The infant community of Rome grew up with neighbours who conceded a fairly high place to women. Etruscan sepulchral art suggests as much; the tomb paintings of early Campania show the womenfolk spruce, dignified, and house-proud; the authoritarian rule of the Sabine mother was traditional. Granted that in certain places and at certain times women were taboo, in a sense ‘infectious’, to use Warde Fowler's word, yet in the home the Roman wife had never been banished to a gynaeceum. The Atrium, the heart of the Roman house, was the wife's territory as much as the husband's. Though every Roman household was a monarchy with the paterfamilias as king, the womenfolk were no more, if no less, his subjects than the sons. When the Roman husband carried his wife into the Atrium, and she spoke the sacramental words ‘ubi tu Gaius ibi ego Gaia’, she made a claim that, in its due sphere, was admitted. In this sphere the Roman husband was more at home than the Greek, who hated not to be out of doors in the daytime. In a speech which Tacitus writes for Valerius Messalinus there is the truly Roman phrase ‘revertentibus post laborem quod honestius quam uxorium levamentum?’—‘the relief of a wife's society’—a society, that is, to quote another phrase from the same passage, ‘consortium rerum secundarum adversarumque’. When Lucretius writes:

iam iam non domus accipiet te laeta, neque uxor optima nee dulces occurrent oscula nati praeripere et tacita pectus dulcedine tangent the adjectives carry a weight of feeling.

The relationship of man to his domestic animals is an ever-fascinating study: they are so near to us, yet so remote, so like us, yet separated from us by an abyss. Of some we make pets; others we merely use, to work for us or to give us food or clothing. To each species we assign a character, and we like or dislike its members according to our prejudice. In studying a people, we cannot ignore their attitude towards the animals which form part of their daily lives.

The most revealing relationship is perhaps that between man and the domestic cat; but the cat does not seem to have been known in Greece Proper as a domestic animal; and although it was known in the Greek colonies of southern Italy by the fifth century b.c., it remained almost an Egyptian monopoly until Imperial Roman times. When the αϊλoυρoς in Greece is mentioned, apparently the polecat, the ancestor of our ferret, is meant. The horse and dog are good subjects for this study; but I pass them over for the present, the horse because too much is said of him, the dog because what is said is not particularly interesting. Many pleasant things are said of pigs by the Greeks, the pig being to them the type of clumsiness, bad temper, and stupidity as well as of uncleanliness; for instance, there is ς óἀ ῥóωv of a brutish fellow in refined surroundings; and the Chorus Leader's threat in the Lysistrata λσω τἠν ἐμαυτς ν shows that the Greeks knew what it was to incur the wrath of a sow.

The present war will leave architects unexpected and wonderful opportunities for replanning our cities and making them more worthy of the name ‘city’. The impressive schemes already laid before the public show that they intend to be ready when the moment comes. They will produce something better than a formless huddle of shops and slums or a wide but still formless expanse of suburbs. A more organic structure will be their object, built round a vital centre. In achieving this the creators of the new towns will be guided first and last by the needs and ways of life of those who will have to live in them. These will not be sacrificed to tradition or to artistic fancy. There will be no meaningless imitation and no appeal to precedent unless it is based on similar ways of life and similar ideas. For these reasons one hesitates to turn to classical precedents; but perhaps there is something in the ancient Greek city, the polis, which is not altogether foreign to the modern spirit, and arising out of this, elements in its architectural form which are applicable to modern needs.

The city in the best sense of the word was a Greek creation. The polis was a compact community in which life was so organized that each citizen could get the greatest benefit from his membership. It was not so large that he was completely swallowed up, but it was sufficiently large for him to enjoy a rich and full political and economic, social and intellectual life.

The riddle is probably the oldest form of humour and originated in the desire of primitive man to show off his cleverness. Having noticed some analogy in nature, he threw his discovery into the form of a question, hoping to score off a fellow-man who failed to produce the correct answer. The Riddle of the Sphinx is merely an interrogative form of the observation made by some early Boeotian that infants crawled, men walked upright, and old men employed a stick. It is a sign of the antiquity of riddles that among the Greeks they were usually expressed in poetry, showing that they go back to a time before writing was in common use and a verse form was a useful aid to memory.

The tradition of the riddle goes back to very early times. According to one account Homer is said to have died of vexation because he could not answer a riddle asked him by the boys of Cos: ‘What we caught we left; what we did not catch we have brought.’ Another early riddle is that propounded by Samson: ‘Out of the eater came forth meat and out of the strong came forth sweetness.’ (It may be noticed that these two riddles are not actually put in the form of a question.) Dius, the historian of Phoenicia, tells us that King Solomon and Hiram, King of Syria, sent each other riddles for solution and an agreement was made that the unsuccessful competitor should pay a large sum of money to his successful rival, with the result that Hiram had to pay a large amount to Solomon until finally he gained the upper hand by calling in the help of Abdemun, one of his subjects.

Among the scanty stage directions in the present text of Shakespeare's plays one reads things like ‘Alarums’ or ‘Drum heard’ or ‘Noise and tumult within’ or ‘March afar off and shot within’. The Elizabethan producer had, it seems, little apparatus and made much play with such a device as ‘noises off’. The simplicity, not to say crudity, of the means at his disposal may not have served him ill. Perhaps an audience is more easily stirred to pity and terror by the sound of distant gunfire than by a realistic battle-scene elaborately produced on a modern stage with its many resources of furniture and lighting. The eyes of the ignorant may be more learned than their ears, but the ears are more imaginative: at least they were when Agamemnon and Henry VIII first walked the stage. Aeschylus, at any rate, and Shakespeare did make effective use of sound effects. It is not altogether fanciful to suppose that all ancient poets practise a similar technique. Homer, Od. 1. 351:

‘When we come to Euripides’, writes Pearson, in his introduction to the Phoenissae, ‘we are let down to earth…. If our notions of ancient art are shaped on the ideal pattern, we experience a feeling as of a sudden jar or shock when brought face to face with the realistic aspect of a Euripidean play; there is what seems at first sight a blending of the ancient point of view with the modern, an acquiescence in the ugliness of certain features of suffering which we are apt to think more appropriate to the twentieth century…. With every fresh disaster we are forced to utter the question—why should such things be? And at the same time we are driven to admit that, though we cannot explain them, they are none the less true.’ This is pre-eminently true of the Hercules Furens.

The Hercules Furens rivals the Bacchae in the strangeness of its theme, and if it can be demonstrated that these two plays were built out of the stuff of real life, an important point has been made in support of the contention that Euripides’ prime interest was the character of men and women, and that his dramatic presentation of humanity is marked by psychological insight of the highest order, and based upon a notable acuteness of observation. What, we may ask, led Euripides to choose as a subject of tragedy the strange tale of the madness of Heracles? The Attic associations of the myth, which were his main concern in the Heracleidae, cannot have been his chief motive in this case.

The fame of Seneca rests on his work as a philosopher and a writer of tragedies on the Greek model. But he can also lay claim to be a humorist. For in what perhaps was an unguarded moment he wrote an amusing satire on the emperor Claudius with the strange title Apocolocyntosis.

The piece is so inconsistent with the high tone of his philosophical writings that it has received from critics almost universal reprobation. Seneca's admirers would be better pleased if his authorship could be questioned. But there is no ground for supposing that the satire is by another pen.

It might be thought that the writer who composed the funeral oration on Claudius could not be so base as to switch so quickly from eulogy to satire. But the formality of a graveside encomium need not preclude more honest sentiments when the funeral is over. It may well be that even in the panegyric Seneca had his tongue in his cheek, for Tacitus remarks that when the speaker (it was Nero) referred to the wisdom and foresight of the dead prince no one could refrain from laughter.

The title presents a problem, for there is no mention in the satire of the transformation of Claudius into a gourd or pumpkin. This has led some to the view that the work is incomplete. Others hold, with the support of Lewis and Short, that the word for a gourd, cucurbita, was used in the metaphorical sense of ‘fathead’ or ‘blockhead’, like the German Kürbiskopf, and thus it is assumed that the witticism is limited to the title.

In assessing the characteristics of Cicero's oratory we are in the unfortunate position of being unable to compare him with his contemporaries and predecessors. The speeches of Hortensius and of the other famous orators of Cicero's day are lost, as are those of Crassus and Antonius, the much admired figures of his boyhood, with whom, according to the Brutus, Roman oratory first equalled Greek. Yet though we know little of the other orators of the Roman Republic, it is possible by a study of Cicero's speeches and of his oratorical writings to get a fairly good idea of his special characteristics.

A passage in the Brutus will serve as a useful introduction to a brief study of Ciceronian oratory.

[‘Before the time of Hortensius] there was no orator’, says Cicero, ‘who appeared to have studied literature more deeply than the common run of men—literature which is the fountain-head of perfect eloquence; no one who had embraced philosophy—the mother of all good deeds and good words; no one who had learnt civil law—a thing most necessary for private cases, and essential to the orator's good judgement; no one who had at his command the traditions of Rome, from which if occasion demanded he could call up most trustworthy witnesses from the dead; no one who by rapid and neat mockery of his opponent could unbend the minds of the jurymen and turn them for a while from solemnity to smiling and laughter; no one who could widen an issue and bring his speech from a limited dispute referring to a particular person or time to a general question of universal application; no one who could delight by a temporary digression from the issue, or could move the judge to anger or to tears, or in fact—which is the special quality of the orator—could turn his feelings whithersoever the occasion demanded.’

If we cast merely a cursory glance at Lycurgus’ laws we are really agreeably surprised. Of all similar institutions of Antiquity they are undoubtedly the most perfect, excepting the laws of Moses which they resemble in many parts, above all in the principles underlying them. They are really complete within themselves; everything is dovetailed, each part supported by the whole and the whole by each single part. Lycurgus could not have chosen a better way to reach the goal he had before his eyes: that of a State which, isolated from all others, should be self-sufficient and maintain itself through internal circulation and its own vital strength. No lawgiver has ever given a State such unity, such national interest, such public spirit as Lycurgus gave to his State. Now, how did Lycurgus accomplish this?

Because he knew how to direct his fellow-citizens’ activities towards the State and closed all other outlets that might have drawn them away from it.

All that captivates the human mind and arouses human passions, all save political interests, had been removed by his legislation. Wealth and luxury, science and the arts had no access to the Spartans’ minds. As all were equally poor the comparison of fortune which makes most men covetous was abolished. The longing for possessions ceased with the opportunity of displaying or using them. Profound ignorance of art and science dulled all minds in Sparta in an equal manner. By this means he safeguarded the State from any interference that an enlightened brain might have caused in the Constitution.

The leaflet announcing the formation of the Virgil Society, and the reprint from The Times Literary Supplement revived pleasant, although dim, memories of evenings before the war spent reading Virgil with a small group of friends and former pupils…. It would be impossible now to reassemble that group…. And then the thought of the present VIth arose. School groups were mentioned in the leaflet. Could we not form a reading group and link ourselves to the main body of the Virgil Society? Tentatively I suggested it to two of the VIth and showed them the reprint. They were at once enthusiastic, and so others were told. In this way we formed our branch of the Virgil Society.

As the most important thing is to read Virgil we have decided to hold six readings a year—one at the beginning and end of every term. In addition we hope to have two lectures. So far we have had two readings and we are having our first lecture on 20 September, when we shall have the pleasure of hearing Professor J. F. Mountford of Liverpool University on ‘Why Virgil wrote the Aeneid’. This is to be an open meeting, and we are inviting parties from other schools and our own parents and friends.

Our readings are great fun and not a bit like lessons, although we read and translate Virgil just as we do in class. The atmosphere is quite different, probably because the readings take place out of school hours and are preceded by tea—provided, prepared, and washed up by the members.