In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Virgil: Aeneid, Book XII ed. by Richard TarrantVassiliki PanoussiRichard Tarrant, ed. Virgil: Aeneid, Book XII. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012. ix + 363 pp. Paperback, $36.99.To say that students of Vergil have long awaited a commentary dedicated to Aeneid 12 would be an understatement. W. Warde Fowler’s 1919 volume, The Death of Turnus: Observations on the Twelfth Book of the Aeneid (...) (Oxford), was the last work to fit this description. This is surely in no small measure due to the extremely difficult nature of the task. How would one begin to fit the amount of copious scholarship spanning a century to a volume of manageable size that will be thorough and useful? With this new commentary, Tarrant meets the challenge with great aplomb, having produced a volume that is balanced, nuanced, learned, and thought-provoking. Tarrant follows the familiar commentary format: a substantial introduction, text (with apparatus criticus), commentary, an interesting appendix, bibliography, a general index, and an index of Latin words. [End Page 291]The author states that the commentary aims “to be accessible to students at the university level and upper classes of schools, but also to contain material of interest to professional classicists” (44). I submit that he succeeds admirably in both goals. For instance, early on in the commentary when he uses literary terms such as “focalization,” he gives a brief description of the meaning of the term (85), while the longer entries are frequently followed by bibliography, which will benefit the student (and the scholar) who wants to research a specific episode or passage further. As a scholar, I was often intrigued by Tarrant’s interpretations and comments and was pleased to be forced to rethink passages I believed I understood well. One such example is the comment on the description of Turnus riding his chariot in line 370, where the plume of his helmet is blown backward while the chariot moves into the wind. Tarrant insightfully interprets the chariot’s movement as “an implied conflict of forces, between the wind that ‘strikes’ (quatit) the plume and the ‘opposing’ (aduerso) chariot,” linking this moment with the storm motif that occupies a prominent place in the poem as a whole.The lengthy introduction lays the groundwork for much of what is to follow in the commentary proper. Tarrant begins with a discussion of the book as the final in the epic and points out a series of thematic and structural analogies with other parts of the Aeneid and especially Book 1. He rightly brings to the foreground many issues that have been the topic of discussion in the most recent scholarship, such as narrative delay (3), the problem of Italian identity (7), the connection between Aeneas’ killing of Turnus and Romulus’ killing of Remus (8), the representation of the conflict as civil war (7), the problem of anger and revenge (18–21), and the depiction of Turnus’ death as a sacrifice (21–22). As one would expect, Tarrant devotes a considerable portion of his introduction to the final scene and presents a balanced and sober discussion of the controversy surrounding Aeneas’ killing of Turnus, arguing for deliberate ambivalence on the part of Vergil. He identifies two perspectives that help interpret the actions of the characters: one that comes from external forces, larger than and beyond the control of the characters, and an internal one that focuses on their emotional forces. Tarrant concludes that these two perspectives “do not cancel each other out, but co-exist,” a manifestation of Vergil’s tragic view of humanity (28–29).Tarrant’s comments on metrical issues are excellent. I plan to assign the portion of his introduction dedicated to Vergil’s meter as required reading for my undergraduates. In addition, throughout the commentary, Tarrant frequently demonstrates the ways in which meter, anaphora, enjambment, etc. contribute to the construction of meaning and makes a strong case for their impact on interpretation. This is an important lesson for today’s student, who gets little exposure to meter, or worse, tends to ignore it altogether. Take, for example, the note on lines 56–59, Amata’s plea to Turnus not to enter the fight. Tarrant... (shrink)

This note examines the significance of Gylippus at Aen. 12.271–83 and argues that Virgil's narrative is an epitaphic gesture alluding to Nicander of Colophon, Anth. Pal. 7.435 and other epigrams from Anth. Pal. 7. Virgil's bilingual reader would participate in the Hellenistic Ergänzungsspiel and supplement further meaning to this otherwise generic scene.

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:War and Remembrance: Aeneid 12.554–60 and Aeneas’ Memory of TroyNetta BerlinIn its barest outline, Vergil’s Aeneid is the story of how Aeneas survives the Trojan War and finds his way to Italy where, before establishing a new home as destined, he is launched into a second war. Such an outline unjustly obscures the substance of the story—how loss and labor on the one hand, pietas and furor (...) on the other, define the personal experience of the hero—and, admittedly, disregards the poem’s discourse about Augustan imperium and pax. Nevertheless the outline highlights a theme whose significance is articulated with the poem’s first word (arma), and it calls attention to the structuring of the poem into two halves, each having a war as a focal point. The Sibyl’s prophecy to Aeneas, which recalls the past war in Troy by identifying it with the future war in Latium (6.86–94), initiates a thematic and structural relationship between the two conflicts: 1 the narrative of the war in Latium in books 7–12 recalls, often through inversion, that of the attack upon Troy’s capital in book 2.In developing this relationship, Vergil exploits the fact that the fall of Troy, which precedes the present time frame of the poem, is represented as a story within the Aeneid, with Aeneas as narrator recalling (meminisse) the event for the Carthaginians (2.12). Furthermore, Vergil links the mnemonic experience of the poem’s external audience to that of its internal narrator, creating a causative chain of narration and memory: the poet’s story of the war in Latium constructs the reader’s memory of the battles in Troy, whose earlier narration by the poem’s hero is constructed through his memory of the event. This causative chain is circumscribed by the tenet that the genesis of epic poetry resides, at divine initiative, in the poet’s memory: Musa, mihi causas memora... (1.8). It [End Page 11] also constitutes one facet of Vergil’s complex narrative strategy and has its own thematic and structural counterpart in the narrative technique of prophecy circumscribing the teleology of the epic. The Aeneid both embodies the deep sense of destiny that the poet’s contemporary audience had about its empire and constructs a kind of collective memory which, for that audience, would have been especially vivid in the wake of recent wars abroad and at home. Within and without, this epic is motivated by and motivates memory and in its genesis and generative force epitomizes the idea that memory is constructed.The thematic and structural dynamic of war and remembrance is especially forceful for the hero and especially subtle for the reader at the pivotal moment when Aeneas undertakes the attack upon the Latin capital in the last book of the poem:hic mentem Aeneae genetrix pulcherrima misit iret ut ad muros urbique adverteret agmen ocius et subita turbaret clade Latinos. ille ut vestigans diversa per agmina Turnum huc atque huc acies circumtulit, aspicit urbem immunem tanti belli atque impune quietam. continuo pugnae accendit maioris imago.(12.554–60)First Venus prompts Aeneas to attack; then Aeneas sees (aspicit, 558) the capital, not as yet a locus for battle. Imago (560) ends what begins with mens (554), linking the sight of the capital, from which it proceeds, to the influence of Venus on the hero’s thinking. One critic has suggested that Vergil was inconsistent when he gave Venus a part to play in initiating the attack, since Aeneas has the idea on his own in the ensuing verses. 2 That both divine and human impulse govern an action is hardly unusual in this poem and need not of its own invite scrutiny. However, an element of ambiguity in 12.560 suggests that this case of double determination warrants closer attention. If we take imago strictly in the sense of “a representation to the imagination” or “mental picture” (OLD 6), our inclination is to equate it, as delimited by pugna, with the idea generated by Venus and articulated in 12.555–56. In this, the conventional reading, the battle envisioned by Aeneas refers to the imminent attack. Or so... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Death of Osiris in Aeneid 12.458Joseph D. ReedAs aeneas ranges the battlefield in search of Turnus and the Aeneid storms toward its close, an odd note sounds. A Trojan named Thymbraeus slays a Rutulian named Osiris. Neither is mentioned before or again. Even when one considers the diversity in this poem of names of Italian warriors, which Virgil takes not just from Italian traditions but from (...) all over the Mediterranean world,1 Osiris is surprising. Why does the name of an Egyptian god intrude into a primeval scene of Roman origins? The reader cannot ignore this provocation, especially on recollecting the rich patterns of meaning that such a contemporary of Virgil as Tibullus works into his elegy on Messalla’s birthday through an invocation of Osiris.2 So unexpected is the name that Bergk emended Osirim to Osinim, recalling the Italian king Osinius mentioned at 10.655.3 But emendation is misguided: as this paper will argue, the suggestiveness of the name is satisfied on the levels of history, ideology, religion, and literary influence, all major domains of Virgil’s epic. And the slaying of Osiris by Thymbraeus can be shown to emblematize both the whole mission of Aeneas and the achievement of Augustus.Aeneas, cured of the wound on his thigh, arms himself and, with some final words of instruction to his son, goes into battle seeking Turnus. In a memorable simile, he is compared to a storm that brings horror to farmers and ruin to their crops. His example rouses his fellow Trojans against the Italians: ferit ense gravem Thymbraeus Osirim, Arcetium Mnestheus, Epulonem obtruncat Achates Ufentemque Gyas; cadit ipse Tolumnius augur, primus in adversos telum qui torserat hostis.(12.458–61)[End Page 399]With his sword Thymbraeus smites the gravem Osiris. The adjective is equivalent to fortis, according to Servius Auctus; Forbiger prefers a denotation of towering size, comparing gravis as epithet of the boxer Entellus at 5.437 and 447.4 “Massive” might capture the sense in English. The effect here is to highlight Thymbraeus’ prowess. Like Osiris, two of the other Italian victims, Arcetius and Epulo, are unknown except for this passage. (The important Ufens received six lines at 7.744–49, in the catalogue of Latin allies,5 and Tolumnius, as line 461 reminds us, began this phase of the battle at 12.257–67.)6 But both their names etiologize some ancestral Italic or Roman institution: Epulo suggests a prototype of the college of epulones, priests of Jupiter Epulo;7 Arcetius invites a connection with the Italian gens Arquitia.8 In this they are like their enemy Mnestheus, supposed eponym of the gens Memmia (5.117). Osiris stands alone among his compatriots in his nomenclatural irrelevance to anything Roman. But Thymbraeus shares the isolation of his victim: he is the only one of the Trojans here who is mentioned nowhere else; not only that, but Mnestheus, Achates, and Gyas are indeed famous, leaders of the Trojans throughout the poem, receiving notice during the introductory storm scene in book 1, the departure from Carthage in book 4, the games in honor of Anchises in book 5, and elsewhere. The catalogue here is introduced by a pair of unknown warriors.The two belong together and give each other meaning. If the name of Osiris applied to a follower of Turnus reduces the critic to perplexity and silence, we can approach its significance through that of the name of Thymbraeus, which has obvious relevance to the whole drift of the epic. Thymbraeus reprises a Thymbraeus killed by Diomedes in Iliad 11.320–21, also mentioned only once. Virgil has revived the obscure Trojan, as it were, to permit him the victory at last; the fact that each Thymbraeus is hapax legomenos in his epic reinforces the reference, especially for such learned readers as Virgil himself was and expected in [End Page 400] his audience.9 The name itself, “the Thymbraean man,” comes from the town Thymbra near Troy (first attested in Il. 10.430),10 and so unmistakably marks the first warrior in Virgil’s catalogue as a representative survivor of the fallen city. In fact, the mythological tradition preserves... (shrink)

In the so-called ‘Iliadic’Aeneid(Books 7–12), Dido is scarcely mentioned. At first sight, Aeneas’ dalliance at Carthage is forgotten when he gets down to the serious business of establishing the Trojans in Italy. But the poem's last mention of Dido (at 11.74, when Aeneas places a tunic made by her on the dead Pallas) is enmeshed in a network of parallel passages elsewhere in theAeneidrelating to tunics and adoption. In the light of similarities between Aeneas and the superficially unimportant Trojan (...) warrior Nisus, these passages bear crucially (I suggest) on the contrast between Aeneas’ public and privatepietas: his obedience to imposed (or public) commitments and to chosen (or private) ones. In this way, Virgil provides guidance on what motivates Aeneas’ fury in Books 10 and 12. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Change of Perspective in Ovid, Metamorphoses 12.11-23Margaret Worsham MusgroveIn the first of the trojan stories which dominate Metamorphoses books 12 and 13, Ovid recounts a well-known Homeric episode, the omen of the snake at Aulis; a snake climbs into a tree and eats a nestful of eight baby birds plus their mother. According to Calchas' interpretation, this omen symbolized the nine years the Greeks would besiege Troy before taking (...) it in the tenth, and is recalled for the despairing Greek army by Odysseus at Iliad 2.299-329. Ovid's version follows the Homeric story closely, with several verbal parallels. But readers of the Metamorphoses may also see another intertext, the second book of Vergil's Aeneid, Aeneas' account of the fall of Troy, the same event to which the omen looks forward.1 By playing on his readers' knowledge of the Aeneid, Ovid introduces a competing voice into his version, while ostensibly retaining the familiar Homeric story. The present paper will discuss how this intertext is activated to influence our reading of Ovid's "Iliad."2That Ovid's readers might hear Vergilian echoes in a reference to the fall of Troy should not be unexpected. In Vergil's Aeneid, the Trojan War and its aftermath had been transformed into a Trojan experience, seen through Trojan eyes. In the Iliadic section of Ovid's post-Vergilian epic, Ovid must balance his Greek-centered stories, told in greatly condensed form, with the expectations of his Roman readers. By alluding to [End Page 267] the other side of the war, Ovid is able to restore some of the layers of complexity which his brevity has removed from his Greek models, and to remind his readers of the problematic nature of victory and conquest, as Vergil had done. In the process, Ovid shows himself to be an extremely close reader of both Homer and Vergil; his use of the two of them together in this episode can even help elucidate the relationship between his two great epic predecessors.Ovid and HomerOvid's account of the omen nearly parallels Odysseus' speech in Homer; Ovid is more compact, but agrees with Homer in many respects. The visual perspective of both passages is emphatically Greek. In Homer, the story is told by an eyewitness, Odysseus, who reminds the Greek army that they had all observed the omen:(Iliad 2.301-2)Ovid, although telling the story in his own, or "first-level," narrative voice, notes that "the Greeks saw" the omen: Danai videre (Met. 12.13). In both scenes, the snake appears suddenly at a sacrifice and creeps into a plane-tree near the altar.(Iliad 2.305-10)hic patrio de more Iovi cum sacra parassent, ut vetus accensis incanduit ignibus ara, serpere caeruleum Danai videre draconem in platanum, coeptis quae stabat proxima sacris.(Met. 12.11-14)Ovid's specification that the sacrifice was being made to Jupiter illustrates an efficient technique of condensation. Although Homer says the sacrifice was generally "to the immortals" (athanatoisi, Iliad 2.306), the snake was sent by Zeus, who is also credited with its metamorphosis [End Page 268] (Iliad 2.309, 318). The presence of Zeus is necessary for the prophetic function of the snake, in Kirk's words (1985, ad Iliad 2.307-18), "since only he could determine or recognize in advance the outcome of the war." Ovid allows time for only one mention of a divinity in this scene, but includes the one deity crucial to the Homeric episode.3 When Ovid introduces the birds, every element of his sentence can be paralleled in Homer's lines:(Iliad 2.311-13)nidus erat volucrum bis quattuor arbore summa(Met. 12.15)Both Homer and Ovid place the verb "be" near the beginning of the line, followed by words for the birds themselves; both note the birds' location (the top of the tree) and number (eight, for the moment). Thus Ovid sets the stage for the portent.4But we should also consider the Homeric details which Ovid omits. First, he omits Homer's pathetic details of the birds and of their mother.(Iliad 2.314-17)Homer's... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:American Journal of Philology 121.3 (2000) 423-452 [Access article in PDF] The Mourning After: Statius Thebaid 12 Victoria E. Pagán Wie er auf dem letzten Hügel, der ihm ganz sein Tal noch einmal zeigt, sich wendet, anhält, weilt--, so leben wir und nehmen immer Abschied. As he, on the last hill, which shows him his valley one last time, turns back, stops, lingers--, so we live and ever take (...) our leave. --Rilke, Eighth ElegyRecent, fruitful readings of the end of the Thebaid have come a long way toward identifying the political import of the arrival of Theseus and the laments of the Theban women, although consensus remains in the distance. 1 Some scholars have tried to resolve the difficulties posed by the oft-disparaged "superfluous" book 12 by examining Statius' resolution of the Theban epic against the backdrop of the endings of the Iliad or the Aeneid, for instance, thus bringing us closer to understanding the dilemma encountered when a poet does (or does not) reach the end of an epic. 2 Both the political and the literary-historical approaches to the problem, however, still fail to convince opponents that the poem does or does not end conclusively. Valid arguments accrue on both sides, and the mosaic of interpretations itself recreates the stunning effect produced in book 12.For present purposes I accept Braund's argument that the Thebaid ends, and that it ends several times over, and that the repeated gestures toward closure do not undermine but reinforce its ultimate termination. The last ten lines of book 12 (especially 816-17) display an [End Page 423] unease with the poem's status vis-à-vis the Aeneid and an apprehension at simply letting go, despite the need. But the sphragis, when considered in the context of what I call an "aftermath narrative," or the description which follows a battle, reveals more. The aftermath of a battle affects a community, and this highly emotional reaction is captured in narrative. Because aftermath narratives are present in different works of Latin literature, comparison allows a pattern to emerge. Once we identify the elements of this rhetorical commonplace, 3 we can observe the way Statius uses it and adapts it to his needs in book 12. With a better understanding of the phenomenon of aftermath, it is possible to appreciate the apprehension, as well as the finality, that accompanies the end of the epic.More specifically, the term "aftermath narrative" refers to the picture of a battlefield strewn with decaying corpses, weapons, horses, helmets, and debris. The field is inspected in broad daylight, usually on the morning after the battle, by the living, either the victorious generals or, less specifically, the survivors whose concern it is to bury the dead. 4 Thus the reader sees the aftermath through the eyes of those who return to the battlefield. This inspection is an intermediate step between the destruction of war and the funeral rites. Paradoxically, war gives the soldier an opportunity to earn laus and gloria and so to reaffirm the fame of his ancestors and enhance the fame of his progeny. 5 But in his death he also becomes a burden of responsibility to his kin. 6 His corpse is a polluted thing which must be purified by the act of burial. Thus aftermath is part of the transition from the violent disruption of war to the settlement of the dispute and a return to a state of equilibrium. A scene of aftermath necessarily looks backward and recreates the battle in the mind's eye, but it also looks forward to the more permanent results for the winners and the losers of the battle, and ultimately, of the [End Page 424] war. Thus when represented in literature, an aftermath narrative affords an author the opportunity to explore the intertwining nexus of past, present, and future. The survey of aftermath is the means by which those who have experienced the trauma of war come to terms with devastating loss and brutal destruction in their very midst.An author also experiences a sort of aftermath. For... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Vergil's Aeneid and the Roman Self: Subject and Nation in Literary DiscourseJames J. O'HaraYasmin Syed. Vergil's Aeneid and the Roman Self: Subject and Nation in Literary Discourse. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2005. x + 277 pp. Cloth, $65.This book, which "began as a PhD dissertation at the University of California, Berkeley" (1997), tackles a timely, large, and difficult topic, possibly a topic (...) too difficult to be handled in a satisfactory way in a dissertation and first book. In sum, it makes a decent but flawed contribution on a topic that needs much more work, and in some ways, much more careful work.Two introductory chapters describe the importance of the Aeneid in imperial culture and the role of manipulation of the emotions in ancient theories of rhetoric. In a section called "The Reader's Subject Position," two chapters (both largely on Aeneas and Dido) treat "The Gaze" and "The Spectacle of Emotions." In the next section, on "Gender and Ethnicity," four chapters treat "Gendered Emotions" (before Allecto's visit, Amata is worried, but Turnus is calm; "frenzy, then, is female," 122), "Gendered Ethnicity" (Dido's characterization as Punic "is hard to detect because it is blended with her lover's persona," but it is still significant, 145), "Cleopatra and the Politics of Gendered Ethnicity" ("Augustan representations of Cleopatra form the birth of the Western discourse of orientalism," 177, somewhat overstated, but with interesting ideas about the connection between Cleopatra and Dido), and "Romanitas" (Greek stereotypes, and others, define Romans but are characterized by a "fundamental ambivalence," 203). A brief conclusion ends the book.The interesting argument that Syed makes in the first few chapters is "that the Aeneid used its visuality and its sublime style to appeal to the readers' emotions, and that it created a fictional space for an internal reader within the poem for [End Page 317] 316 whom the poem could articulate an identity by creating various fictional characters as figures of identification" (35). Both these and later chapters offer a mix of the new, the familiar, and, at times, the unconvincing. Two of the book's flaws are actually signaled in the surprising final paragraph, which declares that the book's "most glaring omission has been that of considering more Italian characters and generally of giving more attention to the second half of the poem" (227). Syed says that this "focus" on other aspects of the poem "has been a personal decision on my part," but it is hard to imagine thinking about "subject and nation" in the Aeneid without discussing the relationship between Rome and Italy both in the poem and in Vergil's world; see C. Ando, "Vergil's Italy: ethnography and politics in first-century Rome," pp. 123–42 in D. S. Levene and D. Nelis, eds., Clio and the Poets (Leiden, 2002), whose date is probably too close to Syed's publication date. Presumably there will be a full discussion of Rome and Italy in Alessandro Barchiesi's forthcoming The Geopoetics of Vergil's Aeneid.The lack of attention to Books 7–12 is also a problem, because often the arguments Syed makes about the parts of the Aeneid that she does treat are less convincing when we think about passages in the second half of the poem. The claims that Aeneas has a special ability "to control his emotional responses to the world" (70) and that "in contrast to Aeneas, whose emotions are carefully controlled, many characters in the poem give free rein to their emotions" (87), surely cry out for a consideration of Aeneas' rampage after the death of Pallas in Book 10 and the rage with which he kills Turnus in the poem's final lines. The discussion of Dido's wounds and of Lavinia's association, through allusive simile, with the wound of Menelaus (125–35) is fairly good. But Syed does not mention that Turnus at the start of Aeneid 12 is compared to a wounded deer, or that right before the Lavinia scene Vergil says Turnus "grows sicker with the attempt to heal" (aegrescitque medendo, 45). Lavinia is indeed associated with Menelaus by allusion, but Aeneas... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:American Journal of Philology 124.2 (2003) 317-320 [Access article in PDF] Julia T. Dyson. King of the Wood: The Sacrificial Victor in Virgil's Aeneid. Oklahoma Series in Classical Culture 27. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2001. xii + 264 pp. Paper, $19.95. In this interesting study, Julia Dyson argues that the cult of Diana Nemorensis constitutes a crucial intertext for the interpretation of Aeneas' killing of Turnus at (...) the end of Virgil's Aeneidand the politico-religious order his action founds, namely, the Roman Empire. The project takes its bearings from the current renewal of scholarly interest in religion and sacrifice in Roman literature (e.g., Denis Feeney, Literature and Religion at Rome: Cultures, Contexts, and Beliefs [Cambridge, 1998] and Philip Hardie, The Epic Successors of Virgil[Cambridge, 1993]). In the first part of the book, "Sacrificial Victory," Dyson revisits the much-discussed scenes in which sacrifice, both literal (Laocoön's rites in Troy, Aeneas' in Thrace) and symbolic (the deaths of Laocoön, Palinurus, Misenus, etc.), are described. In the second part, "The Ghastly Priest," Dyson breaks new ground by focusing on specific details of the ritual in Diana's Arician grove and their evocation in the Aeneid, rather than appealing to an abstract concept of "sacrifice," to document a systematic pattern of allusion to the cult throughout the poem. The resulting work advances our understanding of Virgil's use of an important cult in Roman religion to give thematic coherence to his poem.Each part comprises six chapters. Part 1 examines the poem's various sacrifice-scenes, which have received considerable attention in the scholarly literature—e.g., C. Bandera, "Sacrificial Levels in Virgil's Aeneid" (Arethusa14, 1981, 217-39) and J. J. O'Hara, Death and the Optimistic Prophecy in Vergil's Aeneid(Princeton, 1990). Dyson is particularly concerned, however, to demonstrate that sacrifice fails consistently in the poem in order to develop the argument that Aeneas' death is demanded as the final sacrifice in the sequence. In her first chapter, "The Piaculaof Aeneas," she shows that Aeneas repeatedly fails to conduct sacrificial rites correctly, a failure that necessarily entails the gods' unceasing demand for further sacrifices. Chapter 2, "Tiber and Numicus," explores Virgil's allusions to the sacrificial fate of Aeneas—implied in the two divergent traditions of his end (either drowned or translated to heaven and deified while offering sacrifice on the banks of the river Numicus)—through the association, on the one hand, of Tiber with Numicus and, on the other, of Aeneas with Palinurus and other "sacrificial" victims.In chapter 3, "The Unburied Dead," Dyson develops her thesis further by demonstrating that such sacrificial deaths—often at sea and involving lack of burial—proliferate in the poem (Palinurus, Orontes, Leucaspis, Misenus, Caieta, Priam, Tarquitus) and thereby, she argues, prefigure the ultimate fate of Aeneas. Chapter 4, "Victor and Victim," examines instances of role-reversal in which sacrificer is transformed into sacrificial victim, not only in overtly religious contexts (as, e.g., Laocoön) but also, indeed primarily, on the battlefield in combat scenes which Virgil frequently invests with sacrificial detail. The diverse themes of rivers, sacrifice, and victory come together [End Page 317] in chapter 5, "Aeneas and Turnus," where Dyson analyses Aeneas' killing of Turnus (who is characterized, she argues, by association with the Tiber) in the final duel as a sacrifice that "both foreshadows and necessitates the sacrifice of Aeneas" (112). The last chapter in Part 1, "Juno's Honores," argues that Jupiter's promise to his consort that the Romans will outdo other nations in honoring her (Aen. 12.838-40) must be interpreted against Juno's demand for proper honors (i.e., sacrifices) at the poem's outset (1.46-49), a demand that can only be satisfied by further sacrifices—including that of Aeneas himself.Part 1 contains much interesting and innovative discussion of sacrifice along with some inevitable rehearsal of well-trodden ground, but it certainly establishes Dyson's thesis that Virgil alludes throughout the Aeneidto Aeneas' sacrificial... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:The Humanness of Heroes: Studies in the Conclusion of Virgil’s Aeneid by Michael C. J. PutnamAnne RogersonMichael C. J. Putnam. The Humanness of Heroes: Studies in the Conclusion of Virgil’s Aeneid. The Amsterdam Vergil Lectures 1. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2011. 183 pp. Paper, $25.Michael Putnam’s latest book on the Aeneid arises from lectures given in 2009 to inaugurate a series of University of (...) Amsterdam Lectures on Vergil. Its central question is how to understand the Aeneid’s end, and in particular what to make of the evolution of Aeneas, the poem’s hero, from “an apparently stoical, self-effacing... victim” at the start of the epic into a “fury-driven, vengeful conqueror” at its close (12). As this opening statement of intent makes clear, Putnam here develops arguments first presented in his 1965 book, The Poetry of the Aeneid (Cambridge, Mass.), and since further extended and refined in numerous articles and chapters and in his 1995 book, Virgil’s Aeneid: Interpretation and Influence (Chapel Hill, N.C.). Putnam’s Aeneid is, broadly speaking, the Aeneid of the so-called Harvard school, the “pessimists” who read its ending as a betrayal of the instruction that Anchises gives Aeneas in the underworld to spare the humbled. But Putnam is not an extremist: his Aeneas rather than being a monster motivated by diabolical rage or inhumane pragmatism, is emotional and human, driven to fury by pietas towards Pallas and Evander. Putnam sees [End Page 675] this impulse, however, although not unjustified, as fundamentally incompatible with the duty enjoined by Anchises. In addition, and in justification of his project to judge the epic’s hero “by the standards that the poem itself sets” (17), Putnam stresses that the Aeneid confronts its readers repeatedly with this incompatibility. This book explores the details and the implications of that confrontation, and in Putnam’s sensitive and careful exploration of those details there is much of value, even for those who may take issue with his interpretation of Anchises’ dictum as an injunction that “the prideful... should be beaten down but spared” (20).The approach Putnam takes to the Aeneid is characteristic of his earlier work: he reads the epic closely, paying meticulous attention to words and images repeated throughout the poem and to echoes of earlier poetry, particularly—since his focus is primarily on Books 10 and 12—the Iliad. Thus in chapters 1 and 2, which treat the rampage of Aeneas in Book 10, Putnam is first concerned to draw out the parallels between Vergil’s hero and the vengeful Achilles. Much of chapter 1 contrasts the Aeneid and the Iliad, but Catullus 64 provides the initial link, a lexical one first discussed by Oliver Lyne in his 1989 Words and the Poet (Oxford): in Catullus’ epyllion Achilles appears as the harvester of men (353–55), while in Aeneid 10.513, the rampaging Aeneas harvests all in his vicinity with his sword. The way Putnam builds on this intertext provides an example of his approach throughout the book, where an understanding of Vergil’s epic is constructed upon a foundation both of allusion and of narrative similarity and difference between events in the later books of the Aeneid and elsewhere. Parallel piles of corpses rapidly amass after the harvesting image both in Catullus 64 and in Aeneid 10. This, Putnam suggests, shows us Vergil’s Aeneas absorbing the brutality of Catullus’ earlier hero, a theme he develops as he goes on to discuss narrative parallels between Vergil’s ferocious Aeneas of Book 10 and Achilles as he is depicted in Iliad 18 and 21. Taking victims for human sacrifice, Putnam argues, links Aeneas to Achilles “at his most savage” (23) and “most vindictive” (24). Worse (for Aeneas), his victims are named, and have families, while Achilles’ twelve captives in the Iliad are anonymous, and less pathetic. Worse still, the Aeneid focuses on the gruesomeness of Aeneas’ unproductive sacrifice of his eight victims, a contrast to the four bulls sacrificed for “productive good” (25) in the Georgics.As Aeneas’ eight and Aristaeus’ four Vergilian victims add up to Homer’s twelve, Putnam argues that the deliberate... (shrink)

John Conington was a towering figure in Victorian scholarship, not least because of his remarkably sensitive and literate commentaries on Virgil’s _Aeneid. _The three-volume cloth edition of _The Works of Virgil_, begun by Conington in 1852, has been unavailable for over a century, except in rare second-hand sets. Now, for the first time, the whole of Conington’s work is being reissued in a set of six paperback volumes. Each volume includes a new introduction by an established scholar, setting Conington's commentary (...) in context, as well as a general introduction to Conington’s work by Philip Hardie, who offers a fresh appreciation of the work. (shrink)

This article argues that Virgil includes an allusion to the fourth-century censor Appius Claudius Caecus in Book 8 of the Aeneid. Three pieces of evidence point to this allusion: (1) wordplay, especially the near echo of ‘Caecus’ in ‘Cacus’; (2) semantic associations between Cacus and darkness; and (3) repeated references to sight and Cacus’ eyes. By invoking the memory of Appius, whose blinding in 312 b.c.e. allegedly came at the hands of Hercules as punishment for transferring control of (...) the god's rites at the Ara Maxima to the state, Virgil underscores the importance of properly observing religious rituals. This aligns with Evander's original intent with the Hercules–Cacus story to prove to Aeneas and the Trojans that the Arcadians’ religious practices are no uana superstitio (8.187). (shrink)

These notes present two, hitherto largely unnoticed, conjectures by Professor R.G.M. Nisbet, relating to Martial Book 12.

The identity of the Caesar at "Aeneid", 1.286 is a long-standing problem. The prevailing opinion since Heyne favors Augustus, but a few scholars agree with Servius that the Dictator is meant. In recent years the suggestion that Vergil was being deliberately ambiguous has been advanced as a solution to the problem. I argue the case for Julius Caesar anew. The paper is in five sections. The first four deal respectively with the question of nomenclature; chronology; the descriptive epithets applied (...) to Caesar, especially spoliis Orientis onustum in 289; and the rhetoric of the passage. The fourth section confronts the challenge posed to my reading by the well-known view of Ronald Syme, held to throughout his lifetime, that Julius Caesar was a virtual non-person in the Rome of Vergil's day because the princeps tried to avoid awkward comparison with the Dictator. But this view has been challenged, and I draw on recent work in this area. In the fifth and final section I support my reading with references to Vergil's earlier poetry, attending especially to what it can tell us about Vergil's attitude toward Julius Caesar. Of particular relevance is the use he makes of the sidus Iulium, an image found in the Eclogues and important in connection with the apocalyptic outlook abroad at the time of Caesar's assassination. This section of the paper expands on Servius' generally neglected note, which maintains that the Caesar in question is Julius. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Livy’s Written RomeWilliam SeaveyMary Jaeger. Livy’s Written Rome. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997. xii 1 205 pp. Cloth, $39.50.How Livy went about writing his immense history has been a topic of keen interest, and recent work such as Jaeger’s directs our thinking in new and interesting ways. Livian historiography has traditionally focused on Quellenforschung and more recently on the rhetorical influences that often remain unrecognized by (...) modern readers. A still newer kind of historiography, branching from rhetorical studies, considers the influence of space on a writer’s text, and it is attracted to both topographical and material issues. Indicative of such works in the last decade are Paul Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus (Ann Arbor 1988); Eleanor Winsor Leach, The Rhetoric of Space (Princeton 1988); C. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics in the Early Roman Empire (Ann Arbor 1991); and Ann Vasaly, Representations: Images of the World in Ciceronian Oratory (Berkeley and Los Angeles 1993). Jaeger follows many historiographers in beginning with Livy’s preface, and then considering disparate episodes throughout Ab Urbe Condita before returning to the preface to reevaluate Livy’s method. By this approach, narrative is not just a chronological reflection of political and religious events; rather, spatial reminders (monumenta) may influence the organization of written narrative. Jaeger narrows her study to focus on “reminders that for various reasons fail to point unambiguously back to a particular person or event” (10). It is when Livy has restored in his text a [End Page 318] lost monumentum that his method is most readily observed: “when monuments fail and the text restores them, reminders of stories give way to stories about reminders” (11). This method of historiography, as Jaeger wields it, gives us a fresh look at an old text. It does not work equally well in all environments—witness the problems Sparta would offer such an approach, as both Jaeger (2) and, long ago, Thucydides realized. Yet more difficult would be monumental—in all senses of the word—societies such as those of ancient Egypt and Central America.Jaeger’s discussion of method and historiography (the Introduction and chapter 1) is excellent. Her survey of Livian historiographical research is thorough and attested by a wealth of judicious footnotes which review the relevant scholarship. The discussion of monumenta is particularly illuminating. Jaeger explains how the “monumentum stands between the res gestae and their literary celebration, so that two layers, the monumental and the literary, come between event and reader” (16). That all share certain qualities make them suitable for historical evaluation: “In sum, we can assume of all monumenta some common characteristics: an absent person or thing commemorated; a present audience reminded; a memory or an exhortation that is socially relevant; and a meaning determined jointly by the reminder, its physical context, and the circumstances of each viewer” (18). Jaeger’s belief that Daedalus’ labyrinth in the Aeneid (Veneris monumentum nefandae, 6.24–27) is the only exception to her standard that monumenta are “exposed to the public view” (17) is a bit strained, even without considering that Vergil’s ecphrasis describing the doors of Apollo’s temple is not really Roman at all. Moreover, Columella recorded that Hyginus collected precisely that sort of evidence: Hyginus veterum auctorum placita secretis dispersa monimentis industrie collegit (De Re Rustica 9.2.1). And what of all the Roman religious elements that are also secret (i.e., not exposed to public view)? It would be difficult to believe that there were no hidden monumenta among all the Roman sacra. Nevertheless, Jaeger’s approach to monumenta reinforces the importance of visualizing narrative as written by classical historians, which results in an illuminating and novel way of examining Livy’s historical text.After discussing the notion of monumenta in chapter 1 Jaeger proceeds to consider four separate episodes from Ab Urbe Condita, noting how Livy “maps the plot of a story onto the Roman landscape, then commemorates the particular enactment of the plot in a monument” (12). Chapter 2 considers the abduction of the Sabine women in AUC book 1, demonstrating a rhythmic flow of action between the... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:The Child and the Hero: Coming of Age in Catullus and VergilChristine PerkellMark Petrini. The Child and the Hero: Coming of Age in Catullus and Vergil. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997. 152 pp. Cloth, $37.50.This brief study of youthful figures in the Aeneid proposes that Vergil represents the “coming of age” or initiation into adulthood as the devastating collision of the innocent child with the (...) treacherous, deceitful adult world. Failure of youth to thrive, analogous to (according to this reading) the portended failure of Augustus to achieve his goals of Roman renewal, has causes embedded in “human nature, in nature itself, and therefore in history” (2), so that the question implicitly posed by the poem, specifically in this motif of early death, becomes, for Petrini: can the future ever be different from the past? Iulus, poised on the edge of childhood, functions in the poem as a symbol of the possibility of reconciliation of Roman hopes of renewal (as in the prophecy of Apollo, 9.641–44), on the one hand, versus a set of “facts,” as constructed by Vergil, of politics, nature, and history that would suggest that such hopes are illusory (2). Whether there could be a glorious Roman future if Iulus could shake free of the past or whether he is doomed to repeat the worst of Troy remains unresolved through the end of the poem by virtue of Iulus’ suspension in youth. [End Page 464]This argument is set forth in Petrini’s introduction, summarized above. The main part of the book runs to six chapters, represented here by citing some of the author’s own summary remarks.Chapter 1: The Child and the Hero. Child characters, writes Petrini, “exemplify various ideals of innocence—cultural simplicity, enduring love, pietas, an idealized heroic past—and they flourish briefly and die as they come of age” (8). The deaths of the young signify the loss of renewal (9). Another related theme revolves around what the author terms Homeric heroism, read as an expression of cultural innocence. The failure of Homeric heroism in the world of the epic thus marks for Petrini a kind of cultural decline: “Vergil presents the ideals and tokens of conventional heroism—spolia, laudes, virtus—as illusions that betray and deceive in an inverted heroic world” (12).Chapter 2: Catullus. Petrini suggests that failure of innocence, pathology of adulthood (19), faithless love, friendships betrayed, death as separation (17)—motifs found in Catullus 64, 65, 66—were imitated by Vergil. It is from these texts especially that Vergil develops his own themes of the innocence of youth and the deception of the adult world.Chapter 3: Nisus and Euryalus. Petrini finds an elaboration of this initiation into death and corruption theme in the Nisus and Euryalus episode, wherein “Euryalus’ departure from his mother and participation in the night mission become the death of innocence in a corrupt world..., and his initiation from childhood to adulthood is a travesty of natural growth” (47). Euryalus “is out of context in battle and the throng of heroes, and in his death we feel the passing of simplicity and delicacy, the destruction of an ideal of amor” (48). Euryalus is initiated into adulthood by Nisus, whom Petrini reads as a cultural primitive, as denoted, for example, by his wearing of a lion skin, thus a representative of precivilized innocence (25). He attributes the failure of the mission of Nisus and Euryalus to the corrupt world they find in Italy and not, in the first instance, to their own reckless choices. In fact he reads the question of whether their actions are right or wrong as negligible; his interest rather is in what he sees as the inevitability of their behavior in the corrupt world of the epic (25–32).Chapter 4: Pallas. “Aeneas’ tutelage of Pallas and the introduction of the younger hero to the world of the older is presented as an assault on innocence, and Pallas’ death as the violation of a figurative childhood. The puer, innocent and inexperienced, is drawn to the attractions of heroism; the rewards and values of the heroic world emerge as illusions, which threaten and... (shrink)

This conclusion presents some closing thoughts discussed in this book. The book aims to provide the reader with a detailed account of the philosophical thought of Clive Staples Lewis. That thought remains relevant to contemporary philosophical discussions more than fifty years after his death. To illustrate how, the book deals with the recent contributions to a page of The Wall Street Journal under the title “Terms of Enlightenment”. The authors Frank Wilczek, a physicist at the Massachusetts Institute (...) of Technology, and Steven Pinker, a psychologist at Harvard University, were asked to give their views about which scientific term or concept should be more widely known in 2017. Wilczek selected the concept of complementarity. Pinker believes the concept that deserves wider recognition is the Second Law of Thermodynamics. The book discusses Lewis' responses according to the taken concepts of these authors. (shrink)

This note shows that Virgil's description of Fama at Aen. 4.173 is inspired by Sappho, fr. 44.12 Voigt.

To solve the direct problem of central forces when the trajectory is an ellipse and the force is directed to its centre, Newton made use of the famous Lemma 12 (Principia, I, sect. II) that was later recognized equivalent to proposition 31 of book VII of Apollonius’s Conics. In this paper, in which we look for Newton’s possible sources for Lemma 12, we compare Apollonius’s original proof, as edited by Borelli, with those of other authors, including that given by (...) Newton himself. Moreover, after having retraced its editorial history, we evaluate the dissemination of Borelli's edition of books V-VII of Apollonius’s Conics before the printing of the Principia. (shrink)

Here, in the middle of the well-known simile that depicts Aeneas and Turnus as bulls fighting for territory and a herd , Vergil registers the reactions of the onlookers. Commentators and lexicographers disagree about what the heifers are doing, interpreting ‘mussant’ in different ways. Servius glosses the verb as ‘dubitant’. By contrast, Heyne offers the paraphrase ‘anxii expectant’, responding to the theme of fear in the two preceding cola: cf. ‘pavidi’ and ‘metu’. Forbiger's explanatory ‘tacite expectant’ stresses rather the note (...) of silence introduced by ‘stat pecus omne metu mutum’. Lewis and Short and Georges concur with Forbiger when they translate ‘mussant’ ‘expect in silence’ and ‘stumm harren’. Other authorities, however, underscore the verb's onomatopoeic sense. Julius Caesar Scaliger, for example, observes of Vergil's usage: ‘sane verbum factitium, neque absonum a bourn voce’. Accordingly, some older commentators interpret ‘mussant’ as a restrained form of ‘mugiunt’. More recently, the OLD and TLL cite Aen. 12.718 under the definitions ‘mutter in indecision’ and ‘mussantem dubitare’. Although there is general agreement that ‘mussant’ connotes uncertainty, there still remains the problem of whether it indicates silence, faint lowing, or muttering. The purpose of this note is to call attention to an unrecognized etymological wordplay in line 718 which helps explain what the heifers are doing and why there are varying interpretations of ‘mussant’. (shrink)

This chapter contains sections titled: Introduction Evil and Theodicy Divine Providence, Evil, and Human Choice Divine Omniscience and Human Freedom Conclusion: Maimonides' Legacy further reading.

This chapter contains sections titled: Introduction How to Read Maimonides' Guide of the Perplexed Belief and Articles of Faith The Art of Biblical Exegesis: Harvesting “Apples of Gold” Language and Logic Philosophy and the Art of Demonstration Conclusion: Implications of Maimonides' Views further reading.

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Altars Altered: The Alexandrian Tradition of Etymological Wordplay in Aeneid 1.108–12Pamela R. Bleisch*In his recent monograph True Names: Vergil and the Alexandrian Tradition of Etymological Wordplay (1996) James J. O’Hara discusses what he terms “naming constructions as etymological signposts”; these are points in the text where Vergil calls attention to etymological wordplay by his use of words such as nomen, cognomen, verum nomen, voco, dico, appello, or perhibeo (...) (75–79). O’Hara remarks on a few passages which feature naming constructions even though no etymologizing seems to be involved, and notes Aeneid 1.108–10 as one such example:tris Notus abreptas in saxa latentia torquet (saxa vocant Itali mediis quae in fluctibus Aras, dorsum immane mari summo)....The South wind snatched up and hurled three ships onto the rocks hiding in midocean, the rocks which the Italians call Altars, a huge spine on the surface of the sea....The naming construction here—vocant Itali, “the Italians call”—is pronounced, but the etymologizing wordplay has escaped the attention of Vergil’s readers. O’Hara comments: “This is not quite etymologizing, but Vergil uses the naming signpost to call attention to the name of these rocks: Arae, Altars” (78). I would in fact argue that this passage of the Aeneid prominently features etymologizing, of the type which O’Hara elsewhere in his monograph calls “translation with paronomasia” (63). Vergil’s Arae, “Altars,” plays on the Greek arai, “curses, bane, ruin.” 1 According to Servius, the Greeks called these rocks Bomoi, “Altars” (Serv. Auct. on Aen. 1.108). Vergil, by glossing the Italian name [End Page 599] from a Greek vantage point, alters Bomoi into Arai, “Altars” into “Curses.” The word latentia, “hiding,” in line 108 alerts Vergil’s audience to be on the lookout for hidden meanings, while the repetition of saxa, “rocks,” in lines 108 and 109 highlights the double entendre of the proper name. The phrase vocant Itali serves as a signpost for the punning etymology, for it raises the issue of foreign language and translation.In Vergil’s punning etymology at Aeneid 1.108–10 the naming construction serves as the gloss itself; Itali calls the reader’s attention to the etymological translation with paronomasia. O’Hara cites another example of this in the Georgics: navita tum stellis numeros et nomina fecit / Pleiadas, Hyadas, claramque Lycaonis Arcton, “Sailors then gave numbers and names to the stars: Pleiades, Hyades, and the illustrious Bear, Lycaon’s daughter” (1.137–38). “By saying it was sailors who named the Pleiades and Hyades, Vergil takes a stand, as it were, and suggests the etymology from sailing for both words” (p. 78). The Itali in Aeneid 1.109 play an analogous role to the navita in Georgics 1.137; the subject of the naming construction simultaneously points to an etymological riddle and provides the clue to its solution.In Aeneid 1.109 Vergil plays on the name Arae/Arai; he also plays on an alternate name for the Arae, found in Sinnius Capito: hippou nota, the Horse’s Back (Serv. Auct. on Aen. 1.110). O’Hara notes: “In Vergil’s line 110, dorsum is an allusion to this other name, Back; Vergil says, in effect, ‘I am deliberately calling these rocks not “Back,” as some do, but “Altars”’” (78). By playing with the Greek name Horse’s Back, O’Hara argues, Vergil takes a stand on the etymology of these rocks. He is right to characterize Vergil’s allusion to hippou nota as a correction, but he misconstrues its rhetorical force. Vergil does not assert the authority of the Italian name; rather, he signals the Italian name as a variant, and privileges the Greek as the natural, dependable, true name: “the rocks which the Italians call Altars, that is: the Horse’s Back.” This is a bit like saying: “the dish which the Italians call polenta, that is: grits.” One culture is marginalized, while the other is assumed as the norm. The absence of a naming signpost with the word dorsum reasserts the authority of the Greek name Horse’s Back, while the phrase vocant Itali defines the Italian name as foreign.Both of Vergil’s wordplays... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Virgil, Eclogues, Georgics, Aeneid 1-6W. W. De GrummondH. Rushton Fairclough, ed. and trans. Virgil, Eclogues, Georgics, Aeneid 1-6, rev. G. P. Goold. Loeb Classical Library 63. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1999. x + 598 pp.Volume 1 of the Fairclough translation of Virgil, containing the Eclogues, the Georgics, and books 1 through 6 of the Aeneid, first appeared in the Loeb Classical Library in 1916. (...) This version has done admirable service in the English-speaking world ever since, though it was revised by Fairclough in 1932. The 1999 edition, revised by Goold, retains a familiar look, not only in its red cover and its traditional format--the Latin text on the left-hand page and the English translation facing it--but also in much of the specific language of the rendering. Fairclough rightly retains pride of place on the title page: as in earlier editions, we are given Virgil "with an English translation by H. Rushton Fairclough"; "revised by G. P. Goold" is now added. In short, this is still to be considered Fairclough's Virgil.The revised version of 1932, Fairclough said, "seems now called for owing to the large amount of scholarly literature bearing upon our author which has appeared in the last fifteen years." In his preface to that first revision of the volume, the translator warned his readers that "as little change as possible has been made in the printed page, and therefore most of the additional matter now appears in the Appendix." The present edition removes the appendix, offers a new preface and a new introduction, and of course brings the whole up to date. Needless to say, a much larger body of scholarly discussion pertaining to Virgil has accrued in the sixty-odd years since 1932 than in the fifteen years before that date. Goold, who is the former editor of the Loeb Classical Library as well as the editor of this volume within it, has given as a part of his introduction an eight-page bibliography, which is intended to lead the reader to the essential editions, reference works, commentaries, studies, and criticism.It has not been an aim of this series in the past to display a full apparatus criticus (which, according to Goold, "would prove a hindrance rather than a help to the Loeb reader"); even so, its brevity in the new edition is startling. The apparatus of Eclogue 6,for example, comprises six items in this edition, as opposed to thirteen in the previous one; for the last one hundred lines of Georgics, book 2, there are now ten entries instead of fifteen; for the first one hundred lines [End Page 287] of Aeneid, book 6, five as against twelve. The individual citations of variant readings, too, tend to be shorter, because, as Goold tells us, he has "limited [himself] to recording the readings of the primary capital manuscripts" (vii-viii). This does, of course, give a cleaner-looking page, but since the editor does not seem to have a very high expectation of "the Loeb reader," he might have feared that the intermingling of variant Latin readings with explanatory notes in English, both now sometimes on the left-hand page and sometimes on the right (in Eclogue 6, for instance), would "prove a hindrance" as well. In any event, he has "eliminated more than a thousand critical notes" (viii). This assuredly makes for a more streamlined presentation for the modern user; whether it will turn out to be more enlightening, or more "user friendly" in the larger perspective, seems doubtful. On the other hand, the current edition undeniably sports a new, handsome look, and although there is more text per page, the type is easier to read. The placing of line numbers at the left of the text rather than the right has made it possible to avoid almost all of the run-on lines of Latin which are found in the older edition.Fairclough had allotted three pages to the life of Virgil and two pages to the manuscripts of the poems, but no literary introductions, even of the briefest kind, to the works themselves, either en bloc or separately. It appears... (shrink)

These lines from the second book of the Aeneid introduce the night on which Troy falls. They have always been felt to be impressive: rich in allusion, noteworthy for the monosyllabic ending of the first line, and memorable for the majestic zeugma of the last two lines. Line 250 opens by incorporating a half line from Ennius: vertitur interea caelum cum ingentibus signis and closes with a near-translation of the substance of a half-line from Homer.

1. Die Hymnen des Rigveda, herausgegeben Oldenberg von Hermann. Band.I. Metrische und Textgeschichtliche Prolegomena. Berlin, 1888. 14 Mk.2. Vedische Studien, Pischel von Richard und Karl F. Geldner. Stuttgart, 1888–1889. 12 Mk.