Nineteenth–century scholars assumed that the Athenians as a community punished citizens with death, exile, atimia, and fines and used imprisonment only to hold those awaiting trial, those awaiting execution, and those unable to pay fines.1 As they saw it, brief imprisonment in the stocks occasionally supplemented these penalties, but always as additional penalty–never as a penalty on its own. Barkan saw in the use of imprisonment as an additional penalty the likelihood of general penal imprisonment and used evidence from the oratorical corpus to make an argument therefore.2 His argument seems to have been largely ignored–the nineteenth–century interpretation continuing dominant; and the issue, largely unexplored but for a few glancing references in recent scholarship.3 The issue remains, thus, sufficiently vexed to make worthwhile a restatement of the argument for the use of punitive imprisonment. Also, the evidence provides clues worth setting forth as to why and when punitive imprisonment developed. Indeed, these are sufficient to make an argument about the relevance of the development to Athenian political history. For the introduction of penal imprisonment in Athens proves an extremely important historical moment, marking as it does both the completion of a general will institutionalized (in a punishment of consumption of the wrong–doer within, rather than of expulsion from, the community) and a significant point in the establishment of isonomia.

We know enough about Posidonius' life to trace his wanderings: he was born into a wealthy and influential family in Apamea, Syria; he went through all the steps of an Hellenistic education; in Athens he encountered his Stoic teacher Panaetius; and finally he settled—except for some travelling throughout the Mediterranean and to Rome—in the high society of Rhodes, where he actively participated in political life and headed a Stoic school.

In the publication of their second journal of archaeological travels in Cilicia, Bean and Mitford included the text of an unusual inscription from the site of ancient Syedra. The text has previously been discussed by Louis Robert, by the Hungarian historian of piracy Egon Maróti, and also by H. W. Parke. Although all four made suggestions about the date and interpretation of the inscription, no firm conclusions were reached.

Dotted throughout the records of the turbulent last decades of fourth-century Athens are reports—often frustratingly vague—of prosecutions, many of intellectuals on the charge of (136xxx1). Most belong to the period of Macedonian domination: Theophrastus was one targeted at this time, and we hear also of actions against Demetrius of Phalerum, Theodorus the atheist, and Stilpo of Megara. Even before the Athenian capitulation to Macedon, in the immediate aftermath of the death of Alexander, prosecutions were launched against Demades and Aristotle. These two early (and relatively well documented) prosecutions are generally accepted to have had a political purpose, being attacks aimed at Macedonian sympathizers by the more staunchly pro-democratic Athenian elements; the later trials, however, are poorly attested in the sources and have received less scholarly attention, particularly for their political aspects.

So far, interpreters have not made the import of this last clause clear. F. J. Church (followed later by R. E. Allen) translates the last phrase ‘they act at random’. Burnet says of Adam (who understands ( after this phrase and translates ‘They treat a man just as it occurs to them’) that he seems to have been the first to point out that the meaning cannot be ‘they act at random’. Instead, ‘the phrase expresses indifference’. Adam′s idea, which Burnet here commends, is that the many are thoughtless in their treatment of the individual; and Adam compares 48C below: the many would lightly put someone to death and just as lightly bring him back to life again. The Burnet-Adam point is evidently that the many have a policy of acting indifferently, or just as it occurs to them—by contrast with the ‘at random’ in Church′s translation, which suggests that they act without policy at all.

To the extent that one subscribes to the proposition, by now a virtual principle of criticism (at least in some circles), that literary texts constitute sites for the negotiation, often vigorous, of power relations within a society, the reader of Catullus can hardly avoid some consideration of the poet's attitude toward contemporary political matters. It is a subject on which two principal lines of thought can be traced. Mommsen argued that Catullus responded to the enormities that followed the reinvigoration of the First Triumvirate at the conference of Luca in 56 by occupying a thoroughly optimate position. Wilamowitz, on the other hand, insisted that Catullus' lyrics reflect only moments of the author's individual experience, amongst which expressions of personal distaste for certain public figures naturally appear but nothing which can appropriately be taken as indications of a political stance. The approach of Wilamowitz has proved more influential, followed in spirit if not in specifics by numerous commentators. To the degree that Catullus has been assimilated to the Augustan elegists, whose poems have been deemed by a scholar of the stature of Veyne to be anti-political in nature, it has been all the easier to reject the idea that Catullus adopts a political position, an assessment strongly maintained in a recent study by Paul Allen Miller, for whom the rejection of all political engagement is the sine qua non of true lyric poetry. Mommsen's optimate Catullus has lately found his champion, however, in a careful article by H. P. Syndikus. Although Miller and Syndikus, like Wilamowitz and Mommsen, draw diametrically opposed conclusions concerning politics in Catullus' poetry, they are agreed nevertheless that politics can be regarded as a relatively straightforward term: it refers to statecraft, matters of government, and party strife. Other readers, however, have been more self-conscious in their theoretical concerns, a salutary consequence of which has been a shift by some to a less narrow conception of the field of reference appropriate to discussions of ‘the political’ in Latin literature.

After having been for some while the butt of conservative critics, verse transpositions in Propertius have, mainly thanks to the work of G. P. Goold, again become respectable among scholars. In his edition of Catullus, Tibullus, and Propertius J. J. Scaliger (first edition: Paris 1577,2Antwerp 1582, several times reprinted), the great archeget of the method, had subjected the other great elegist of Propertius’ generation to the same treatment,2 and in fact one of Scaliger's transpositions is supported by external evidence: 1.5.71–6 belong after 6.32; this is confirmed by Ovid's imitation in Trist. 2.447ff. Trist. 2. 459–60 (scit, cui latretur, cum solus obambulet, ipsel cui totiens clausas excreet ante fores) echo Tib. 1.6.31f. (ille ego sum, nee me iam dicere uera pudebit.l instabat tola cui tua node canis) and 5.73 (et simulat transire domum, mox deinde recurritl solus et ante ipsas exscreat usque fores). That Ovid should have brought together in one distich verses from two different Tibullian poems may not seem wholly impossible, but much less likely than that the lines in Tibullus were also consecutive, in particular because the distich immediately preceding 459f. clearly refers to the situation of Tib. 1.6.

Aristotle thinks that in order to remember, (1) one must be cognizant of aphantasmaused as a copy of that of which it is a phantasma,and (2) one must be cognizant of the time at which the original (i.e. now remembered) experience occurred (449b22–3, 450b25–451a8). In De Memoria1, he uses the first half, (1), of this schematic account in order to explain certain kinds of mis-rememberings. For instance, he says that mad people sometimes conjure up fantastic images and take them to be memories of past experience; such episodes are mis-remembering, because these people use that which is not a copy as if it were a copy (451a8-l 1). In De Memoria2, Aristotle returns to the topic of mis-remembering (although it may now be more accurate to call it mis-recollecting1) and here he uses the second half, (2), of his schematic account, together with the first, in order to explain additional sorts of mistakes. He claims that we sometimes recall the image of an event and properly use it as a copy, but we get the time wrong (thinking, for example, that an event occurred a week ago, when actually it occurred yesterday), and thus we fail to remember; further, he claims that we sometimes get the time right, but fail to use an image as a copy of the events which occurred during that time. In each case we fail to remember; for in order to remember we must both use an appropriate copy as a copy and (more or less) accurately cognize the time (452b27–9).

The origins and nature of the judicial role of the senate in cases which under the republic were the business of the permanent quaestiones have been the subject of long debate, and a satisfactory explanation has yet to be found for the change that had undoubtedly taken place by the reign of Tiberius. The discovery and publication of the senatorial decree which concluded the investigation into the charge brought in A.D. 20 against Cn. Piso following the murder of Germanicus,2 in addition to the wealth of new material it provides for the political history of the period and the understanding of the methods of the historian Tacitus, allows an insight into the relation of the senate to the quaestio maiestatis which may prove useful in unravelling some of the puzzles which have troubled scholars hitherto.

‘Quot editores, tot Propertii’(‘For every editor, a different Propertius’) has been a familiar—and much misunderstood—phrase in Propertian scholarship ever since it first appeared in the preface to Phillimore′s Oxford Classical Text of 1901. In its original context it described not an existing situation but rather the chaos that Phillimore alleged would result if editors began to adopt significant numbers of transpositions. Such chaos, however, does characterize the current state of Propertian studies; every interpreter seems to create a different Propertius, who in the last twenty-five years has been represented as a feminist, a neurotic traumatized by the siege of Perugia, an anti-Augustan iconoclast, an apostle of love oppressed by a quasi-Stalinist principate, a decadent pre-Raphaelite, and most recently as the ‘modernist poet of antiquity’.

For a homicidal tyrant Domitian was disconcertingly droll. A number of examples of is ‘sardonic wit’ survive. One of them was so good that Marcus Aurelius supposedly repeated it, and attributed it to Hadrian rather than Domitian on the grounds that good sayings had no moral force if they came from tyrants.3 Domitian also possessed a talent for writing. Suetonius (Dom.2.2, 20) and Tacitus (Hist.4.86.2) claim that his interest in literature was merely a pretence, but Domitian′s contemporaries claim for him genuine ability, and here for once they seem much closer to the mark, as Coleman argues.

H.-U. Wiemer opposes the image which Libanius gives of Constantine in his fifty-ninth oration (Panegyric of Constantius and Constans) to that which emerges from his later works, especially those of the Theodosian period when hostility is obvious, mirroring the opinion of pagan circles, who held this Emperor responsible for most of the calamities endured by the Empire in the fourth century. As the epideictic genre required, in 344/5 or in 348/9 the father had to be praised so that the sons could be praised too. However, Wiemer claims that ‘the panegyric of 344/5 already foreshadows the critical view’, by remaining silent about Christianity, the founding of Constantinople, and the tax policy on the one hand, and on the other hand by clearly declaring Constantine responsible for the war against Persia, which troubled the entire reign of Constantius. I wish to supplement these remarks with a few others and to suggest that the portrait of Constantine in Oration 59 presents us with a case of ‘disguised intention’—a rhetorical proceeding based on ὑποδήλωσις and παραψόγους: the orator tries to convey a message that is different from his apparent intentions, even opposite to them.

In the last twenty years, the study of translation has emerged as a discipline in its own right.1 Scholars in various fields have turned their attention to the linguistic, philosophical, and ideological issues involved in the ‘carrying over’ of ideas from one language into another. This new discipline has a natural affinity with Latin philology, since the Romans may be regarded as pioneers in the art of translation in the West. At present, however, we have only begun to study what they really thought about translation and how they went about doing it. In the present paper,31 will re-examine a valuable but under-appreciated witness: Aulus Gellius, author of the Attic NightsSome of Gellius′ brief essays contain translations from Greek, and a few of them were prepared specifically as exercises in the ars interpretandi.By studying them, we learn how the questions associated with translation were addressed by a Roman litterateur of the Antonine period.

Galen's æuvre presents a remarkably varied body of texts–varied in subject matter, style, and didactic purpose. Logical tracts sit alongside tomes of drug–lore; handbooks of dietetics alongside anatomical investigations; treatises of physiology alongside ethical opuscula. These differences in type have received some, though as yet insufficient, scholarly attention. Mario Vegetti demonstrated the coexistence of two ‘profili’ or images of the art of medicine: Galen presents the art as an Aristotelian deductive science, on the one hand, and as a technician's craft, on the other. The former image, offering an ambitious elevation of the doctor's cultural status, has medicine as a philosophical episteme analogous to the mathematical sciences, exercised above all to provide causal accounts and logical demonstrations, and centred on the knowledge of anatomy. The second image is that of the clinician, concerned with the body in its pathological manifestations and using as its prime model the ‘pre-anatomical’ theory of the humours. And the content of the treatises shifts in relation to this dual image: ‘profilo alto’ and ‘profilo basso’ are reflected in different types of work. Polemical writings such as the Protrepticus, as well as the great treatises of anatomy and physiology, De usu partium and De naturalibus facultatibus, present medicine in the former light, while works like De temperamentis or Quod animi mores base themselves on humoral pathology and accord with the earlier, artisan-like image.

Within Emile Littreés classification of Hippocratic works, class ten consists of three lost works, two of which appear to have been treatises on the treatment of serious wounds and on the extraction of arrows. The sources for their titles—Erotian, Galen, an eleventh-century Arabic MS and the twelfth-century MS Vat.graec.276–disagree on minor points, but it is clear that they are all referring to the same works.

The de primo frigido has long been recognized as an important text for our understanding of Plutarch′s epistemological position. It is the aim of this paper to show, however, that the sophistication of the work, and with it of Plutarch′s epistemology, is not generally given the credit due to it.

The cento of Proba has recently enjoyed a remarkable upsurge of scholarly interest. A welcome translation was provided in 1981, and an article of five years later, scrutinizing the evidence for its date and authorship, has aroused much controversy. In two recent contributions vindicating the traditional date new or more precise suggestions have been made about the poem's historical context. In between these, yet another article has argued, without confirming or refuting the revised dating and attribution, that in various ways the work reflects the interest of the aristocratic ladies of the Anician family. And now there is a second article by Danuta Shanzer, repeating many of her early points (not always with greater clarity) and adding some interesting new ones. All this sudden attention is not unmerited, for as Herzog observed long ago the work is not of the comic or trivializing kind that Ausonius envisaged in his comments on the genre and does not degrade Vergil but rather, at least in the often quoted words of its prefatory poem, ‘improves’ him.

Constantine, the first Christian Emperor, bequeathed war against Persia to his son Constantius, a legacy which haunted the next two decades, culminating in Julian′s debacle in 363. Much has been written on the timing, motives, and strategy of these campaigns but the same role model appears at their beginning and end: Alexander the Great. Here, I wish to re-examine the evidence for his presence: recent scholarship has minimized it at one end and maximized at the other.

It is the purpose of this paper to examine how Ammianus, Libanius, and Julian conceived of Roman policy on the eastern frontier from the death of Constantine to failure of Julian′s invasion of Persia. Any consideration of the actual facts is secondary. The predominant conclusion will be that all three saw Rome′s as essentially defensive, her objective as the containment of persistent aggression. This will be seen to hold good even for Julian′s invasion., when they are offered by the sources, are presented in terms of, whether national or that of individuals: Constantius, Julian, Jovian, and. It will become apparent, and is sometimes implied, that these attitudes derive the peace imposed by Rome in 299, with which Rome could well rest content, Persia clearly could not.

Aeschylus' constant metrical practice shows that either Ag. 404/5 in the strophe, or 421/2 , correspondingly in the antistrophe, is corrupt in the manuscript tradition..