The New York Daily Tribune for 20 December 1859 reported a pro-slavery meeting held the day before under the banner of ‘Justice for the South’ (the Civil War was less than eighteen months away). A lawyer named O'Connor spoke as follows:

Now, Gentlemen, to that condition of bondage the Negro is assigned by Nature…. He has strength, and he has the power to labour; but the Nature which created that power has denied him either the intellect to govern or the willingness to work. (Applause)…. And that Nature which denied him the will to labour gave him a master to coerce that will, and to make him a useful servant in the clime in which he was capable of living useful for himself and for the master who governs him…. I maintain that it is not injustice to leave the Negro in the condition in which Nature placed him, to give him a master to govern him…nor is it depriving him of any of his rights to compel him to labour in return, and afford to that master just compensation for the labour and talent employed in governing him and rendering him useful to himself and to the society.

That thoroughly Aristotelian defence of black slavery was identified as such by Karl Marx, reprinted in Kapital as a modern commentary on Aristotle's thinking on the role of the slave-owner.

The Trojan War has been perennially interesting, whether study centres on works of imaginative literature such as the epic poems of Homer and Virgil, the historical situation which provided the subject for those poems, the Bronze Age world of Troy and Mycenae which formed a background to the war, or the post-classical reworking of the material in the medieval Troy romances, Shakespeare, or Giraudoux. As well as supplying writers with incidents and episodes, the story of the war has given to artists a seemingly inexhaustible supply of themes on which their fancy feeds. A great proportion of Greek and Roman art can be connected with legends that stem from the Trojan War, and the whole complex of myths and history has proved a potent source for later artists. The theme chosen here is that of the Trojan Horse, and we shall look at some ways in which artists in antiquity viewed the incident.

Our views on literary patronage in the Augustan Age may be dominated to such an extent by the personality of Maecenas that other, contemporary, patrons are forgotten or, worse still, seen as pale reflections of the ‘ideal’ patron, Maecenas, and so best disregarded. Professor Ronald Syme, for example, in his notable chapter on Augustus' ‘Organization of Opinion’, writes that ‘Augustus’ chief of cabinet, Maecenas, captured the most promising of the poets at an early stage and nursed them into the Principate. Augustus himself listened to recitations with patience and even with benevolence. He insisted, however, that his praises should be sung only in serious efforts and by the best poets. The Princeps succeeded: other patrons of literature were left far behind.’ This article looks briefly at the work of those poets who were closely associated with one of these ‘other patrons’, M. Valerius Messalla Corvinus, and attempts to show that his patronage, and the poets' attitudes towards it, were essentially Republican in nature—a factor which should be kept in mind in making any comparison between Messalla's poets and those more directly concerned with the Princeps.

None of these three passages from the Iliad would be classified as anything other than an extended simile, but the differences between them in subject matter and what is compared make clear how difficult it is to make any simple summary of the nature and functions of the extended simile in Homer that would gain general assent. As the immense quantity of scholarship on these similes would indicate, it is impossible either to argue convincingly that they can have only one or two main functions in the narrative, or categorically to prove or deny that a particular simile has a certain effect or significance for the narrative. To give one brief example, Stephen Nimis usefully distinguishes six major trends in interpretation among earlier scholars' views on the function of similes in Homer: (1) the presentation of the generic alongside the individual, (2) creation of atmosphere, (3) imagistic continuity, (4) characterization and foreshadowing, (5) incorporating the past into the present, and (6) allusion to antecedent literary traditions. Not all of the three similes quoted above perform all of these functions at once, but they certainly perform more than one of them. The only definition that would probably be generally accepted is the rather dry and unhelpful one that a simile functions by briefly interrupting the narrative in order to compare one element in the narrative with another, in order to illuminate something about the original element in the narrative. Moreover, an extended simile begins from an original main point of comparison, but it compares the likeness of two things that are actually not alike in many other respects.

Ancient writers ascribed Rome's political difficulties during the last century of theRepublic to failures of character, specifically to ambitio, avaritia, luxuria, and libido. Sallust gives the clearest and best known account in the introductions to his monographs on Catiline and Jugurtha. The danger of decline had already been noticed by Polybius, and he indicated one point for the beginning of the process: the destruction of Carthage in 146 B.C. (6.57; 38.21 f.). No longer confronted by the external threat, Romans could relax and give themselves up instead to greed, luxury, and personal ambition. Livy seems to have accepted the same turning point: the first fifty books were devoted to the expansion of Rome down to the destruction of Carthage; those that followed paid more attention to Rome's internal problems. At the same time, Livy was not unaware of the importance of Cn. Manlius Vulso's campaigns in the east and his return in 187 B.C. laden with the spoils which marked the beginning of foreign luxury, including such unmentionable instruments of corruption as pedestal tables and sideboards (39.6, 7).

Students today demand that what they are taught or what they discuss is ‘socially relevant’. A topic appears to exhibit social relevance when it is related to some issue currently reckoned important and the subject of controversy. No topic at present is thought more socially relevant than the role of women in society. Extra-mural students can vote with their feet as undergraduates cannot, and it is significant how regularly the brochures of university extra-mural departments in Britain have come to feature courses with titles such as ‘Women's Studies’, ‘New Horizons for Women’, ‘Images of Women’, and ‘Women Speak’. Teachers of Classics have not been reluctant to devise their own courses on women in antiquity, and it is my impression that no university in North America is without a course of this type, while postgraduate seminars covering the same field of interest seem to have become firmly established throughout Western Europe. Books, articles, and notes on women and ancient society abound, and the resultant bibliography grows more and more daunting each year.

Most of this article will be concerned with the institutional organization of Athens’ public finances, but to provide the background to that I begin with some basic facts about income and expenditure. Athens’ finances, and Athenian administration generally, were on a larger scale and more complex than those of most Greek states – partly because Athens itself was an exceptionally large state, with a territory of 1,000 square miles (2,600 square kilometres) and a body of adult male citizens numbering perhaps 60,000 before the Peloponnesian War and 30,000 after; and partly because, in addition to its domestic business, for much of the fifth century Athens had the business of the Delian League to deal with and for forty years in the fourth century it had the business of its Second League. The Delian League was without precedent in the Greek world as an alliance founded with a view to ongoing warfare, and as an alliance to which many members from the beginning and almost all members after a while made contributions by annual cash payments of phoros (‘tribute’). Athens thus needed to develop skills in managing large and small sums of money to a much greater extent than other states. Athens’ administration depended largely on annually appointed officials, and our evidence gives prominence to the principle of accountability and to various accounting procedures; but, although Athens applied the principles in its own way, the principles were not distinctively Athenian or distinctively democratic: the use of rotating officials and of accounting procedures was widespread in Greek states of varying political complexions.

Like many features of democratic Athens, the legal system is both strikingly familiar and disturbingly alien to the modern reader. The principle of trial by a jury of laymen is one which, though intermittently criticized, remains the basis of the decision-making process in modern Britain. At the same time, the size of the jury panels, their powers, the reliance on volunteer prosecutors, the use of an exchange of speeches as the method of presentation, these and other features diverge significantly from accepted practice in our own courts. My concern in this paper is with one striking divergence, the way in which the relationship between the legal system and society at large is conceptualized, and with the problems it raises. In modern developed societies the law and the lawcourts are fenced around with procedural, psychological, and in some cases constitutional barriers. The law itself is a self-contained system, distinct from other coercive forces, and perceived as separate from the political life of the community. Procedures and participants in the courts are given a degree of protection from constraints which apply elsewhere, in order to ensure that all relevant information is disclosed and that a verdict is given on the facts of the case, taken as far as possible in isolation from the rest of the lives of the participants and the community. All these barriers are absent in the context of classical Athens. In practice and in conception the law and its administration are in some important respects indistinguishable from the life of the community in general.

Athenaeus (xiv. 640 b–c) quotes from the Olbia of Euboulos, the Middle Comedy poet, some lines which begin ⋯ν τῷ γ⋯ρ αὐτῷ πάνθ' ⋯μο⋯—a phrase reminiscent of Anaxagoras for ancient hearers and for modern readers—and which continue, παρ⋯ προσδοκίαν, as follows: ‘“Everything together in the same place” will be for sale at Athens, figs, summoners, bunches of grapes, turnips, pears, apples, witnesses, roses, medlars, haggis, honey-combs, chick-peas, lawsuits, beestings, beestings-pudding, myrtle-berries, allotment-machines, irises, lambs, water-clocks, laws, indictments.’

By the end of the first century A.D., the teachings of the philosophers as expounded by Cicero on the practice of liberalitas had been largely accepted, often even in detail, by members of the governing class at Rome. Such would not have been the situation in the last generation of the Roman republic. This paper will seek to explain the cautious attitudes to the quality shown in the last three quarters of the first century B.C., and the declining relevance of these reservations, with the consequent rehabilitation of the virtue, in the early principate.

The basilisk, or cockatrice, is no longer a familiar animal. It was, however, well known in the Middle Ages from St. Isidore's alarming account, which was very widely quoted in the bestiaries:

basiliscus graece, latine interpretatur regulus, eo quod rex serpentium sit, adeo ut eum videntes fugiant, quia olfactu suo eos necat; nam et hominem vel si aspiciat interimit. siquidem et eius aspectu nulla avis volans inlaesa transit, sed quam procul sit, eius ore conbusta devoratur. a mustelis tamen vincitur, quas illic homines inferunt cavernis in quibus delitescit; itaque eo visu fugit, quem ilia persequitur et occidit. nihil enim parens ille rerum sine remedio constituit. est autem longitudine semipedalis; albis maculis lineatus. reguli autem, sicut scorpiones, arentia quaeque sectantur, et postquam ad aquas venerint, δροφ⋯ βους et lymphaticos faciunt. sibilus idem est qui et regulus. sibilo enim occidit, antequam mordeat vel exurat.

The Iliad proceeds from an idea of hero which is pure and simple: a hero is one who prizes honour and glory above life itself and dies on the battlefield in the prime of life. Indeed, in spite of what Achilles says at a bitter moment of the choice between a short and glorious life and a long and obscure one, his actual choice is made when, warned by Thetis that Hector's death is only a prelude to his own, he prefers to kill Hector and die himself rather than leave Patroclus unavenged. Hector behaves in a similar way: having chosen honour over life, he remains outside the walls of Troy to meet his death at Achilles' hands. Hundreds of minor Iliadic warriors make the same choice in a less spectacular way, by the very fact that they volunteered to come to Troy in order to win glory in war. This is true both of young Simoeisios, who came to Troy even before he had time to take a wife, and fell ‘like a black poplar' at Ajax’ hands, and of Lycaon son of Priamus who, having slipped away from nearby Arisbe where he was kept in safety as a hostage, returned to the battlefield only to be taught in his last moments the bitter lesson that death is after all the inevitable conclusion to life.

Much has been written about the lengthy ecphrasis of the shield of Aeneas at the end of the eighth book of the Aeneid. It is less frequently remarked that the ecphrasis balances a shorter – but perhaps no less significant – description of Turnus’ arms at the end of the preceding book. If Aeneas’ shield is emblematic of the imperial destiny which rests upon his shoulders, a similarly symbolic value may also be attributed to the decoration on the armour of his opponent.

A great deal has been written recently on Aristophanes, and the Achamians in particular; inevitably, this has not produced agreement on how to interpret the plays. Among the questions to which different answers are still being given, and probably always will be, are the following: How far did Aristophanes seek to persuade the Athenians of his own political views, whatever they may have been? If there was a conflict between the presentation of his political views and the development of comic inventions or the desire to win the prize, which took precedence? Did the Athenians expect serious political persuasion in their comedies, and was Aristophanes innovative or traditional in these respects? More particularly, what were Aristophanes' attitudes to the Peloponnesian War? Did they change? How far did he seek to push a particular view in favour of making peace in any of the surviving three so-called peace plays?

This of course was Renaissance enthusiasm. The fame and influence which Plutarch enjoyed in the days of the rediscovery of antiquity could not survive the revolutions in historical and scholarly attitudes that marked the nineteenth century. Instead of being thought of as a mirror of antiquity and of human nature, he became a ‘secondary authority’, to be used where the ‘primary sources’ failed, himself to be quarried by the Quellenforscher and left a ruin. The present neglect of the Lives in education is a consequence of this. And yet it should be obvious that, for the very historical purposes for which the book is now chiefly studied, it is misleading and dangerous to use what is plainly one of the most sophisticated products of ancient historiography without constant regard to the plans and purposes of its author. Fortunately, a good deal has been written, especially in the last twenty years, to redress the balance.

Few would dispute that Frogs is one of Aristophanes’ supreme achievements; many would further claim as one of his most successful and famous scenes Dionysos’ encounter with those eponymous amphibians, the frogs themselves. This, however, brings us face to face with a major paradox which critics of Aristophanes frequently fail to emphasize in anything like adequate terms: quite simply, and astonishingly for such a well-loved scene, there is no scholarly agreement, even on the broadest level, as to how it was actually presented in the theatre. Apart from the fact that it is far from clear how Charon's boat was represented, we do not even have a sure answer to an even more basic question—whether those famous characters the frogs were visibly presented to the audience as yet another of Aristophanes’ coups de theatre, or whether they were only heard singing from offstage, thus altering the emphasis (or at least the focus) of the scene very considerably. Lack of agreement among scholars on such an important point is lamentable enough, but, worse, some recent criticism appears to have been developing a dangerous tendency not only to assert without adequate argument that the frogs were indeed visibly represented but, further, to build this highly insecure element into the foundations of various theories of wider significance as if it were a piece of orthodoxy. This suggests that a careful re-examination of the whole scene might not be out of place in an attempt to support or refute the ancient scholiastic opinion (Z Frogs 211), for long unquestioned, which states quite unequivocally ‘…the frogs are not seen in the theatre, nor is the chorus, but rather they imitate the frogs from offstage. The true chorus is composed of righteous souls of the dead.’ I will argue, from close consideration of the actual wording of the scene, and of its setting and action, that the frogs were indeed unseen and were only heard singing from somewhere offstage. To support this view, I believe important considerations of comparative dramatic practice, and even of natural history, can be adduced.

The Phormio, if we consider it from the viewpoint of artistic originality, is the least interesting of all Terence's works, because more than any other it approximates to the conventional type of New Comedy. Although it is characterized by a very complicated intrigue full of vivacity and animation, it lacks any particular delicacy in the psychological delineation of the characters.—M. R. Posani, ‘Il Formione di Terenzio’, Atene e Roma, ix (1941), 29.

The theme of the building and destruction of cities is a conspicuous one in the Aeneid. The poem opens with a paragraph which summarizes the suffering that is to lead to the building of ‘the walls of lofty Rome’, and this passage is linked by verbal echoes to Aeneas' entry not much later when he bewails the fact that he has not died a heroic death beneath ‘the lofty walls of Troy’. The city which is to rise and the city which has fallen are in their very different ways inescapable features of the Aeneid's geography.