, were not attempting to analyse the role of pirates for posterity, thus they often use the word ‘pirate’ with a notable lack of precision, if they use it at all. Nevertheless, a review of the existing evidence suggests a rather remarkable degree of social and occupational mobility in the third century B.C.

Fourth-century Athens was the scene of heated professional jealousy between the exponents of different systems of education. One of the most distinguished educational figures of the age was the rhetorician Isocrates, who in the early years of this century opened a school at Athens which attracted pupils from the most illustrious families throughout the Greek world. His father had owned a flute-factory and a moderate income had enabled him to give his son an excellent education. But during or shortly after the Peloponnesian War the family property was lost, and when in 403 the democracy was restored, Isocrates found himself compelled to put his education to some practical use. Physical disabilities, we are told, prevented his taking an active part in public life, and for some years he followed the career of a λογογράφος, one who composed speeches for his clients to deliver in the law-courts. It is a period of his life to which he makes no allusion in his works and we may assume that he was glad to abandon this profession for one better suited to his talents.

A country so situated that its growth depends on sea-power and foreign trade heads an alliance against an emperor bent on adding a good part of Europe to his dominions. The emperor is defeated; and in an ample stretch of comparatively quiet years the champion of freedom finds opportunity to take the lead among its neighbours in the arts of peace. At home, democratic institutions are developed towards their logical completion; abroad, ambition is satisfied by consolidating an empire overseas. A golden age of prosperity and progress—or so it will seem when men look back upon it from the darker days that are to come. For an expanding prosperity has to reckon with the jealousy of commercial rivals; and an expanding empire is not always welcomed as a boon by the countries it penetrates and absorbs. There is a growing tension. A continental power, whose citizens are trained to the highest pitch of military efficiency, declares war. The States are grouped in two alliances, neither of which is strong enough to overpower the other or to inflict a fatal wound. No soldier of genius appears on either side, and the war drags on in a series of futile successes and futile defeats. The strain of anxiety and the release of those ugliest passions which, in time of war, assume the name of virtue, demoralize the combatants. The tacit conventions that lie at the base of civilized life are called in question or openly denied. Men lose faith in democracy, and even in freedom; they come near to losing faith in life itself. Somewhere at the heart of their being a nerve snaps; and when the war of exhaustion comes to a disastrous close, they are left disheartened and listless, unable to believe in a future worth the effort they lack the driving power to make.

Dr. Alington's golden darts are, as usual, exquisitely fashioned, but they are poor things in a desperate defence and ensure victory to the enemy all along the line.

We have most of us been surprised when, after reading the history of the late Republic, we first discovered that in the year 50 a motion was proposed in the Senate that Pompey and Caesar should both lay down their commands, that it was passed by 370 votes to 22, and that it was disregarded in the interests of the optimate leaders. Who were these 370 men, and why do we not hear more of them? We have read, of course, that the Senate consisted of this or that number at this or that time; and then we read all about the Claudii and Metelli, with scarcely a word about the massed ranks behind them. Yet there they are, and the picture is incomplete without them. It is likely that we shall never complete it satisfactorily—there are so many of them we do not know, and the few we do know are quite likely to be exceptional in some way—but we can at least make a start by considering the numbers involved and the likely divergence as well as the unity of their interests.

A country probably gets the system of education it deserves. But lucky is that country where education is a natural growth and a tradition rather than the clean-cut system of an expert. Sparta very clearly followed a very ancient tradition—very ancient and very novel, as Xenophon says: παλαιοὶ ὄντες ἔτι καὶ νυ̃ν τοι̃ς ἄλλοις καινότατοί εἰσι—‘new ideals’ in education are usually the oldest.

Between Celtic and Graeco-Roman art there existed an irreconcilable antagonism. Celtic art, the art of pre-Roman Gaul, was essentially decorative and abstract, loving geometric motifs and the stylization of living forms for purposes of ornamentation; whereas Graeco-Roman art favoured naturalism and anthropomorphism. No real synthesis of these two opposed artistic doctrines was possible; so that Gallo-Roman art, the result of an attempt at an impossible synthesis, forced upon the Celtic artist by his Roman conqueror, is, judged by a purely aesthetic criterion, a very mediocre product. Its interest, therefore, is not primarily aesthetic, but historically its importance is paramount; for the extant sculptures, in all their diversity and extent, throw a flood of light on the religious cults, social customs, and economic conditions of Roman Gaul. Confining ourselves to Gallo-Roman religious sculpture, our object here is to give a general survey of the iconography of peculiarly Celtic deities which survived in the Roman province, as represented in sculptures of stone and bronze. Our concern, then, is not with Celtic religion as a whole, but only with its artistic aspect in the Roman era; but even so, literary and epigraphical evidence will frequently prove illuminating in the interpretation of the works of art. We must, clearly, exclude from our scope all purely Graeco-Roman divinities imported into Gaul, together with the Oriental and Egyptian deities of the second and third centuries a.d., and the later Christian monuments. Out of this sentina numinum, this kitchen-midden of all sorts of cults, we select for discussion here only the religious imagery of Celtic divinities which survived the Roman domination. But, before embarking on this venture, a brief sketch of the salient features of Celtic religion will be relevant.

Macedonia was the springboard of the movement which led to the conquest of the Persian Empire. Though Philip and Alexander ostensibly embarked on war with Persia as Leaders (Hegemones) of the Greeks, and though the Greek cities did make their military and naval contribution—not to mention the comfort and support furnished by certain Greek publicists, intellectuals, and politicians—nevertheless the essential power which had harnessed Greece and now was to harness Persia came from Macedonia and the Macedonians, officially unmentioned, and in many Greek circles unmentionable.

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.

Σαῦλος ὁ καὶ Παῦ λος: or St. Paul and the Greek World. That is my subject, but before I come to it, I should like to say two words about myself—both by way of apology and to explain how I am dealing with it.

Around the year 362 B.C., Iphikrates and Timotheos, two Athenian generals who had been bitter rivals for a decade, ended their feud in the best fashion of aristocratic dynasts: a marriage was arranged between Timotheos' daughter and Iphikrates' son ([Dem.] 49.66). Assumedly, the principal motive behind this strategic rapprochement was the mutual belief that it would be in the interests of both generals to concentrate their attentions elsewhere: that is, on the various enemies each had acquired over the years spent in office. This could best be achieved without each having to concern himself with the activities of the other vis-ὰ-vis the constant political infighting that characterized Athenian politics, and the stratēgia in particular.

In this paper I want to challenge a view of the Aeneid which I believe to be widespread, and indeed to have had the support of distinguished scholars. I could summarize it like this: The Aeneid has, of course, many great passages; indeed, over whole books, it reaches the heights of epic poetry—Bk. ii, The Fall of Troy; Bk. iv, Aeneas and Dido; Bk. vi, The Underworld; Bk. viii, Aeneas at the Site of Rome; Bk. xii, Aeneas and Turnus. But, on the whole, it is inferior in interest to the Iliad or the Odyssey; and the chief cause of this is the unsatisfactory nature of its hero. Aeneas, in short, ‘will not do’. Now it is no part of my purpose to try to set Virgil against Homer: that is a rash undertaking, and one against which we have a salutary warning. ‘It is easier’, we are told, ‘to take a cub from its she-bear than to take a single line from Homer.’ If that is so, what of the dangers of trying to take two whole poems? Instead, I wish to join issue on the character of Aeneas, while agreeing so far with his critics, that he is indeed vital to the whole poem—if you cannot understand and sympathize with Aeneas, you cannot understand the Aeneid. Virgil himself makes that clear in the first twenty lines, in which he strikes all the notes which are to be sustained throughout the poem.

Street-reciters were a feature of the ancient city (cf. Dio Chrys. Orat. 20.9 f.). Suetonius may include them (or their performances) under ‘triviales ex circo ludios’ (MS ludos), but they were certainly called circulatores (schol. on Pers. 1.134, quoted below; Jerome, Epist. 53.7; Augustine, contra Iul. op. imp. 5.15). This term may describe any huckster who attracts a street-crowd (circulus), and some hawkers of wares may have recited versicles as part of their routines to attract customers (cf. Satyricon 68.6 f.). In any case, as applied to a street-reciter, circulator aptly evokes the lowly circumstances and quality of his performances. And it was understandably galling to associate a poet or his works with such a figure. The slur of Vergil's Menalcas springs readily to mind (Eel. 3.26 f.): ‘non tu in triviis, indocte, solebas/stridenti miserum stipula disperdere carmen?’ Other references to the street-reciter, however, seem less well recognized.

‘In the last lines of the poem he [Aeneas] killed Turnus, after relenting, just for revenge, in memory of Pallas, whom Turnus had killed, and because he saw the belt of Pallas, which Turnus was wearing. It was sheer vindictive vengeance. At the end of the Aeneid, Rome is sure; but we do not know that Dido would have liked the new Aeneas as much as the old.’ (Jackson Knight, Roman Vergil, p. 142.)

If the death of Turnus is an act of sheer vindictive vengeance which assures the foundation of Rome, then the Aeneid is, ultimately, a national epic, no less, but no more. Is this interpretation valid?

It is true that, after a moment of relenting in which the life of Turnus hangs in the balance, Aeneas sees the belt of Pallas, and, overcome with fury, kills Turnus. This is an act of vengeance, but what for?

The reference to the belt of Pallas leads us back to the tenth book. The death of Pallas at the hands of Turnus is described, not as an event of importance in itself, but in close parallelism and contrast to the death of young Lausus at the hands of Aeneas. These two deaths, which are the first outstanding events of the war, are carefully introduced: the book opens with a council of the gods, the return of Aeneas, a catalogue of the Etruscan forces which he is bringing with him, his encounter with the nymphs who warn him of the situation, and finally his landing.

§ I. Augury

The legend that Aeschylus met his death when a bird of prey, possibly a lammergeyer, dropped a tortoise upon his bald head is apocryphal, but is at least as old as Sotades. It suggests that he was assoiciated with augry in popular belief. This view is supported by another statement in the Aìσχλoν βìоς, as well as by references in the extant plays and fragments.

According to the former the poet, while in Sicily, produced a play entitled αì Aìτναi or αi to mark the occasion of the foundation of Aìτνη by Hiero—oiωνi∊óμ∊νoς βìoν ἐγαθòν τoiς σu;νoiκí∊oνσi τὴν Πóλiν. It is very probable that oiωνi∊óμ∊νoς is employed here in a loose, non-technical sense, but it is also possible that the play included a description of the omens which were observed at the spot where the city was founded.

German life and letters in the earlier eighteenth century were dominated almost exclusively by French influences. The fragmentation of the German-speaking world within the clumsy and largely imaginary framework of the Holy Roman Empire, the appalling devastation of the Thirty Years War, and the consequent dearth of a living autochthonic cultural tradition had led German intellectuals to look to the impressive achievements of Versailles as the only alternative to barbarism. Leibniz, the greatest philosopher of the German Enlightenment, wrote in Latin and French; Gottsched, an ardent admirer of the Grand Siècle, translated Corneille and Racine and urged imitation of their style upon his fellow countrymen; Frederick the Great, whose indifferent French verse Voltaire had the irksome privilege of correcting, possessed at his palace of Sanssouci (itself an imitation of Versailles) a magnificent library which contained not a single work in German, and though he is said to have had an eloquent command of German expletives, spoke only French at court.