Studies in Honour of Gilbert Norwood

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G I L B E R T NORWOOD

STUDIES I N H O N O U R OF

GILBERT

THE

NORWOOD

PHOENIX

J O U R N A L OF T H E C L A S S I C A L ASSOCIATION

OF

SUPPLEMENTARY

E D I T E D

U N I V E R S I T Y

CANADA VOLUME I

B Y

M A R Y

E .

OF

TORONTO

W H I T E

PRESS:

1952

E D I T O R I A L MARY

C O M M I T T E E E.

WHITE

C H A I R M A N

R. J . G E T T Y G.

M . A. G R U B E

L . E.

WOODBURY

Copyright, Canada, 1952, and printed in Canada by University of Toronto Press London: Geoffrey Cumberlege, Oxford University Press

P R E F A C E

T

HIS volume of studies is dedicated to Professor Gilbert Norwood on the occasion of his seventieth birthday and his retirement from the Directorship of Classical Studies in University College, Toronto. His students, colleagues, and friends desire through i t to give some expression of their esteem and affection for him as a distinguished scholar, a brilliant and challenging writer, a memorable teacher, and an honoured colleague. , The book has been published by the Classical Association of Canada and the University of Toronto Press as a Supplementary Volume of The Phoenix, the Journal of the Classical Association of Canada. We wish to thank the Humanities Research Council of Canada and the Publications Fund of the University of Toronto Press for grants towards the cost of publication, and the many friends of Professor Norwood who made generous gifts. A list of their names will be presented to him with the book. We thank also those scholars who contributed essays, and regret that exigencies of space prevented us from inviting a larger number who would have welcomed the opportunity of honouring Professor Norwood. Our gratitude is due not least to Professor George Brown, Editor of the University of Toronto Press, and Miss Eleanor Harman, Assistant Manager of the Press, for their helpful collaboration throughout the preparation of the volume. M.E.W.

LIST

OF

ABBREVIATIONS

AJA: American Journal of Archaeology. AJP: American Journal of Philology. BMCRE: British Museum Catalogue of Coins of the Roman Empire. CAH: Cambridge Ancient History. CF: Canadian Forum. C I L : Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum. CJ: Classical Journal. CP: Classical Philology. C£)j Classical Quarterly. CR: Classical Review. CW: Classical Weekly. DR: Dalhousie Review. GGA: Göttingische Gelehrte Anzeigen. GGM: Geographici Graeci Minores. HSCP: Harvard Studies in Classical Philology. JHS: Journal of Hellenic Studies. JRS: Journal of Roman Studies. J T S : Journal of Theological Studies. LA: Living Age. LM: London Mercury. LS J : Liddell and Scott, Greek-English Lexicon, 9th ed., revised by H . Stuart Jones. NJbb: [Neue] Jahrbücher für Philologie und Pädagogik. Neue Jahrbücher für das klassische Altertum. Neue Jahrbücher für Wissenschaft und Jugendbildung. NumChron: Numismatic Chronicle. OCD: Oxford Classical Dictionary. PC A: Proceedings of the Classical Association. PQj Philological Quarterly. RE: Pauly-Wissowa, Real-Encyclopädie der class. Altertumswissenschaft. ReüPhil: Revue de philologie. RhM: Rheinisches Museum. SB: Sitzungsberichte der . . . Akademie SN: Saturday Night. TAPA: Transactions of the American Philological Association. ThLL: Thesaurus Linguae Latinae. UTM: University of Toronto Monthly. UTQ: University of Toronto Quarterly. WS: Wiener Studien. vi

CONTENTS THE

PUBLISHED

THE

GODS

OF

WRITINGS

OF

GILBERT

NORWOOD

xi

HOMER

3

Professor of Classics and Head of the Department, Trinity College, Toronto; Chairman of the Graduate Department of Classics, University of Toronto G. M . A . G R Ü B E ,

THE

SEAL

OF

THEOGNIS

20

Assistant Professor of Classics, Univer-

LEONARD WOODBURY,

sity College, Toronto PELIAS

AND

PINDAR

HIS

PALLID

PYTHIANS

4.109

WITS:

ON

Α Ε Τ Κ Α Ι Σ ΦΡΑΣΙΝ

I N 42

w. B . S T A N F O R D , Fellow of Trinity College, Dublin, and Regius Professor of Greek in the University of Dublin SALAMIS

s.

SYMPHONY:

INNER

AND

PERSAE

OF

AESCHYLUS

46

Professor of Greek, Trinity College, Toronto

M. ADAMS,

THE

THE

CONFLICT

PERSIAN

I N THE

PERSAE.-

ATHENIAN

DRAMATIST

CHARACTERS

55

j . D . R I C H A R D S O N , Professor of Greek, University College of South Wales and Monmouthshire, Cardiff L.

NOTES

ON

OEDIPUS

AT

68

COLONUS

LiNFORTH, Professor of Greek, Emeritus, University of California IVAN

M.

MJSDEA-INTERPRETATIONS

76

Lecturer in Classics, University College of North Wales, Bangor R.

THE

A.

BROWNE,

SPARTAN

INVASION OF

ATTICA

I N 431

B.C.

80

w. p. W A L L A C E , Associate Professor of Greek and Roman His­ tory, University College, Toronto THE

MYSTERY

OF

T H E CHOREUTES

85

Formerly Lecturer in Greek, University College of South Wales and Monmouthshire, Cardiff

KATHLEEN

WHY

WAS

FREEMAN,

SOCRATES

E. A . H A V E L O C K ,

TRIED?

95

Professor of Greek and Latin, Harvard

University VII

C O N T E N T S A

PROBLEM I N THE METHOD

c.

M . D.

EPICURUS

110

Professor of Greek, University College, Toronto

TAIT, AND

O F H Y P O T H E S I S I N T H E PHAEDO

MENANDER

116

w. D E W I T T , Professor Emeritus of Latin, Victoria College, Toronto

NORMAN

T H E

j. A

OF

CAIRENSIS

E.

R.

OF

DODDS,

BY

INFRA-RED

127

Fellow of Jesus College, Cambridge

M. EDMONDS,

FRAGMENT

MENANDER

A

GREEK

NOVEL

133

Regius Professor of Greek in the University of

Oxford CLEMENT

OF

ALEXANDRIA'S

ATTITUDE

TOWARD

GREEK

PHILOSOPHY

139

j . τ. M Ü C K L E , C. S. B., Professor of Latin Palaeography and Mediaeval L a t i n , St. Michael's College, Toronto LUCRETIUS

ON

T H E

ROMAN

THEATRE

147

Professor Emeritus of L a t i n , Bryn Mawr College; Professor in Charge, School of Classical Studies, American Academy in Rome. LILY

DATES

ROSS

TAYLOR,

I N T H E

AUTUMN

OF

63

B.C.

156

o. j . T O D D , Professor Emeritus of Classics, University of British Columbia T H E

RESTORATION

OF

THE VIRGILIAN FARM

163

Principal, Professor of L a t i n , and Chairman of the Department of Classics, Victoria College, Toronto

H. BENNETT,

LIBER

E T ALMA

CERES

I N VERGIL

GEORGICS

1.7

172

j . G E T T Y , Professor of Classics and Head of the Department, University College, Toronto ROBERT

HORACE'S

N I N T H

SATIRE

I N ITS

SETTING

184

τ. S A L M O N , Professor of Classics, McMaster University, Hamilton Ε.

ELEGIAC

THEMES

I N HORACE'S

ODES

194

w. L E O N A R D G R A N T , Associate Professor of Classics, University of British Columbia THOUGHT-SEQUENCE

I N T H E ODE

Professor of Classics and Head of the Department, Queen's University, Kingston

H. L. TRACY,

203

CONTENTS THE

ix

INTERPRETATION

OF

SENECA

EM

46.1

214

w. H . A L E X A N D E R , Professor of Latin, Emeritus, University of California "AND

PASSING

RICH

. . ."

218

Associate Professor of Greek and Roman History, University College, Toronto GILBERT

TACITUS L. THE

A.

BAGNANI,

36.3

AGRICOLA MACKAY,

PROPHET

Professor of Latin, University of California

I N ISRAEL

AND

I N GREECE

224 229

τ. H . R O B I N S O N , Emeritus Professor of Semitic Languages, University College of South Wales and Monmouthshire, Cardiff METAPHOR,

ANCIENT

AND

MODERN

239

j . R O S E , Professor of Greek, United College of St. Salvator and St. Leonard in the University of St. Andrews

H.

ON

AN

UNDERESTIMATED

JOSHUA

WHATMOUGH,

FEATURE

OF

LANGUAGE

Professor of Comparative

248

Philology,

Harvard University HELENA

I N GOETHE'S

FAUST

255

Professor of German and Head of the De­ partment, University College, Toronto; Chairman of the Graduate Department of Germanic Languages and Litera­ tures, University of Toronto BARKER

MILTON'S

FAIRLEY,

PASTORAL

MONODIES

s. p. W O O D H O U S E , Professor of English and Head of the Department, University College, Toronto; Chairman of the Graduate Department of English, University of Toronto

A.

261

THE PUBLISHED OF G I L B E R T

WRITINGS

NORWOOD I.

GREEK

AND

LATIN

A. Books and Pamphlets Vergil Georgics I , I V : edited (with F. G. Plaistowe). (London: University Tutorial Press n.d.) Pp. 105. Euripides Andromache: edited. (London: Murray 1906) Pp. 151. The Riddle of the Bacchae the last stage of Euripides' religious views. (University of Manchester Publications, Classical Series no. 1. Manchester: University of Manchester Press; London: Sherratt and Hughes 1908) Pp. xix, 188. Plautus Mostellaria: verse translation and acting edition. (Manchester: University of Manchester Press 1908) Pp. 85. Euripides Iphigenia at Aulis: verse translation and acting edition. (Manchester: University of Manchester Press; London: Sherratt and Hughes 1909) Pp. 95. Aristophanes Acharniansi verse translation and abridged acting edition. (Oxford: Blackwell; Cambridge: HefFer 1911) Pp. xii, 67. Greek Tragedy. (London: Methuen; Boston: Luce. 1st ed. 1920, 2nd ed. 1928, 3rd ed. 1942, 4th ed. revised 1948) Pp. vii, 394. Euripides and Shaw, with other essays. (London: Methuen; Boston: Luce 1921) Pp. vii, 226. The A r t of Terence. (Oxford: Blackwell 1923) Pp. iii, 156. The Writers of Greece. (London : Oxford University Press, H . Milford 1925) Pp. 144. [Escritores de Grecia y Roma, por Gilbert Norwood y J. Wight Duff: Version del Inglés por Ε. M . M . Amador. (Barce­ lona: Gili 1928) Pp. 163.] Greek Comedy. (London: Methuen 1931; Boston: Luce 1932: re­ issued 1950) Pp. v i i , 413. The Syntax of the Latin Gerund and Gerundive. (Toronto: Nelson 1932) Pp. 36. Plautus and Terence. (Our Debt to Greece and Rome vol. 29. New York: Longmans; London: Harrap 1932) Pp. vii, 212. Pindar. (Sather Classical Lectures vol. 19. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press 1945) Pp. 302. Essays on Euripidean Drama. [Awaiting publication.] y

xi

THE PUBLISHED

xii

WRITINGS

B. Articles y etc. On Two Passages in the Bacchae. CR 19 (1905) 434-435. [(i) vss. 775777, (ii) vss. 239-241.] Suetonius, Ohus Julius, 79. 2. CR 23 (1909) 240. The Greek Play (from behind the scenes). Cap and Gown 7 (Nov. 1909) 89-91. [Performance of the Iphigenia at Aulis.] On Two Passages in Vergil. CR 24 (1910) 212-213. [(i) Georg. 1. 9496, (ii) Aen. 6. 894-899.] Pindarica. CQ 9 (1915) 1-6. [Ol. 3. 43-45, 6. 87-90, 12. 25-28; Pyth. 2. 89-92, 4. 213, 4. 234.] The Latest Attack on Classical Studies. Welsh Outlook (June 1915) 233-236. Translations from the Hippolytus of Euripides. Cap and Gown 13 (Dec. 1915) 13-14. Notes on the Agamemnon. CQ9 (1915) 77-81. [Vss. 32-33, 312-314, 390-395, 414-415, 437-438, 695-698, 1242-1244, 1385-1387.] A Greek Inscription from Gallipoli. CQ 11 (1917) 1-2. A Psalm of Peace. Welsh Outlook (Jan. 1917) 32. [A paraphrase in verse from a fragment of the Cresphontes of Euripides.] Classics and the British Citizen. Welsh Outlook (April 1917) 150-152. [Apropos (Sir) R. W. Livingstone's A Defence of Classical Education (London: Macmillan 1916).] Vergiliana. C& 12 (1918) 141-150. [Georg. 1. 24-37, 217-218, 498502; 2. 123-124, 498-499; Aen. 2. 192-194; 4. 393; 6. 210-211, 567; 12. 473-478, 546, 926.] To Lalage, Shopping: with translation on facing page, Ad Puellam Emacem in Latin Alcaics. Cap and Gown 18 (March 1921) 26-27. The Classics in Wales. Welsh Outlook (March 1921) 249-251. The Loeb Classical Library. LM 7 (April 1923) 587-597; LA 317 (June 23 1923) 717-722; reprinted in The Wooden Man 220-240. Is There a Case Against Modern Classical Scholarship? LM 8 (Oct. 1923) 612-620; LA 319 (Dec. 15 1923) 520-525; reprinted in The Wooden Man 204-219. [See W. A. Oldfather, CJ 19 (1923-1924) 460-461.] .Version. His Last Sonnet (John Keats). CR 38 (1924) 97. [Greek Sapphics.] The Earliest European Novelist. Essay in The Wooden Man (New York 1926) 190-203. [Petronius.] The Prometheus of Aeschylus. Canadian Journal of Religious Thought (March-April 1927) 126-132. Can We Teach Latin Prose Style? CJ 23 (1927-1928) 561-563. y

OF G I L B E R T

NORWOOD

xiii

Greek Literature and the Theatre. Harmsworth's Universal History of the World part 12 (London: Amalgamated Press L t d . March 6 1928) 1337-1362. The Earliest Prose Work of Athens. CJ 25 (1929-1930) 373-382. [The pseudo-Xenophontic Athenaion Politela. See Josef Mesk in Bursian's Jahresbericht 251 (1936) 30-31.] The Babylonians of Aristophanes. CP IS (1930) 1-10. "Episodes" in Old Comedy. CP 25 (1930) 217-229. A Forgotten Poet. UTQ3 (1933-1934) 43-59. [Hermippus.] The Spirit of Greek Literature. UTQ 4 (1934-1935) 434-452. The Gift of Prayers in Hippolytus. PQ 15 (1936) 46-52. Latin and Education. UTQ9 (1939-1940) 491-499. Vergil, Georgics iv, 453-527. CJ 36 (1940-1941) 354-355. Mox. CJ 36 (1940-1941) 421-423. Pindar, Pythian, I I , 72 ff. AJP 62 (1941) 340-343. Pindar Olympian vi. 82-88. CP 36 (1941) 394-396. Two Notes on Pindar, Isthmian I and V I I . AJP 63 (1942) 460-461. [Isthm. 1. 67, 7. 31 ff.] Pindar Nemean 1. 64 ff. CP 37 (1942) 428-429. Pindar, Nemean, V I I , 31-35. AJP 64 (1943) 325-326. Pindar Nemean 3. 28 f. CP 38 (1943) 138-139. Rutilius Claudius Namatianus. Phoenix 1 Suppl. (Spring 1947) 36-41. Are We Teaching Virgil ? CJ 45 (1949-1950) 219-223. C. Reviews J. A. K. Thomson, The Greek Tradition. Welsh Outlook (Dec. 1915) 479-480. Gilbert Murray (trans.), Euripides Alcestis. Welsh Outlook (April 1916) 129-131. Rendel Harris, The Ascent of Olympus. CR 31 (1917) 139-140. J.T. Sheppard, The Oedipus Tyrannus of Sophocles. CR 36 (1922)27-30. James Turney Allen, Stage Antiquities of the Greeks and Romans and their Influence. CJ 23 (1927-1928) 628-629. Arthur Weigall, Sappho of Lesbos. SN Autumn Literary Supplement 48 (Oct. 8 1932) 6. Gilbert Murray, Aristophanes. CP 28 (1933) 217-219; SN Autumn Literary Supplement 49 (Oct. 14 1933) 3 ctd. on 13. [Latter review entitled "Puck at Geneva."] F. H . Anderson, The Argument of Plato. SN 50 (Feb. 9 1935) 8. H . R. Fairclough, Some Aspects of Horace. UTM 36 (1935-1936) 226. G. M . A. Grube, Plato's Thought. UTM 36 (1935-1936) 260.

xiv

THE

PUBLISHED

WRITINGS

Classical Section in "Letters in Canada/' UTQ 6 (1936-1937) 396397, 7 (1937-1938) 393-394, 8 (1938-1939) 334-335, 9 (1939-1940) 344-345, 10 (1940-1941) 327-328, 11 (1941-1942) 329-330. Carleton Stanley, Roots of the Tree. UTM 37 (1936-1937) 95. William and Mary Wallace, Asklepiades of Samos. CF 21 (1941-1942) 59. [Entitled "Greek Cairngorms."] A. S. Owen (ed.), Euripides Ion. AJP 63 (1942) 109-113. George Thomson, Aeschylus and Athens. CP 37 (1942) 437-441. Alan M . G. Little, Myth and Society in Attic Drama. CP 38 (1943) 271-272. George E. Duckworth, The Complete Roman Drama. UTQ 13 (19431944) 235-241. [Entitled "Roman Drama."] David Grene, Three Greek Tragedies in Translation. CP 39 (1944) 59- 61. William Kelly Prentice, Those Ancient Dramas Called Tragedies. CP 39 (1944) 64-65. C. M . Bowra, Sophoclean Tragedy. CP 41 (1946) 49-55. Alexander Turyn (ed.), Pindari Epinicia. CP 41 (1946) 172-174. Dag Norberg, UOlympionique. AJP 68 (1947) 432-435. Richmond Lattimore (trans.), The Odes of Pindar. CP 43 (1948) 60- 61. R. P. Winnington-Ingram, Euripides and Dionysus. AJP 70 (1949) 317-320. Gilbert Highet, The Classical Tradition. Phoenix 4 (1950) 70-72. Bruno Snell (ed.), Bacchylidis carmina cum fragmentis. AJP 11 (1951) 415-422. II.

MISCELLANEOUS

A. Collected Essays The Wooden Man and other stories and essays. (London: Heinemann; New York: Macmillan 1926) Pp. ix, 240. Spoken in Jest. (Toronto: Macmillan 1938) Pp. ix, 209. B. Articles, Essays, etc. The Script-Machine (an extract from "The Sleeper wider awake than ever" which will probably be published by M r . H . G. W*lls next year). Cap and Gown 7 (May 1910) 185-188. The Smoker's Guide to Books. Cap and Gown 10 (Dec. 1912) 21-24. The Cambriad, Book X V I I , translated by M r . Pope. Cap and Gown 11 (Dec. 1913) 43-45. The Present Renaissance of English Drama. Welsh Outlook (March 1914) 122-127.

OF G I L B E R T

NORWOOD

XV

Universities' Mission to Belgium. Manchester Guardian (Dec. 30 1919). Ymreolath i Gymru (Home Rule for Wales). Lienor 2 (1923) 30-35. [Translated into Welsh by W. J . GrufFydd.] Guns in the Park. LM 7 (Feb. 1923) 354-363; reprinted in The Wooden Man 125-143. Eventus Rebus Omnibus (The Impact of Reality). Contemporary Review 123 (June 1923) 753-759; reprinted in The Wooden Man 144-156. Second Class. Outlook (July 1923). Too Many Books. LM9 (Nov. 1923) 43-52; reprinted in The Wooden Man 53-71 and in Selected Modern English Essays no. 280 of the World's Classics series (Oxford: The University Press 1925) 350-368. The Canal. Western Mail (Jan. 30 1924). The Weddin' o' Maggie Thrawp. Cap and Gown 21 (March 1924) 6-8. [In Lowland Scots verse.] Advertisements. English Review 33 (April 1924) 477-481. Organization. Hibbert Journal 22 (April 1924) 436-449. On Turning Forty. LM 10 (Sept. 1924) 480-488; reprinted in The Wooden Man 101-118. The Livy Fiasco. South Wales Daily News (Sept. 24 1924). Elections: first in a series of weekly articles published by The South Wales Daily News (from Oct. 27 1924 to Oct. 26 1925). H i m , Ancient and Modern. Cap and Gown 22 (Nov. 1924) 25· The Wooden Man. LM 11 (Jan. 1925) 246-254; reprinted in The Wooden Man 1-18 and in The Mercury Story-Book (London: Longmans Green 1929) 155-166. A Twisted Masterpiece. Contemporary Review 127 (May 1925) 590598; reprinted in The Wooden Man 172-189. [King Lear.] Interruptions. South Wales Daily News (June 1 1925); reprinted in The Homiletic Review 106 (Oct. 1933) 283-285. The Abolition of Crisis. South Wales Daily News (July 13 1925). De Profundis. LM 12 (Sept. 1925) 492-499; reprinted in The Wooden Man 157-171. Cumbrian Hills. Western Mail (Sept. 28 1925). The Solace of the Desperate. Cap and Gown 23 (Nov. 1925) 28-30. Damon's Lament. University College Magazine 1 (March 1927) 7. How I Saved Glossom. CF7 (1926-1927) 366-370. Saying Goodbye. Manitoba Free Press (Feb. 25 1928). The Sins of the Fathers. Manitoba Free Press (April 28 1928). Above the Pass; reprinted from The Wooden Man in Argosy (Sept. 1928) 45-49.

xvi

THE

PUBLISHED

WRITINGS

Covering His Traces. CF 8 (1927-1928) 785-790. The Silent Customer: A Farce in One Act. CF 9 (1928-1929) 44-51. Culture Hunting. Canadian Nation (Ottawa Feb. 1929) 24-28. Sean O'Casey. CF 10 (1929-1930) 250-251. [No. 4 in the series "The New Writers."] The Virtues. Undergraduate 3 (March 1933) 36-38. Memories of Cardiff College: first in a series of weekly articles pub­ lished by Western Mail (from July 8 1933 to July 27 1938). Eating for Fun. SN 4:9 (Sept. 9 1933) 1. Old Maps. John o London's Weekly Outline Supplement (Sept. 9 1933) 801. Seven Weeks in Greece. The Greek Year Book for 1934. Testimonials. «S7V49 (March 17 1934) 3. Acting on Principle. SN 49 (May 5 1934) 3. The Amiable Years. SN 49 (May 26 1934) 3. Making Conversation. SN 49 (July 14 1934) 3. On Choosing Books. Everyman, the World Weekly, new series 47 (Aug. 17 1934) 176 ctd. on 193. Happiness for All. SN 50 (March 9 1935) 3. Keeping in Focus. SN 50 (June 15 1935) 3. Come Down, Ο Maid. SN 51 (Feb. 1 1936) 3. Letter from Bernard Shaw to Trotsky. CF 16 (March 1937) 26. Verse Exercise. SN 52 (March 27 1937) 18. Concerning Teeth. *S7V53 (Sept. 11 1937) 1. Mad and Sane Gift-Giving. SN 56 (Dec. 21 1940) 28. Shameless Gusto. SN 56 (April 19 1941) 29. Salute to Britain: part of a pamphlet in commemoration of St. George's Day, April 23 1941, published by the National Council of Education of Canada, 2-3. The A r t of Eugene O'Neill. DR 21 (1941-1942) 143-157. That Examination Bogy. SN 56 (July 12 1941) 14. The A r t of Holiday-Making. SN 56 (August 23 1941) 29. · Why Universities? SN 57 (June 6 1942) 29 ctd. on 33. Going Native. SN 58 (Oct. 10 1942) 33. Plebeian Ailments. SN 58 (Nov. 28 1942) 33. English Drama between Two Wars. DR 22 (1942-1943) 405-420. Our Living Folklore: reprinted from Spoken in Jest in A Pocketful of Canada (Toronto: Collins 1946) 264-266. White Zulus. SN 61 (Feb. 2 1946) 9. A Nest of Rebels. SN 61 (June 8 1946) 41. Solomon on Legs. SN 62 (May 17 1947) 36. Simpleton in a Picture Gallery. SN 62 (Aug. 30 1947) 21. Leaders Are Not Made. SN 63 (Nov. 15 1947) 49. 9

OF G I L B E R T

xvii

NORWOOD

Bogus Suffering. SN 63 (Jan. 31 1948) 28. Eric Trevor Owen. Phoenix 2 (1947-1948) 35-36. In the Spotlight. SN 63 (Aug. 7 1948) 14. Rimbaudelaire. Canadian Life 1 (March-April 1949) 23 ctd. on 38. Can't You Read? SN 64 (May 3 1949) 25. Exploration at Home. SN 64 (June 21 1949) 33. C. Reviews Sir Rabindranath Tagore, The Cycle of Spring. Welsh Outlook (June 1917) 227-228. William Watson, The Man Who Saw etc. Welsh Outlook (July 1917) 260. Allardyce Nicoli, An Introduction to Dramatic Theory. Cap and Gown 22 (Nov. 1924) 25. Plays. LM13 (Jan. 1926) 323-325, 14 (July 1926) 324-326. [Entitled "Dramatic Chronicle."] Gilbert Russell, Nuntius: Advertising and its Future. CF 7 (19261927) 172-173. [Entitled "Advertising and its Future."] Sinclair Lewis, Elmer Gantry. CF 7 (1926-1927) 242-245. The Hart House Theatre Season in Toronto. CF 9 (1928-1929) 329330. Sir Ian Malcolm, Lord Balfour: a Memory. CF 11 (1930-1931) 143144. [Entitled "The Balfour Legend."] On Going to the Theatre. CF 11 (1930-1931) 157-158. George Bernard Shaw, The Apple-Cart. SN 46 (Jan. 17 1931) 5. [Entitled "Upsetting the Apple-Cart."] George Bernard Shaw, Two Plays. CF 11 (1930-1931) 236-239. Douglas Bush, Mythology and the Romantic Tradition in English Poetry. UTQ 6 (1936-1937) 593-597. [Entitled "Mythology in the Romantics."] Winston S. Churchill, The Unrelenting Struggle. UTSi 12 (1942-1943) 297-304. [Entitled "The Eloquence of Churchill."] T. R. Glover, Cambridge Retrospect. UTQ 13 (1943-1944) 470-476. [Entitled "Glover of John's."] "Q," Memories and Opinions, an Unfinished Autobiography; T. R. Glover, Springs of Hellas and Other Essays. UTQ 15 (1945-1946) 442-444. [Entitled "Two Cambridge Worthies."] F. Brittain, Arthur Quiller-Couch; Basil Willey, The "£" Tradition: an inaugural lecture. UTQ 18 (1948-1949) 103-106. Various additional reviews in CF> SN> and other periodicals. y

N O T E . T h e assistance of Mrs. Gilbert Norwood and Professor L . J . D . Richardson in the compilation of the above list is gratefully acknowledged.

STUDIES

I N HONOUR OF G I L B E R T

«8

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ôs àv kyichpay στ'ϊφανον

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NORWOOD

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Pindar, Pyth. 1. 99-100 . b

T H E GODS O F H O M E R

G. M. A.

T

GRUBE

H E problem of the Homeric gods is how to reconcile "the cosmic gods and the comic gods." The great Olympians often behave in a manner which is both friyolous and, in the widest sense, immoral; yet they are the mighty powers which rule the universe and largely control the destiny of men. As such they inspire genuine religious feelings. Their irresponsible ways were condemned by Heraclitus and Xenophanes and have puzzled commentators ever since. I n the light of later religious feelings, the gods of Homer present an insoluble paradox. Modern scholars have for the most part not attempted to reconcile these incompatible aspects of the gods. Many have taken them to represent different religious or irreligious phases of thought perhaps centuries apart; such differences are then used as but another instrument to dissect the Homeric poems. Others have suggested that to Homer and his audience mythology had nothing to do with religion; sometimes they depict Homer, rather surprisingly, as both a sceptic and a religious reformer. Others again have found in the epics two quite separate religions: that of the characters and that of the poet. Attempts have also been made to explain the inconsistencies by the convenient theory that Homer's mind was so primitive that glaringly incompatible ideas could dwell in i t at the same time. Not one of these theories is convincing. I f the Iliad is to be carved up, differences of belief are far too uncertain and too entangled to lead to a clean operation; nor is there any agreement among the surgeons as to what is early and what late, or indeed when is early, when late. Homer was a poet, not a theologian, and passages that are not logically consistent may well be by the same hand—even theologians are not always logical; but to regard mythology and religion as completely separate is against the whole spirit of the poems, they are in any case too closely enmeshed. Nor do I believe that Homer had a primitive mind. He may well be blind to implied contradictions 1

2

3

4

6

6

3

G. M . A.

4

GRUBE

which will become explicit in the light of later thought, but that is quite another story. Finally, those who seek to differentiate the religion of the poet from that of the characters overemphasize certain expressions and ignore a good deal; no such two religions would ever strike a reader who was not looking for them. Let us rather re-examine the deeper question: is there any real incompatibility; are the gods not the same gods throughout, and such as we might well expect them to be at the stage of development Homer represents ? To find an answer i t is necessary to clear from our minds the associations of the corresponding modern words, and also the associations which the Greek words themselves acquired in later times. The gods of Homer may help to explain the gods of Plato, but the gods of Plato can only hinder our search for the gods of Homer. More surprisingly, we must clear from our minds also the more primitive notions that seem to emerge from the archaeological evidence of preHomeric times, even though many earlier practices survived long afterwards; i t has long been recognized that Homer is, in matters of religion, peculiar and unique. I t will be possible here only to indicate the lines along which the solution can be found; we shall largely restrict ourselves to the great Olympians, for they are the main difficulty. What are these gods? The Homeric gods are immortal, and they are powerful. The greatest of them live as a family on Olympus, with Zeus as the father of the family or clan. They are not creators, but have wrested the divine powers from an earlier generation. These older gods are now relegated to Tartarus, and have little dramatic or religious significance. The present generation is solidly established and their collective power is absolute. They have the capacity to see everything and to know everything when they care to use i t , when their attention is engaged. There are no other powers beyond or behind but only below them. Where Homer uses more abstract terms such as Fate—Moira, Aisa and the like—they are but another way of referring to the power of the gods, or else they represent subordinate functions. Twice Zeus gets out his golden scales to weigh the fate of heroes, once that of the Trojans and Achaeans generally (7/. 8.69-74), once that of Hector and Achilles in particular (IL 22.209-213); in both cases the decisions are already taken, known both to Zeus and to us. The scales are but the concrete symbol of a decision and, like an oath, make i t irrevocable, so that even Apollo abandons Hector after the weighing, and in the former instance the gods are all on Olympus by order of Zeus, where they stay for a while at least. Consecrated by the scales, the decision must be accepted. 7

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There is no hint in these passages of any other power over Zeus. The jars of Zeus, from which he distributes good and evil to mankind in any way he pleases, are of the same kind (IL 24.527-533). The name of Zeus, as that of the greatest god, is often used as equivalent to the power of the gods in general. No other name is so used, though that collective power can also be referred to in more general terms as "the gods" or " a god." This is mostly because indi­ vidual men, unlike the poet who is inspired by the Muses, have no special knowledge of what particular god is responsible. Such usages therefore occur mostly in reported speech. Zeus* power is also supreme within the divine family, but i t is not uncontested. There have been rebellions in the past, and one of these has given Thetis a claim on Zeus which he so fatefully recognizes in honouring Achilles. Rebellion is still possible, as Hera says to Poseidon who recoils from the suggestion (77. 8.202). Though Hera does not really believe such rebellion would be successful, she points out that Zeus would have a poor sort of life on Olympus all by himself. She is the privileged consort, but Zeus himself admits that, i f Poseidon rebels, i t will be a hard fight, and Poseidon yields only on condition that the agreed destruction of Troy shall finally take place; i f Zeus goes back on that, there will be war in heaven (IL 15.113-141). So the divine father has to respect the traditional give and take among the gods, as is natural in any family, even though he has the ultimate power. When, after the duel of Paris and Menelaus, Zeus suggests that they might now stop the war altogether, he does not really mean i t , but Hera's furious answer argues that such a decision would be contrary to the agreed Trojan doom (IL 4.1-67). Because Zeus is sorry that Sarpedon must die and suggests he might save him (IL 16.431-461), commentators have assumed that he could not inter­ fere with fate or moira (434). Yet Hera should know, and her anger is based on the contrary assumption: she warns him that all the other gods will disapprove, every god will want to save his favourites from death, and confusion would follow. The position before the death of Hector is of the same kind. The decisions have been taken and Zeus must stick to them (τάλαι π^πρωμ&ον atay. I I . 16. 441). There is no suggestion that the original decision was not that of the gods, or that Zeus has not the power to change i t , only that he should have more sense. He is persuaded in both cases. I t is towards his own family that he has to assert his power forcibly and repeatedly in order to be obeyed at all, as every reader of the Iliad knows (e.g. 8.1-40; 15.1-235). As long as they yield in the end, Zeus, like any other wise paterfamilias, thinks i t wise to overlook even 11

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provocative disobedience, though he loses his temper now and again. And he has to respect the prerogatives of the other gods. There is no discord in heaven in the Odyssey because all the gods (except Poseidon) are sorry for Odysseus; so Zeus expresses the hope that Poseidon will give way to this unanimous family opinion (1.77-79); no other weapon is suggested. Even so, Poseidon's anger has to work itself out after all the others have decided i t should end (5.282). Moreover, as Athena tells Odysseus herself (13.341), she too has to respect her uncle's anger while i t holds the field. The gods, then, have to respect each other's rights and powers. That much is essential to any community life, human or divine. The final authority belongs to Zeus. I n this way we may well see the beginning of a divine world-order, provided we do not claim for i t a moral basis which does not exist. I f Homer emphasizes the overriding power of Zeus, we should remember that he is writing for an audience of polytheists and is one himself, and the basic assumption of polytheism is the limitations on any one power. The insistence is therefore very necessary. We read the epics against a background of many centuries of monotheism and are too eager to convert Homer to i t also. I f Homer could have dreamt of expressing his ideas to us, he might have made Hera and Poseidon use even stronger language. I n any case, the father of gods and men must have the greatest power, since i t is power that makes the gods divine. They are personifications of forces that are active in the lives of men and which men cannot control. This is quite obvious in the case of the lesser gods and spirits, and even among the greatest Olympians the majority are clearly a natural, social, or psychological power which we recognize still. Zeus himself is the weather and sky-god; Aphrodite, the goddess of sexual passion; and the modern world should have little difficulty in recognizing the power of Ares, god of war. There were gods before Homer, and these must have been thought of as powers, spirits, animal or human persons in a general way, but the clear anthropomorphism which endowed the gods with human form, mind, and personality was almost certainly elaborated by the epic poets themselves. While this process was going on and the great Olympians, as other gods in varying degrees, became individual persons with a life of their own, there can have been for some time no thought that the conduct of the gods had any moral or religious significance. Such a concept could only arise after the anthropomorphic gods had been established long enough for men to reflect upon the implications and consequences of conceiving their gods as persons. While the process was actually going on, the poet could, in describing

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the life of these newly individualized gods, give entirely free rein to his imagination precisely because this individuality was not then the essence of their divinity, which remained vested in their power. The gods, i f we may so put i t , were anthropomorphized poetically but not yet theologically. The religious or theological problems which were bound to follow full anthropomorphism could not then be realized; they arose later when the divine persons largely created by the poets became objects of worship as persons, their power then becoming secondary as their divinity became vested in their persons. A t the stage of development we find in the epic, the force is divine, the personality secondary. Hence i t would never occur to Homer that the conduct of his gods, their family life, could in any sense affect their divinity, or that i t should be depicted as a pattern for humans to follow. I t is significant that no one in either epic ever tries to justify his own conduct by pointing to similar conduct among the gods; that belongs to a much later order of ideas. For the epic poets, poetic imagination was free from any religious implications in filling in the picture of the personal life of the gods, and i t naturally took its material from the only place it could: human life as i t would be i f freed from the fears and inhibitions of mortality. This purely imaginative anthropomorphism could not last. When the divine powers with human personalities had become divine persons with certain powers—an inevitable development already at work in the epics—reflection would follow and, with i t , theological implications that had to be faced, such as the moral consequences of divine conduct. That stage was not reached by Homer who never had to justify the ways of the gods to men; his gods did not need to conform to the human code of honour in order to be worshipped. Homer does not give us any catalogue of the gods and their powers; even the family on Olympus is not clearly defined. Some of them, Hera for example, represent a power at which we can only guess; and the gods (not only Zeus) encroach on each other's powers. Yet we should not conclude that these were as vague as they are to us; a good deal of what Homer does not say he takes for granted. However, in so far as the powers of certain gods have become vague and less functional, this only means that the divine persons have emerged. So the dignity of Zeus' position forces a certain remoteness upon him, a certain humaneness as well as humanity, at least in his dealings with men, though i t does not yet compel him to be uniformly either just or truthful. His dealings with his family are still quite irrelevant. Once the implications of full anthropomorphism were faced— 12

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which man surely could not do t i l l anthropomorphism was fully a fact—the Homeric laughter at the gods could only survive on licensed occasions, on the comic stage for example, but i t remained an integral part of the Greek attitude to the gods. Fortunately, i t has never quite died out. I n the Homeric epic, fear and laughter walk side by side. Homer can laugh at his gods without making their divinity ridiculous precisely because that divinity resides in their power, not their persons. While the gods are often funny on Olympus, when they come down to exercise their power over the lives of men, they are not a matter for laughter at all. Moreover, Olympus itself is at one and the same time both the never-never land of poetic imagination where the gods lead their highly irresponsible and remarkably human lives, and also the awesome dwelling-place of the terrifying powers which the gods represent, which limit human freedom and control human life. No one is less afraid of war because Ares is amusingly caught in bed with Aphrodite. The gods laugh irresponsibly and so do we. Even a modern reader is more shocked by Zeus when he sends a lying dream to Agamemnon than by all his bickerings with Hera and all his amours. Rightly so, for the way the gods use their power towards men is a serious matter; how they behave to each other is a matter for poetry. Nor is i t hard to understand why Homer's audience enjoyed the picture of life on Olympus. We all do, but they could enjoy i t without misgivings. They enjoyed seeing the great of the universe making fools of themselves, somewhat in the same spirit perhaps as they or their ancestors must often have looked upon the head of the clan. The Old Man might at times behave ridiculously, even badly, but his power, for all that, could not be trifled with. So Agamemnon behaves more than once like a fool, and sometimes rather badly, but he is still the king of kings, the supreme commander whose power and position not even Achilles can defy with impunity. Every soldier who enjoys stories about the private life of his superior officers, every adolescent in his ambivalent attitude towards the head of the family, has something of the attitude of the Homeric hero towards his gods. Besides, men still, in our much more theologically sombre age, enjoy funny stories about their gods or at least about their saints; and i t is the believer who enjoys them most, not the atheist. The trouble, however, is not only that the gods are funny, or misbehave among themselves; they are also bad. They do not seem to conform to any code of morality that any self-respecting human being, Homeric, classical, or modern, could accept as his own; and that is also true of their behaviour towards men. Viewed morally, the moti14

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vation of their actions is not only selfish, i t is often vicious. That they punish beyond all reason any lack of respect shown towards themselves was perhaps a natural and inevitable inheritance from those less personalized beings whom they replaced, but Hera's fierce hatred of Troy and the Trojans is both excessive and hardly accounted for; Poseidon's anger against Odysseus for blinding the Cyclops, that cannibalistic brute, in pure self-defence,is just as bad, and his vengeance on the Phaeacians disgusting. So is Helios' revenge upon the companions of Odysseus for slaying a few of his cattle after a month's starvation brought upon them by Zeus. The picture of world forces represented by these gods has little order and no morality. Even much later than Homer, the word deòs does not connote goodness but power, and Homer certainly does not depict his gods as moral rulers of the world. Of such a later conception there are only faint traces. I t has been said that Homer's ethics are nobler than his theology. That is very true. His heroes have a code of honour of considerable nobility; his gods have none. That is natural enough; men had lived in communities which required an ethical code for centuries; the gods had only just begun to do so, relatively speaking. We are accustomed to think of human conduct as deriving from, or at least sanctioned by, religion; for the Olympian religion, at least, the truth is the other way around. I t was the human moral feelings which forced morality upon the gods, once they had become persons. Man's concepts of goodness developed, and the Olympians were always lagging behind. This process, in Homer, was only just beginning. To try, from a few stray passages, to make the Homeric gods the defenders of right and justice, is to force upon them a mould that simply does not fit, and to generalize a few faint hopes into ruling principles. Neither do the sons and favourites of the gods claim any special moral merit. Achilles is no better, morally, than Hector, Priam, Nestor, or Diomede; indeed he behaves worse than any of these; but he is the son of a sea-nymph who has a claim on Zeus. The poet makes Achilles greater, but not better. Menelaus is promised eternal life specifically because he is the son-in-law of Zeus (Od. 4.569). Certainly, Odysseus cannot claim any outstanding moral rectitude; in fact the slaying of the suitors, and, in particular, of Amphinomus and Leodes, with the revolting massacre of the maidservants, is the most deliberately savage episode in the two poems. The maids are not punished for sexual immorality—that, from Odysseus, would be too absurd— but from an outraged sense of property. To say that the gods have no interest in morality does not mean that men have none, but i t is quite independent of the gods. I n a 16

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very few particulars, however, the process of imposing this human code upon the gods, and looking to them to defend i t , has begun. One of these is the sanctity of oaths. Agamemnon expects Zeus to punish the Trojans after the victory of Menelaus in the duel with Paris (27. 4.160-168). He later swears he never touched Briseis, by Zeus, Earth, Helios "and the Erinyes who punish men, whoever breaks his oath." The gods, he continues, punish perjurers (27. 19.258-265). I n the Odyssey too, oaths are expected to be kept, even by Calypso and Circe (5.178-187; 10.343). But how about the gods themselves? I t is Athena who directs the spear that kills Pandarus (IL 5.290-296), but i t was also Athena, sent by Zeus for the purpose, who instigated him to break the truce (27. 4.93-103). Hera does not hesitate, after her escapade on Ida^ to perjure herself before Zeus by Earth, Heaven, Styx, Zeus' sacred head, and their own marriage. Zeus smiles, he doesn't really believe her, but nothing happens. Men attach great importance to oaths; but even here the gods have not quite caught up with them, either in their behaviour towards men or towards each other. Then there is the protection which Zeus is expected to give to strangers and suppliants. This is more frequent in the Odyssey, for there are no strangers in the Iliad. The belief that strangers are under his protection is frequently expressed. As we do not often meet Zeus himself in the Odyssey, we cannot conclude anything from his silence on the matter, but he singularly fails to protect the Phaeacians, those excellent hosts, whom Poseidon hates for this very reason; in fact, Zeus hands them over to him without a qualm. There is beautiful personification of Litai or Prayers in the appeal of Phoenix to Achilles (27. 9.496-512). Prayers are the daughters of Zeus, wrinkled and squinting though they be, and they follow after Ate, so strong and swift. I f not listened to, they pray to Zeus to send Atê to him who did not listen, that he may be punished. The whole passage is a beautiful poetic image of a human hope, but i t is only a hope: Zeus may or may not listen. Certainly, this expresses an aspiration towards divine justice, but that justice is not established. I t is perhaps significant that in the story of Meleager which illustrates • Phoenix' point there is no divine intervention on behalf of mercy; i t is simply an example of the principle that mercy is often the best policy. There is only one other passage in the whole Iliad which speaks of moral retribution from the gods, this time more definitely and spoken in the poet's own person, in a simile (16.384-386). The flight of the Troj ans before Patroclus is compared to a flood "sent by Zeus when he is angry and presses upon men who by violence give crooked judg23

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ments i n the market-place and have chased away justice (δίκψ), w i t h ­ out care for visitation from the gods." T h u s once and once only in the Iliad do we find Zeus and the gods spoken of as defenders of " j u s t i c e . " T h e exact meaning of even this passage, however, is interesting. Δίκη in Homer is never used in the wide sense of justice; it usually means lot or portion or legal decisions which give everyone his due. T h i s is also the meaning here, as the reference to crooked judgments makes clear. T h e same sense is implied in various passages of the Odyssey where the belief is expressed that the gods will punish the suitors, whose hubris consists precisely in their wasting another man's property. A n d Odysseus' motive in punishing them is also an out­ raged sense of property, which in him was highly developed. 2 5

T h e most elaborate of these passages is where the pious E u m a e u s speaks of the retribution from the gods which awaits the suitors; here δίκη still has the same meaning. H e says to Odysseus in his cottage (14.80-92): E a t , good stranger, of this pork w h i c h is available to us s e r v a n t s ; the fatted hogs are for the suitors who have no thought of visitation from the gods, a n d have no pity.

Y e t the blessed gods like not deeds of excess;

(δίκην)

and deeds i n accordance w i t h f a t e .

26

they honour each m a n ' s lot

E v e n the h a r s h and implacable m e n w h o

attack the l a n d of others, when Zeus has granted them booty, r e t u r n to their ships and, when they have filled t h e m , go home. even upon their m i n d s ;

G r e a t fear of divine visitations comes

b u t these suitors must have heard some message from the

gods that a dreadful death has come upon m y m a s t e r ; they will not do their wooing in the accepted manner

(δικαίως) nor

go back to their o w n , b u t without let or

hindrance they devour m y master's possessions without m e r c y .

Eumaeus then enumerates the possessions of Odysseus that are being wasted. T h e illustration of pirates is significant. So wherever anyone expresses the hope that the suitors will be punished, the hope is tempered by the knowledge that the gods are unpredictable. A p a r t from such occasional passages which contain the seed of the later concept of divine justice, the gods are not presented, either in their own conduct or in the minds of men, as the protectors of order and justice. T h e y are, of course, capable of the gentler emotions as well as the more violent. Some of them feel pity, usually for their own favourites, as when Apollo resents the treatment of Hector's body by Achilles, or A t h e n a the prolonged sufferings of Odysseus. I n both cases they persuade Zeus and the majority, but not all of the others, that something should be done about i t . W e should not, on such occasional better feelings, build any theory of the humaneness of the gods; i t is simply part of their h u m a n i t y . F o r Homer's gods are h u m a n ; they are often b a d , but not one of the great Olympians is uniformly devilish. 27

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The gods give of good and evil to the good and the evil at their own sweet w i l l ; man must endure whatever they send. This does not mean, however, that man is merely the plaything of the gods, without freedom of action or responsibility for his own life. Far from it. The dependence on the gods is much more immediate and complete in the Odyssey, because there we find ourselves in the realm of folklore and marvellous adventure with the gods, mostly Athena, in constant attendance like a familiar spirit. I f there is less divine supervision in the story as told by Odysseus himself (9-12), i t is because he, like other mortals, is less aware of this supervision than the poet who knows all the details. That is also why there is a freer use in those books of the more general terms—Zeus, the gods, etc. Yet i t is also in the Odyssey that Zeus tells us that men by their own obstinacy bring much evil on themselves beyond the fate set by the gods (òwèp μορον 1.35). He gives the example of Aegisthus; now i f Aegisthus' fate did not include his living with Clytemnestra and the killing of Agamemnon, then surely the fate set by the gods left a great deal to the humans themselves. We remember Achilles' choice of a short but glorious life. The Iliad certainly leaves this impression of a wide area of freedom within the limits set by fate, for the heroes are there anything but puppets. The poet expresses this freedom dramatically by leaving a great deal of the action, some of i t most important in its consequences, without any divine intervention upon the purely human plane. Apollo sends the plague and Hera puts i t in Achilles' mind to call the as­ sembly, but the actual quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon is a matter of human temperament entirely until Athena comes to prevent it from going too far. Later, Achilles sends Patroclus into the Greek camp of his own accord; i t is Nestor who first suggests that Patroclus should join the battle in Achilles' armour. This last chain of events has been cryptically forecast by Zeus (II. 8.476) and is later sanctioned by him (77. 15.64) but only human factors are involved. The same is true of the embassy to Achilles. Nor do the gods ever interfere with, or inspire, tactical decisions such as Nestor's advice to build a wall, to fight by phratries {IL 2.362) or to send spies into the Trojan camp at night. And the same is true on the Trojan side (II. 12.88; 15.287-299). Not only will the Homeric hero act independently when the gods are absent; he will continue to fight when he knows that the gods are on the other side. Ajax says any fool can see that Zeus is helping the Trojans, but he then calls upon his friends to see what they can ac­ complish by themselves (αυτοί II. 17.634) and he utters his famous

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prayer to Zeus at least to let them die in the light. When the Greek envoys come to Achilles, they plead for his help precisely because Zeus is helping the Trojans (II. 9.236-239), and Odysseus appeals to D i omede in the same manner (IL 11.310). This is partly because, as the gods represent actual forces, to say that Zeus helps the Trojans is only to emphasize the fact of Trojan success; partly because the gods are changeable, and men hold on in the hope of such a change; i t is mostly because men must follow their own code of honourable conduct whatever the gods may do. The Phaeacians give a superb example of this: they know perfectly well that they are incurring the wrath of Poseidon by saving his victims; they have been warned of the dreadful fate that awaits them i f they persist, but they live up to their code of behaviour in spite of it all (Od. 8.565-571). The gods may wound a hero, they may kill him, they can never break his spirit. When you die is a matter for fate and the gods; how you die, and what kind of a man you are while you live, is your own responsibility. Such is, in part, the heroic code. I n this sense men must endure, bravely and without flinching, whatever the gods may send, be i t one's general fate or the result of unpredictable interventions on specific occasions. The manner of these interferences sometimes offers considerable difficulty to readers of a later age, even to those who can accept the amorality and frivolity of the gods in general. The more remote interventions, such as the Apollo who sends the plague, are easier: he is a great power that has been offended; his anthropomorphism, in spite of the beautiful picture of his descent, does not here obtrude. Nor do we feel any direct discomfort about the scenes on Olympus once we accept the mythological apparatus; the visits of Thetis to Zeus and Hephaestus are of the same kind. I t is when the contact with mortals is more direct that we are disconcerted. I n the battle of the gods (IL 20 and 21) the Olympian family moves to earth in a body, with the exception of Zeus, and they bring with them both aspects of Olympus, the home of awful powers and the never-never land of poetic fancy. The intention obviously is to underline the importance of the final battle to come between Achilles and Hector (IL 20.1-74). After their descent, accompanied by thunder and earthquake, the rest of the book is on the human level, with only the customary help from individual gods. Then, as the corpses choke the river Xanthus, we are prepared for the battle between Achilles and the river-god; soon, despite warnings, Achilles leaps into the river itself in pursuit and the battle is on. This struggle is not grotesque, as i t has been said to be: except that he is a god 29

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and speaks with a human voice, all the physical manifestations of this struggle are those of a river in flood which overpowers the reckless Achilles and drives him away as its swollen waves pursue him over the plain. Weird and wonderful this may be, but not grotesque, and without doubt i t is entirely serious. Then, as Hephaestus takes over, Achilles disappears and we have the fight between the elements of fire and water. We are now upon the Olympian plane; no mortal will appear until the battle of the gods is over (II. 21.328-520). This, as always, is a matter between us and the poet; and at this point comes the usual comic or fantasy-relief. The battle of the gods themselves cannot be tragic for, as Aristotle might have said, no one can kill anybody. After Xanthus has been forced to plead for mercy and return within his banks, the gods draw up for battle and Zeus smiles as he sees them, in fact he laughs outright (7/. 21.389-390). The dramatic purpose of the battle is perhaps to emphasize the superiority of the gods on the Greek side, the side of Achilles, but the details are frankly amusing: Athena lays out Ares; Aphrodite leads him out of the battle but Athena pushes her down on top of h i m ; Hera jeers at Artemis, holds her by the wrists and boxes her ears; Artemis then rushes up to Zeus but he refuses to take the incident seriously. There is no major battle between great gods equally matched, and when Poseidon challenges Apollo the latter refuses. We laugh with Zeus, and then the gods retire and leave the field to the much more terrible struggle between mortals. One thing is clear: the poet did not try to depict a mighty battle of the gods and fail; he obviously did not try. He is indulging his usual fantasies about the gods, and amuses us before we face the tragic death of Hector. This is true of the battle itself; but there is nothing funny about the gods' descent from heaven or Achilles' fight with Xanthus. I f the frivolous and serious aspects of the gods are here kept separate, the Diomedeia, where Diomede wounds both Ares and Aphrodite, is the boldest mixture of serious and funny business in our epics. The reason is that Diomede must never rise to the same level " of greatness as Achilles, but he must do the same kind of things. So he too fights the gods, but under the direct supervision of Athena who sees to i t that things do not get out of hand, and his encounter with the gods remains more than half comic. Before Apollo or the lightning of Zeus he gives way (II. 5.440-444; 8.169-171). The personal interventions of particular gods to encourage their side or on behalf of their favourites are very numerous. I f the question of fairness is raised, they are all equally unfair. Commentators are 31

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inclined here to strain at the gnat while they swallow the camel, and their modern feelings lead them to object to certain details of the interference. We should always remember that the appearance of a god on behalf of a hero is a poetic symbol of that hero's greatness, so that i t is ex hypothesi impossible for that greatness to be tarnished by the help of the god. We dislike the way Apollo pushes Patroclus, strikes him in the back and sends his helmet flying, thus making him an easy prey for Euphorbus and Hector (IL 16.788-796) ; yet the poet feels that Zeus is giving glory to Hector and he is compared to a lion when he delivers the final blow (IL 16.823-828). We dislike the deceit which Athena practises on Hector to make Achilles' task easier. That is because we like Patroclus and Hector, and we have modern notions of sportsmanship, but these interventions are like many others. Nobody likes Pandarus, but Athena's instigation to break the common oath is at least as objectionable (IL 4.90-103) and i f i t be said that Pandarus is a poor lot anyway (forgetting that i t is Athena who made him so), what of Rhesus who has done no harm, and Athena's conduct throughout the Doloneia, or the less deadly, but so unsporting interventions of the gods in the games (IL 23.380, 392, 774, 865) ? The details of these interventions vary as fancy dictates, they have no moral significance whatever; they are dramatic and poetic symbols of the greatness of particular heroes. Some interventions are even less objectified, and the god seems part of the human personality, as when Aphrodite appears to Helen to make her look after Paris (IL 3.386-420) or Athena stops Achilles from drawing his sword (IL 1.195). Our trouble here is that we objectify the gods more than Homer. Aphrodite is not only the goddess of love, she is love or passion, and she is Helen's passion, both at the same time—a synthesis which few modern readers seem able to achieve. Homer provides the answer himself, when Odysseus says to Eurycleia: "Now that you've thought of this and a god has put i t in your m i n d " (Od. 19.485). Divine intervention does not exclude human activity, it is merely a poetic and imaginative way of describing the same activity. Let us always remember that the gods are forces rather than persons. I t would be very strange i f we could feel about them as Homer did; the wonder is rather that we can accept so much and enjoy so much. The reason for this is probably the same reason which caused these Olympians to remain objects of worship for another thousand years, and never to lose their imaginative appeal: they are forces many of which every man knows and recognizes in his own life, forces which control a great part of life, and which no one can deny. 32

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GRUBE

L i g h t n i n g a n d t h u n d e r , fire, d e a t h , sexual p a s s i o n , m u s i c a n d the a r t s , a n d those lesser spirits, F e a r , P a n i c , R u m o u r , D e a t h , a n d the rest, are t h e y not obviously

t r u e , a n d h a s anyone represented t h e m

more

vividly than Homer? T h e p i c t u r e of life represented b y the gods of H o m e r is a true p i c ­ t u r e , even i f i t is incomplete. established as m a s t e r .

B u t over all these forces Zeus has been

T h a t m a s t e r y is pregnant w i t h the problems

of l a t e r religion, w h e n m e n w i l l insist t h a t the order of Z e u s m u s t be a m o r a l order, or refuse to believe.

T h e n I o n i a n s c e p t i c i s m w i l l arise,

b u t i t is as foreign to H o m e r as are the other i m p l i c a t i o n s of his anthropomorphic O l y m p i a n company.

A t most we find i n the epic

only the v e r y first glimmerings of s u c h an order of thought, as m e n h a v e only j u s t begun to feel the need to impress u p o n the gods the essentials of their own m o r a l code, w h e n t h e y hope or begin to expect t h a t these gods w i l l p u n i s h p e r j u r e r s , protect strangers seeking h o s p i ­ t a l i t y , a n d p u n i s h those w h o h a v e no respect for the property of an absent l a i r d . I t w i l l not be till later still t h a t the gods' c o n d u c t w i l l be looked upon as an example to m a n k i n d .

T h i s is entirely absent from the epic.

T o a t t r i b u t e scenes w h i c h depict s u c h divine c o n d u c t to interpolators a n d later poets is to miss the whole s p i r i t of those scenes themselves, to r e a d into H o m e r w h a t belongs to later c e n t u r i e s , a n d a point of v i e w w h i c h is quite i n c o m p a t i b l e w i t h t h a t full, poetic, irresponsible a n t h r o p o m o r p h i s m w h i c h is one of the c h i e f glories of the H o m e r i c epic.

N O T E S

1. The phrase is G. M . Calhoun's in "Homer's Gods: Prolegomena," TAPA 68 (1937) 21. The whole article is an interesting statement of our problem. 2. Throughout this article I use the words moral, morality, immoral in their true sense, not in the debased and restricted modern fashion excellently illustrated when one of our learned judges, addressing the jury in a recent murder trial, said: "This, I repeat, is not a case of morals but of murder; morality has nothing to do with i t . " His lordship was of course referring to the sexual immorality of the accused. 3. Proponents of this view, among others, are P. Cauer, Grundfragen der Homerkritik* (Leipzig 1923) 376-406; Wilamowitz, who discovers several strata of development and degeneration, Die Mas und Homer (Berlin 1916) 316-355; G. Finsler, who has an earlier stage of unrelated gods whom men revere, and a later stage when Olympus has become a state of the gods and the poet hates them as cruel and selfish, Homer Ρ (Leipzig and Berlin 1924) 1.168-169 and 2.207-215; Gilbert Murray, who distinguishes four different strata, The Rise of the Greek Epic* (London 1934) 267. Interesting criticisms of this whole point of view will be found in E. Drerup, Das Homerproblem in der Gegenwart (Würzburg 1921) 226-231 and 414-422,

T H E GODS OF H O M E R

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G. M . Calhoun's "The Higher Criticism on Olympus," AJP 58 (1937) 257-274. J. M . Duffy, in his dissertation, reviews the evidence to show that the gods are the same throughout: A Comparative Study of the Religion of the Iliad and the Odyssey (Chicago 1937). 4. So C. M . Bowra, Tradition and Design in the Iliad (Oxford 1930) 215-233; Calhoun also separates the gods of ethical thought from those of myth in TAPA 68 (1937) 17. Andrew Lang, The World of Homer (London 1910) 120-127, and Drerup 416-422. 5. I n particular E. Hedén, Homerische Götterstudien (Uppsala 1912) speaks of a deeper religion, that of the characters, tinged with scepticism but closely connected with ritual, and that of the poet which is purely mythical and poetic. But the most "religious" passage of the Iliad (16.386-393, see below) is in a simile. Hedén's theory is discussed by E. Ehnmark, The Idea of God in Homer (Uppsala 1935) 64-70; M . P. Nilsson, A History of Greek Religion (Oxford 1949) 162-179. 6. Β. E. Perry, "The Early Greek Capacity for Viewing Things Separately," TAPA 68 (1937) 415-418; and J . A. Notopoulos' "Parataxis in Homer," TAPA 80 (1949) 8-9. Here more openly stated, some such mental parataxis is implied in most discussions of Homer's gods. 7. Wilamowitz, Oer Glaube der Hellenen (Berlin 1931) 317; T . D . Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age (London 1907) 392-395; Jane Harrison, Mythology (Boston 1924) xvi-xx; Gilbert Murray, Five Stages of Greek Religion (Oxford 1925) 24-32; Nilsson, A History 135-146. While many of the details of Homer's representation of his gods can be accounted for by earlier evidence, and Athena may be called ykaVK&Tns because she was once an owl-goddess, this is of little help in interpreting the Homeric Athena. We shall therefore find little to help us in the many interesting books on the origins of Greek religion. 8. M . P. Nilsson's theory that Homer's Olympus was created after the pattern of the Mycenaean kingship is well known; Homer and Mycenae (London 1933) 266-277, The Minoan-Mycenaean Religion and its Survival in Greek Religion (Lund 1950) 30. Finsler too speaks of Olympus as a kingdom, but G. M . Calhoun has shown that Zeus is much more like a patriarch than a king, he is never, for example, called ßaaiXehs; see "Zeus The Father in Homer," TAPA 66 (1935) 1-17. Calhoun's other interesting theory that there is no real nobility of birth in Homer may also be noted here: "Classes and Masses in Homer," CP 29 (1934) 192-208 and 301-316. 9. The qualification is important, for i f all the gods knew everything, and could do everything, all the time, life on Olympus could not be of much dramatic interest. So the poet solved the difficulty by letting the attention of the gods wander, even that of Zeus. This dramatic necessity should offer no difficulty and is hardly worth learned discussion. So also the gods can move very quickly, but they have chariots and make at times elaborate preparations for a journey they could have accomplished as quickly as thought (//. 5.711-791; 8.381-396; 13.17-28). Poseidon is away among the Ethiopians at the beginning of the Odyssey (1.22) as Zeus is at the beginning of the Iliad (1.423). The gods can also hide from one another (//. 5.844; 13.352). For the omniscience of the gods see Od. 4.468; 10.306, 573; 14.443. 10. Moira or Fate appears sometimes alone, sometimes along with Zeus, sometimes as explicitly sent by the gods. Surely the poet need not repeat whence i t comes every time i t is mentioned, provided there is no suggestion of any other agency, and we have no right to pick out the places where i t occurs alone to build on them a theory of an independent power. W. C. Greene, Moira (Harvard 1944) 14, says "there is no essential conflict" between Moira and Zeus, but he continues: "even the gods are

G. M . A. G R U B E

18

β

under the stern power of the Erinyes." Actually the Erinyes too perform their function under Zeus. The two passages where the gods are under their power are / / . 21.412, where Athena warns Ares he may suffer the Erinyes of his mother Hera, and II. 15.204 where Iris warns Poseidon of the anger of Zeus, "for the Erinyes always follow the elders." I n those cases the Erinyes would obviously be acting for Hera and Zeus, and represent their anger. I n other passages the Erinyes are another expression for the will of the gods which they execute (//. 19.418; 19.258-260 where they punish perjurers and are immediately equated with the gods at 264-265; cf. Od. 2.135). The same is true of Atê who also is sent by Zeus (//. 19.87-94). Jane Harrison, Themis (Cambridge 1927) 481, claims that "Themis is beyond all the other gods," but the Themites come from Zeus also {Od. 2.68), and Themis is clearly a subordinate when he orders her to call an assembly of the gods (//. 20.4) as much as Iris when she is sent on an errand; i t is foolish to say that Zeus could not call the assembly himself. A l l these concepts were to develop later, some had an earlier history, but in Homer they are subordinated to the great gods, particularly Zeus. I f this is thought to be an over-simplification, i t is Homer who simplifies. For other views see Greene's Moira 10-28, Bowra, Tradition 230-231; Ehnmark, The Idea 7880. The fullest discussion of the evidence for Moira in Homer is still Nägelsbach, Homerische Theologie (Nürnberg 1861) 120-148. 11. This generalized use of the name of Zeus, and the vaguer expressions 0eos, oi deoi, is excellently discussed by O. Jörgensen in "Das Auftreten der Götter in den Büchern t-μ der Odyssee," Hermes 39 (1904) 357-382. He shows how these ex­ pressions naturally occur in direct speech and makes short work of the elaborate theories that ignore this simple fact in the story told by Odysseus. Hedén (above, n. 5) then exploits this discovery less happily for his own purposes. See also G. F. Else, "God and Gods in Early Greek Thought," TAPA 80 (1949) 24-36, and Ehnmark, The Idea 80-85. 12. One is reminded of Wilamowitz' profound remark that, in Greek, 0€0s is a predicative notion, "ein Prädikatsbegriff," Der Glaube 17-20. 13. Homeric characters blame their misfortunes on the gods, e.g. II. 19.87-94; they even blame the gods when they are not responsible {II. 19.270; Od. 4.261) but they do not excuse their conduct by that of the gods. 14. Drerup reminds us (417) of what is far too often forgotten, that Homer does not hesitate to laugh at his heroes too. 15. To insist that honour be paid to them is as characteristic of other than Homeric gods; the Jehovah of the Old Testament is just as insistent. 16. There is only a casual reference to the judgment of Paris at I I . 24.25-27, which should remind us of how much may be taken for granted that we do not know. 17. Od. 12.370-390; 13.125-187; we may also compare Poseidon's anger at the building of the Greek wall in / / . 7.442-463 and the ugly give and take of II. 4.40-90. I can see no evidence for considering Zeus as "a high philosophical conception of the world-conscience" in the Odyssey, Jaeger, Paideia (Oxford 1945) 1,54. 18. I have discussed the meaning of deòs also in Plato's Thought (London 1935) 150-153 and in The Drama of Euripides (London 1941) 41-44. 19. Greene, Moira 11. 20. Typical of this point of view are W. E. Gladstone, Homer (London 1878) 66-67; Andrew Lang, The World of Homer (London 1910) 120-122; L . R. Farnell, Outline of Greek Religion (London 1920) 19-20. 21. I t will be recalled that Leodes is killed by Odysseus while a suppliant {Od. 22.310-329) although his claim to have been a restraining influence upon the suitors y

T H E GODS OF H O M E R

19

is endorsed by the poet himself (Od. 21.146-147). Telemachus kills Amphinomus {Od. 22.89) although it was he who had dissuaded the suitors from killing Telemachus (Od. 20.242-246). Amphinomus was also kind to the beggar Odysseus who in fact tried to warn him, but Athena saw to i t that the warning should be ineffective (Od. 18.118-156). The conduct of Athena throughout these books is quite as objectionable as anything in the Iliad. 22. A very striking brief account of the code of the hero and its relation to the gods is that of René Schaerer, La Morale grecque dans Homère (Lausanne 1934, i n augural lecture). 23. I t is interesting to find Idomeneus (77. 4.270-271) saying that punishment and death will come to the Trojans for breaking the oath, without mentioning the gods. That is the general feeling that honesty is the best policy, before i t is linked with the gods. 24. Od. 6.207; 7.165, 180; 9.268,478; 13.202; 14.57,284,388; 16.422; 17.484. 25. We might declare at least 387-388 a later interpolation, but that way lies chaos. While we are not told that punishment always follows crooked judgments (which i t obviously does not), the implication that crooked judgments are punished by Zeus is there, even i f the punishment is rather indiscriminate. The sentiments are closely parallel in Hesiod, Works and Bays 219-264. I t is wiser to let this passage remind us that we are not dealing with static ideas about the gods. Human rewards for the best judgment are found in II. 18.507-508. The expression ôVis Θεων is usually translated as the wrath of the gods, but that is too strong a word. The word OTIS seems to mean the attention of the gods, cf. Atos δ* ώπίζετο μψίν/ξβι,νίου (Od. 14.283-284). I t was used later in both a good and a bad sense. 26. ού ßev σχέτλια tpya θώί μάκαρ& φιλέουσιρ, άλλά δίκην τίουσι καϊ αΐσιμα %py' ανθρώπων. 27. We should perhaps add to them Od. 11.73, Elpenor's request that he be buried lest he provoke the anger of the gods against Odysseus; and Od. 18.130-142— the famous passage on the wretchedness of men, where Odysseus (in his warning to Amphinomus) says that man must bear bravely what the gods send, for even his thoughts depend upon the lot Zeus sends him, and that man must not be άθεμίστιοί but bear the gifts of the gods in silence. The ethical implications, however, are very faint. 28. / / . 24.23-64; Od. 1.44-47. One should, of course, not include the pity which the lying dream says Zeus feels, for there the whole point is that he doesn't, but pity is also felt by Zeus at II. 15.12; 17.201, 441, 648; 19.340; 22.169. 29. Obedience to the gods is part of virtue, but i t is largely voluntary: cf. II. 1.207 and 216. Nor docs the Homeric hero hesitate to curse his gods: II. 3.365; 9.17-25; Od. 20.201-203. 30. E.g. by E. T . Owen: The Story of the Iliad (Toronto 1946) 211-212. 31. See Poetics, 13.1453a. 39. 32. "The poet has piled up point after point in his description of the circum­ stances of Patroclus' death, so that even the least imaginative reader must burn with indignation at the way i t is accomplished. That is what Homer wants, for he is motivating the terrific fury and grief of Achilles" (Owen, The Story 163). 33. "Die Götter sind da." Wilamowitz, Der Glaube 17,42. There is ari interesting discussion of the meaning of some Homeric terms in Bruno Shell, Die Entdeckung des Geistes (Hamburg 1946) 15-36, and the Homeric " b e l i e f in the gods, 40-41.

THE

SEAL OF THEOGNIS

LEONARD

WOODBURY

Kvpve, σοφί,ξομενω μίν βμοί σφρη^γίς ίπικείσθω τοΐσδ' hreaw, λήσει δ οΰποτβ κλζπτόμβνα οϋδβ ris αλλάξβι κάκων τούσθλου wapeôvTos, ώδβ δέ iras ris èpct* 'QevyvUì&s βσην 'έπη του Meyapkœs' irâvTas δέ κατ ανθρώπους \ονομαστο$\' αστοίσιν δ οΰπω πασιν αδβίν δνναμαι. ουδέν θαυμαστόν, Ιίόλνπαΐδη' ουδέ yàp ό Zeus οΰθ' ΰων πάντβσσ' άνδάνβι ουτ ανεχων. (19-26) 1

9

1

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W

I T H these words Theognis sets his seal upon his verses: they will never afterwards be stolen without detection, but all posterity will praise the name of their author, suffering though he now is, according to the way of the world, from the displeasure of his fellow-citizens. The thought seems simple enough, but the poem has given rise to a long and vigorous controversy concerning the interpretation of several of its parts and, in conse­ quence, the meaning of the whole. The most important of these problems is this: what is the nature and purpose of the seal that Theognis says he is affixing? First of all, it must be said that a literal interpretation is highly improbable. The view that the poet did actually stamp his manuscript at this point with his personal seal has indeed been put forward. But the examples of such a practice that have been adduced are at the best doubtful. 'Moreover, the practice is unlikely on general grounds, for seals, so far as is known, were used to certify or to safeguard property rather than to attach the name of a craftsman to a product of his craft. And above all, Theognis could not reasonably expect a seal to effect his purpose, for he had little assurance that the seal would be repro­ duced in copies of his manuscript; even less that, i f i t were, i t would be reproduced exactly; and none at all that his seal or its facsimile, i f it were preserved, would everywhere be recognised as his own. 1

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THE

SEAL OF THEOGNIS

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I t is proper, therefore, that scholars should generally agree to regard the seal as a metaphor. Concerning the nature of the meta­ phor, however, there is less agreement, as some argue from Theognis* purpose and others from analogy. I t is the first task of this paper to determine which argument is the sounder. The analogists point out that Theognis* desire to attach his name to his verses is one evidence among many of the increasing selfconsciousness of the Greek poet. I t was, of course, the practice of epic that the poet should be anonymous, but Hesiod departs from this in telling how the Muses taught him on Helicon, and the author of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo commands the girls of Delos to declare that they prefer to all other poets a blind man living in Chios. I n these places the poet has contrived to introduce himself into his poem without destroying its proper objective form. By contrast, in the subjective poems of Archilochus and the Lesbians, the personality of the poet so dominates the form that the problem is rather the opposite: how is the poem to be separated from the poet? The antinomy was not to be resolved until the fifth and fourth centuries, when a fully selfconscious individualism was developed and at last made i t possible for a poet to stand apart from his work and to claim i t as his own. Finally, the inclusion of a statement of authorship later became a common practice in Hellenistic and Latin poetry. I n prose the case was somewhat different, principally because the writer does not, like the poet, depend on divine inspiration, but founds his claim to be read on his own experience, investigations, and knowl­ edge. For this reason he feels i t proper to begin his book with a statement of his authorship and, i t may be, his qualifications to write it. This practice begins with the Ionian researchers of the sixth century and examples may be found in the histories of Hecataeus, Herodotus, and Thucydides, the enigmatic book of Heraclitus, and the medical work of Alcmaeon. The more pedestrian maxims of Demodocus, Phocylides, and Hipparchus, though written in verse, resemble prose works in this respect, for to each is prefixed the simple formula καί τόδβ Αημοδόκου and the like. Similarly in other arts and crafts i t became, from the sixth century, an occasional, though never the regular, practice for the artist to affix to his work a statement of authorship, generally in the form ó delva ίποίησεν. Such signatures are frequent on sculpture, occasional on vases, and rare on engraved gems; we do not know how often painters signed their work. I t is not surprising that Theognis should have desired that his verses bear his name. But, as a poet, he could not follow the bald 3

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LEONARD WOODBURY

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formulas of the prose-writers and artists; nor, as a gnomic poet, could he simply merge himself in his poetry after the fashion of Archilochus and the rest. Rather, his closest affinity was with Hesiod; like him, he preferred to adapt the form to his purpose and, like the author of the Hymn to Apollo, to put the statement in the mouths of others. Accordingly, i t is argued, Theognis' wish to make his verses, in a sense, forever his own is to be attributed to the selfconsciousness of art in his time, and the seal that he affixed in order to fulfil his wish is to be found in the words he attributes to his readers: Qeir/VLÔôs kanv βπη του Meyapkœs' πάντας òè κατ ανθρώπους ^ονομαστο To all of this strong objection is made by the—shall I say i d e ­ ologists ? Clearly, they argue, Theognis is concerned to protect his literary property and to guard against plagiarisms, omissions, altera­ tions, and interpolations by identifying his book of verses as his own and sealing i t against improper use by others. But he could not achieve either of his purposes by putting his name in a single poem; only by setting his seal on each of them could he be certain of the protection he desired. Consequently, they conclude, the seal is to be found in the address to Cyrnus with which many of the poems begin; no complete poem without the seal is genuine; and the prudence of Theognis was so nicely adjusted to the requirements of modern scholars that he has deliberately confided to them the shibboleth by which the true may be distinguished from the impostors at the critical passages of Jordan. I t would be possible, i f i t were desired, to bring a number of minor objections against this view. How effective would this device be in preventing either plagiarism or interpolation? The one requires only the removal, the other the insertion, of Κύρρ€. And again: could the reader be counted on to find this meaning in Theognis' verses? Even Jacoby, the most powerful champion of this theory, is con­ strained to grant (p. 121) that it might not be detected at first, but only as the reader went on and found poem after poem with the address to Cyrnus. And i t is strange that this interpretation should, so far as we know, have escaped the attention of all antiquity; and stranger still that so thorough an attempt to protect literary copyright should have proved so signal a failure. Still, the beam of light that this theory casts is so rare in the surrounding darkness that i t ought not to be dismissed as a will o' the wisp except for the soundest reasons. I t will be necessary, in short, to examine the purpose that has been attributed to Theognis and to determine whether i t accords with an interpretation of his own words. I f the implications of this view of Theognis' purpose could be made 13

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explicit, i t is probable that they would reveal an analogy with the modern law of copyright. But i f this is so, it is well to remember how modern the law is, and that i t had to wait for the introduction of printing. Indeed, i t is certain that there never was in classical antiquity, much less in the Greece of the sixth or fifth century, any­ thing like the modern law. Considerable as his expectations of posterity may have been, Theognis could never have supposed that his literary estate would be preserved in entail, as it were, in perpetuity. He must have thought that his book would be handed down as he saw the books of Homer and Hesiod handed down, intact in the main, but suffering changes and existing in differing versions. I f he gave much thought to the matter, he may well have understood that his book, being a collection of short poems, was more likely to suffer losses and interpolations than the massive compositions of Homer and Hesiod. I t was just in this way that the book of Anacreon was to be expanded into a collection of Ionian love-poems. I t is clear that Theognis' aspirations for the safety of his book fell considerably short of the ambitions that have, in modern times, been conceived on his behalf. The upshot is this: i t has become necessary to abandon the idea that Theognis intended to seal up his book as a protection against tampering. We are left with the alternative, that the seal was meant to serve as a certificate of ownership, and this is manifestly right. Right, but also surprising, for we have here, although in a metaphor, the notion of literary property. Seals in general perform two functions. They may be affixed to door, lid, or stopper in order to keep unauthorised persons from access to room, box, or j a r ; or they may be used to attest authenticity. The latter use is exemplified in a scene from Sophocles' Trachiniaei Deianeira commands that Lichas carry the fateful robe to Heracles and urge him to put i t on; as a confirmation she sends also her seal, which he will easily recognise (614-615). The seal is meant to attest that the robe is her gift and the commands her commands. I n the other use the case is somewhat different. The seal serves as a lock or bar, but unlike either i t bears the device of the sealer. This state of affairs is well illustrated by the words θϊρσώ* è/u σα/χα* μη μ€ ανοιγβ, which are scratched on a fifth-century gem. The inscription warns against breaking the seal. But the ground for the warning is not the physical difficulty of the attempt, as i t might be in the case of a lock or bar. I t is rather the assertion that the device is Thersis' and the implication that he has a right—generally speaking, the right of ownership—to seal up the object in question. I n both cases, there17

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fore, the seal attests ownership, in the one case explicitly, in the other by implication. Seals are best suited for the attestation of ownership of material things. I f the thing possessed is a spiritual property, such as the product of an art or craft, a different convention may be preferred. This was the case in Greece, where artists and artisans, from an early time, attached signatures to the material of the finished product. They did so because of pride in their handiwork and in order to show, not that the material object was their property, but that i t was their work. This they did, either by affirming their act of craftsmanship, as in the familiar ό δβΐνα ίπο'νησϊν or by a bold claim to a kind of possession, as in του oeìvòs €t/u. The two forms are paralleled in poetry, the one in Hesiod and the Hymn to Apollo, the other in the maxims of Demodocus and in Theognis. I n addition to such statements of ownership, inscriptions are found that warn against theft; for example, in the form: μηδά* μβ κλ^#. Theognis, i t is evident, had this formula in mind as well, for he says that, as a result of affixing his seal, (rà &τη) λήσβι οΰποτβ κλεπτόμβνα. * I n a word, he believes that the seal will safeguard his property from theft. He is using his seal in the way in which the artists used their signatures, to attest the possession of a spiritual property. But unlike them, he has affixed i t , not to a material object, but to the product of his art. His seal, as we have seen, is a metaphor, which only a poet can make; i t effects its purpose, as will appear, by means that only a poet can command. 22

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We need not doubt, therefore, that Theognis supposed that his verses were in a sense his own. But the conditions of publication did not permit, and the state of the law did not encourage him to regard them as his property in the modern sense. Indeed, i t was not until the establishment of the Library at Alexandria and the creation of philology there that a poet could safely do so. From that time forward—scarcely earlier—he could take i t for granted that after his literary work had passed from his hands i t would be taken into the keeping of men who regarded i t , not as something of practical use, but as an infinitely precious possession that was complete and unalterable. If, therefore, Theognis was concerned about the possession of his verses, i t was not because he thought that they were a property having economic value either to himself or to his heirs and assigns. What in fact he did think of literary property, and what advantage he hoped for in asserting his ownership we shall be able to discover from his own words. But before turning to the poem containing the seal, which has been generally regarded as part of the proem of Theognis* book, i t will be well to consider another poem (237-254), which is 26

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commonly recognised as the work of Theognis himself and is thought by many to have been his epilogue. W i t h his usual self-confidence, but an uncommon elevation of diction, Theognis prophesies in this poem that his poetry has given wings to Cyrnus and will carry his name (όνομα) over land and sea, to be sung by future generations at symposiums; and yet, he adds wryly, he gets no thanks from the lad, who deceives him as i f he were a child. Praise, said Aristotle, is one (he might have said the more i m ­ portant) of the two purposes of poetry. I t was the ic\ka ανδρών that Achilles was singing when the Greek emissaries waited on him in his tent and i t is the hero's or the victor's fame (KXÉOS) that is the concern of Homer and Pindar. Theognis here makes his unexpected and somewhat awkward essay to soar into the empyrean simply because he is conscious of the difference between his present aspiration and his customary—and more humble—flights. Indeed, he goes beyond even his august examples, for he is not content merely to speak of the future fame of those who are immortalised by the poet's persuasive charm, but must promise the youthful Cyrnus to preserve his name forever. But over against the unlimited power of poetry, which can command everyone in every land and every time, is set the forlorn figure of the poet himself, who is denied by his fellow-citizens the honour that is his due and is sustained only by his confidence in his art. I t can now be seen that the poem upon which Theognis has set his seal, although less ambitious of effect, contains the same context of ideas. No one will fail to recognise in i t the plaintive note at the end and the shrug of the shoulders with which he observes that his failure to win the approval of his fellow-citizens is the way of the world: for not even Zeus can please everyone. No less clear is the contrast between his own modest situation in Megara and the universal fame that he foresees for his verses. But the similarity can be shown to go even further i f the poem is analysed carefully. The μάν of line 19 creates in the hearer a tension of expectation that is not finally relaxed until the δέ of line 24. However, Theognis has more than this simple contrapuntal arrangement in mind; or rather, he feels that something must be said in explanation before he can begin his antithesis. But, instead of reducing these explanatory sentences to the status of subordinate clauses, he proceeds paratactically with a series of independent clauses, linked with ôé's. I n doing so he is following the well-known archaic practice of a linear movement of thought. I t follows that the words he puts in the mouth of posterity in lines 22 and 23 express at last the purpose he 27

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has had in mind from the beginning. They are the culmination of all that precedes and the climax of the poem. But here the sense of the last words (πάντα* Òè κατ ανθρώπους ονομαστός) has not been clearly grasped. The word ονομαστός occurs only half a dozen times before Theognis, always in the phrase ούκ ονομαστός, where i t retains a verbal force. I t is only in later instances that i t comes to mean "renowned" or the like. Accordingly, i t will be well to reckon with the possibility that a verbal force still lingers in Theognis* use as well; so that the sentence means "and his name is told among all mankind." I n fact, this is just what is required, for i t makes clear that the purpose of the poem is to preserve the poet's name, just as in 237-254 he was concerned to promise the preservation of the name of his favourite Cyrnus. The heart of the poem is Theognis' buoyant confidence that, although he has for the present failed to achieve recognition at home, his name will be known in the future to everyone abroad. His confi­ dence is based, as in 237-254, on the consciousness of his artistic powers, and he has made this plain, I believe, by the σοφιξομ&φ of line 19 and by the position of prominence he has given i t , immediately after the address to Cyrnus. The meaning of σοφιξομ'ζνφ, although i t appears pellucid at first, proves murky indeed in the pages of modern interpreters. Welcker, who was the first to grasp clearly the heterogeneity of the book, thought he had found the clue to the true Theognis in his moral sense and didactic purpose. Hence, he argued, σοφι,ξομβνφ must refer to Theognis' "philosophising." Wilamowitz and Jacoby, because they were puzzled by the seal, preferred to think that Theognis was con­ gratulating himself on the cleverness of his own idea. And Allen, agreeing with Martial that a poet is known by his manner, insisted on a reference to style. A closer examination of the word will be necessary i f illumination and order are to be restored to this darkling plain. The verb refers, no doubt, to the practice of σοφία. Furthermore, the words σοφιξομβνψ μβν ίμόί σφρηΎΐς βπί,κβίσθω/τοΐσδ' 'έπβσιν sugge that the act of imposing the seal is accompanied by, i f i t does not consist i n , the practice of σοφία. This interpretation, taken strictly, is fatal to the opinions held by Welcker and by Wilamowitz and Jacoby; for Theognis, in sealing his book with his name, is not engaged in philosophic reflection or the conception of clever ideas. Allen's interpretation comes closer to the truth, although he was mis­ taken in thinking that the seal is the poet's style, and in any case the practice of style seems a little recherché for Theognis. 33

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These judgments are confirmed by a consideration of the history of the word σοφία. From the time of Homer and Hesiod i t is used of the skill of poets, artists, seers, and artisans; although i t is at first technical, i t is commonly regarded as possessing greater dignity and pertaining more exclusively to mind and spirit than τϊχνη. I t is a rational thing, and yet also a practical skill, which is exercised in ethics and politics as well as poetry and other forms of art. The rational element was appropriated by Ionian and sophistic thought, which made of i t the object of the thinker's activity. When, in the fifth century, the practice of this intellectual σοφία became a profession, its practitioners saw fit to call themselves σοφυσταί. The pejorative sense of σοφία and its congeners first occurs, i f I am not mistaken, in these circumstances: Aristophanes and the conservatives found fault with the new σοφία because i t had broken with tradition and custom; Plato, because i t was not a true σοφία at all. All in all, i t seems premature to attribute to a Megarian poet of the sixth century a meaning that is purely intellectual or one that pertains exclusively to the technique of art. 40

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What Theognis is thinking of, clearly enough, is his skill as a poet. That is what makes his verses good, so that everyone is glad to recite them; and because he possesses i t , Theognis has the power to keep his name alive forever on their lips. "When I compose my verses," he says, "such is my skill that I have only to seal them with my name in order to win a universal and undying reputation." I n what he says of his future fame in line 22 Theognis makes use of an epic formula, by which some member of a future generation is imagined speaking. So in the Iliad (4.182) Agamemnon thinks of the jeers which the Trojans would be delighted to utter i f Menelaus should die and the Greeks return home unsuccessful; and he concludes: &s ποτέ ris kpkei. Theognis takes over the formula, but in the form ώδ€ òè Tas ris èpcî, with the significant addition of Tas. The fame that his imagination conceives is no casual or momentary thing, but the universal acclaim of posterity. I t is noteworthy that the same exaggeration is to be found in 237-254, but in a more precise form. For near the beginning (239-240) he promises Cyrnus: UOIVQS òè και ζίλαπίναισι παρέσσ^ / ev τάσαι* πολλών Kdßevos kv στομασιν. And near the end (251-252) he repeats his promise: πασι δ'&τοισι μ£μη\€, καΐ 'ζσσομίνοισιν άοώή / Ζσσχι όμώ$, οφρ αν y η re και rjkXios. I t now appears that the posterity of which he thinks consists of the lovers of poetry, and above all those who sing verses at symposiums. Very likely, the iras ns of line 22 is to be interpreted in this way also. Simi­ larly, the boundless perspective of his future fame, of which we catch 42

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only a glimpse in the οΰποτε of line 20, is amplified into a spatial, as well as a temporal, infinity. Exaggeration such as this reflects, as has been seen, Theognis* confidence in his art, but i t has its origins also in disappointments that marred his life. This is evident from the muted discord with which he ends (253-254) his remarkable passage of bravura; and only less evident from the contrast of lines 24-26, where the change of mood is emphasised by the transition from iravras . . . ανθρώπους to άστοΐσιν. Theognis, as his verses show, suffered from the ingratitude of his friends as well as the triumph of the opposite faction. But his stern temper would not acquiesce in change; and he would not palter with what he knew to be right. I n consequence, he had to abandon the cultivation of the good-will of his fellow-citizens, which in an earlier time or a less inflexible character might have been achieved by an aristocrat, and which Pindar was to go on maintaining as an ideal. Theognis had to seek in poetry the unanimity of approval that had been lost to him in the city. Now at last, after this comparison and analysis, i t is possible to understand clearly what Theognis thought of his art, its influence, and its special function. And this, in turn, enables us to answer the earlier question: what view of literary property did Theognis hold? E v i ­ dently, he desired, not to secure an economic property to his estate, but to attach his name to his verses, and so to perpetuate himself— in the latter and not in the former. I t was sufficient for him to ensure that his poems should always be known as his and bear his name. No other notion of literary property can have occurred to him. Having once grasped this, we can understand why he chose his notorious metaphor and what he hoped to protect by setting his seal on his verses. I t was not to make his book secure against omissions, interpolations, or alterations in the future; nor to certify to his fellowcitizens that his verses were really his own; but rather to stamp them forever as his property by affixing to them his name, which they would proclaim to all posterity. There is a close parallel to Theognis' poem in an elegiac fragment of Critias, quoted by Plutarch in his life of Alcibiades; so close is i t , indeed, that we may suspect imitation. Critias, according to Plut­ arch's account, had drawn up the decree that permitted the return of Alcibiades. I n these verses he reminds Alcibiades of the favour: 46

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Ύνώμη δ* η σβ κατήγαγ', έγώ ταϋτην kv απασιν €Ϊπον και ypaxf/as rovpyov έδρασα ràôe. apayis δ* ήμβτβρης γ λ ώ τ τ ^ kirl τοίσδβσι κείται. Here the seal is the mention of Critias' name in the preamble of the

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decree: Κριτία* Καλλαίσχρου €ΐ7Γ€. I t is called the seal of his tongue because Critias had spoken i n the assembly in proposing the motion of recall, as he himself tells us in words that are only a modification of the technical formula: eyò ταύτην kv απασιν elwov. What Critias is saying is this: his seal was affixed in the exercise of his function as an orator and politician, just as Theognis had stamped his seal on his verses in the practice of his art. I n each case the seal consists of the name of the author and affirms that the object so sealed, whether motion or poem, is his. B u t , unlike Theognis, Critias was not moved by a new pride in himself; he was merely observing the established convention, which required that the name of the proposer be included in the preamble. However, the parallel is re-established i f we ask why this convention was established at all. Obviously, i t provides a convenient means of identifying a decree. But i t is not obvious that the name of the orator—or any name—must be the means used. I f the name is in fact so used, we must conclude that the convention was instituted to gratify the pride of politicians by increasing their reputation. The conclusion seems necessary; but it is reassuring to notice that Plato was of the same opinion. Reflecting on all this, we cannot escape the conclusion that Critias had Theognis' metaphor in mind and interpreted i t in much the way that we have seen to be necessary. He must have known Theognis' book at Athens, as Plato and Xenophon were to know i t a little later; and nothing is more reasonable than that the brilliant and cultivated Critias, an oligarch in democratic Athens, should have looked w i t h nostalgia upon the verses of Theognis, who had fought so bitterly in Megara against the rise of democracy. He stored those verses in his memory as he fought the same fight in Athens and with no greater success. 50

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The lines that follow the opening couplet are only less vexed. Hitherto we have considered them only in their relation to the seal. We must now consider them for their own sake in order to make the interpretation of the poem complete. The third line has been widely misunderstood and adduced as proof that Theognis feared damage to his text. This opinion will appear improbable after our analysis of the seal and can be rejected altogether after an examination of the line in question. To begin with, the meaning of τούσθλου is hardly in doubt. He means his verses, of course, and they are good, not because he is going to put his name on them, but because they are the product of his art. Further­ more, we are dealing with a proverb, the idea of the exchange of goods 52

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and evils. Consider, for example, Herodotus 8.152: άλλάξασθαι ßovXoßevoi τοίσι πλησίοισί (τα οίκήϊα κακά). Here Theognis applies a universal maxim to the future: no one willingly exchanges a good that he possesses for something inferior that is offered to him, and no one will prefer other verses to his. This is the only exchange of which Theognis is thinking, the judgment of an audience between his poems and another's. There is no need to look for a reference to the actions of editors, interpolators, or plagiarists. Such a reference is improbable in itself and cannot be discovered in Theognis' words. I t follows that the thought of line 21 is not conceived as a result of the imposition of the seal, since people would prefer Theognis' verses even without his name. Nevertheless, the òè gives some kind of answer to the σοφιξομ&ω μϊν 'ζμοί of line 19: i t introduces an explanation of what Theognis understands by his σοφία and what its power is. On the other hand, the line looks forward to what follows, and especially to the iras ris of line 22. B u t i t would be a mistake to suppose that i t is merely a negative introduced to balance the positive that follows. Rather, i t is meant to explain the iras ns; i t is precisely because no one will prefer other verses to those of Theognis that every­ one, in reciting, will mention his name. I n a word, line 21 is sub­ ordinate and parenthetical, a general maxim of specific application providing an explanation of what precedes and a justification of what follows. I n line 22, as we have seen, Theognis makes use of an epic formula and, in naming himself, follows the example of Hesiod and the poet of the Hymn to Apollo.* The formula may be used by the epic hero in imagining the judgment of the future upon himself. So Hector thinks of the day when Troy must fall and of the indignities that Andromache must then suffer, when she will be seen performing menial tasks for some Greek mistress: 56

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καί ποτ€ TLS έίιτχισιν ίδών κατά δάκρυ χβουσαν "Έκτορος ήδζ γυρή, os άριστβύβσκβ μάχβσθαι Ύρώων ίπποδάμων, óre'lXiov άμφεμάχοντο. cos TTOTk Tis kpéer (7/. 6.459-462) Later, in a poem by Solon, the formula is combined with a wish, as in Theognis with a command. Finally, in some verses found in a Hibeh papyrus and attributed to Epicharmus, i t is used in order to mention the poet's name; that is, in combination with the Hesiodic precedent, as in Theognis. There is one more convention to be noticed in the poem. I n its simplest form i t is found in inscriptions on pieces of property; for 62

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example, Qkpaias έμι σαμα' μ€ avoiyç™ I t is an accepted practice that the inscription should address the beholder, as i t were, in its own words. Similarly, epitaphs on tombstones speak to the passer-by and ask him to pity the dead. This trick is then taken over by the artist, whether sculptor or stone-cutter. He does not, as usual, sign his work and he does not add a statement that he made i t . Instead, he takes over this convention and makes the inscription tell his name as well. I n other cases, the epitaph addresses, not the beholder, but the departed; so that the one, in the act of reading i t , will give voice to its unspoken greeting to the other. I t is, then, safe to conclude that commonly, in certain kinds of inscriptions, the words are the stone's and address the passer-by or borrow his voice in order to greet the dead. This convention, as has been seen, was borrowed, by artists and used to advertise their craftsmanship. I t was no innovation that Theognis should employ i t for a similar purpose. But he has gone further and made a subtle adaptation of i t . His seal, which is the statement of his authorship, corresponds to the inscriptions above. However, he does not address his reader, or have the reader address him, in order to announce his own name and achievement. Rather, he introduces the epic formula so that his poem tells by anticipation what people will say when they read his seal. The combination of two conventions, and the introduction of a skilful variation on both, argue for a greater subtlety than is generally conceded to Theognis. Certainly, his dexterity has, in general, passed unnoticed and he has, in consequence, been under-estimated. A t any rate, the more literal among his critics have feared that Theognis could not have attributed to others a statement that he was himself so eager to pronounce. W i t h line 23 we come at last, after a deviation or two, to the end of the path upon which we entered at the beginning of the poem. The sentence πάντα* ôè κατ ανθρώπους ονομαστός provides the fulfilment of what was promised by σοφιξομ&ω in line 19 and confirmed by τούσθλου in line 21. I t must be taken as part of what people will say: for grammatical reasons, and because Theognis must, for modesty's sake, refer his acquisition of fame to the future and its proclamation to others. So far all is plain, but thereafter difficulties multiply. To begin with, there is every reason to suppose that a stop is necessary at the end of the line. The tradition of the MSS favours Jt, as i t is found in A, X , and most of the détériores, although lacking in O; i t is absolutely necessary to the MSS that read ονομαστούς indeed, to all the MSS, since they are unanimous about the S in the 67

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following line. The spirit and purpose of the poem require i t ; for to remove the stop here and connect these words with line 24 (smoothing the way by changing δ' to γ ' ) , as some editors do, is to be insensible to Theognis' subtlety: i t is to make him say that he is famous, but he has done all that he can to avoid so bald a statement. A n d i f the manner could be tolerated, the meaning is wrong, since he has made i t abundantly clear that his reliance is on his art and not his fame. Moreover, the proposed change is grammatically dubious. The omission of the participle ών is not uncommon, but i t must be rare indeed when used in a concessive sense without so much as a καίπβρ or δμως.™ Furthermore, the passage has a marked epic flavour; i t is meant to contribute to the sense of swelling pride in the renown that he now, i n imagination, anticipates. But in more than one instance of the epic convention and in the very similar passage in PseudoEpicharmus, a second sentence, describing the achievements of the hero or poet, is added to the first, i n which he is identified. Finally, there are a number of considerations which, although not weighty i n themselves, serve as corroboration. 74

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Secondly, i t is almost as certain that there must be a stop after του Meyapécos. I t is found in Ο, X , and most of the détériores, and may be in A . The words θεύγνιδός Ιστιν ΐπη του Meyapécos are quoted in a passage attributed by Stobaeus to Xenophon. The quotation is not conclusive, but suggests, at the very least, that Xenophon, or another writer of the fourth century, regarded the sense of the passage as complete. I n fact, i t seems necessary so to regard i t ; for no one has been able to find any grammatical connection with the following words that is not intolerably harsh, unless ονομαστού is read at the end. But ονομαστού can scarcely be right. I t is found only in the détériores; Xenophon's quotation is against i t ; i t is an easy corruption of ονομαστός, whereas the change in the opposite direction is less probable; i t resembles the corruption of κλεπτόμβνα into κλεπτομϊνη in line 20 and, like i t , may have been made in order to avoid a change of subject. Finally, i t seems uncommonly pointed, for Theognis. This is the more remarkable since the point is rather unsuitable: i t makes a contrast between a Megarian and fame, whereas i n Theognis' mind the opposites are rather the man's lack of recognition at home and the poet's fame abroad. The conclusion seems inescapable: the tradition gives us πάντα* δα κατ ανθρώπους ονομαστός between stops. B u t this is so harsh as to be virtually impossible. The omission of the verb and the u n ­ announced change of subject combine with its maimed and stricken 80

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air to denounce i t . A verb seems indispensable and emendation necessary. I venture to suggest όνόμασται. I t is a rare but authentic form, occurring twice in Parmenides —rare enough to make corrup­ tion likely; in fact, i t has been corrupted in the MSS of Simplicius, by whom the passages of Parmenides are quoted. Possibly the trouble began with a mistake in accent: i f accented on the ultima, the word would appear to be a form of ονομαστός. The meaning is what the passage requires: "his name is told," i.e., "he is famous." The use is not excessively difficult, but not obvious either. I n fact, i t probably required a gloss, as we may see from Suidas, who thinks ώνομασμ&ος in this sense worthy of explanation: he points out that i t means ξακουστοί. I t may well be that ανόμασται was explained by such a gloss in the MSS of Theognis. I f the gloss was ονομαστός (£σπ), the manner of the corruption is clear. < I t will be seen that lines 19-23 form a complex unit. I n antithesis to them stand lines 24-26. Indeed, the contrast is the essence of the poem. I t is a contrast between the poet and the man, his power and his weakness, his boundless pride and his wry self-depreciation. However, the two sets of verses are not regarded as blocks to be set, the one against the other, in the stark antithesis of classical usage. Instead, there is a more elusive connection which may be described as psychological rather than logical. Ostensibly, line 24 stands in opposition to πάντας òè κατ ανθρώπους όνόμασται, and contrasts un­ popularity at home with reputation abroad. But, as we have seen, these words do not stand alone; they are the culmination in which, after an incomplete attempt and an interpolated explanation, the meaning of σοφιξομ&