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DIONYSIUS PERIEGETES

Description of the Known World

An Introduction

by

J. L. LIGHTFOOT



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(C) J. L. Lightfoot 2013



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‘It’s the world,’ said Dean. ‘My God!’ he cried, slapping the wheel. ‘It’s the world! .... Think

of it! Son-of-a-bitch! Gawd-damn!’

(Jack Kerouac, On the Road , Part Four, ch. 5).



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PREFACE

The Periegesis of the Known World by Dionysius of Alexandria is a geographical poem, now

known to be of Hadrianic date, which does what it promises, offering a description of the

known world in just under 1200 elegant hexameters. It was enormously popular until the

early modern period and then sank into obscurity. Isabella Tsavari’s edition (Ioannina, 1990)

both marked an epoch and helped to effect a small renaissance in Dionysian studies over the

last few decades, which has seen, among other things, a series of still-unpublished theses

(Patrick Counillon, Grenoble 1983; Denise Greaves, Stanford 1994; Yumna Khan, London

2002; Ekaterina Ilyushechkina, Groningen 2010), further editions (Brodersen 1994a,

Raschieri 2004, Amato 2005), and six valuable essays presented at a colloquium in Bordeaux

( REA 2004). Specialist attention has been paid to particular sections of the poem (to Italy, by

Raschieri and Amato; to the Black Sea region, by Ilyushechkina). This is an advance online

publication in monograph form of material that will form the introduction to the first full-

length English commentary on the entire Periegesis (to be published by Oxford University

Press, 2014).

J. L. L.



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CONTENTS

I. Preliminaries 1

1. Poetry and Prose

2. Hypotyposis Geographias: The Overview of the Known World

3. Conceptions of Space

II. Sources 27

III. Language 46

1. Lexicon

Additional note on the -ij terminations of nouns and adjectives

2. Word-Formation

3. Formulae and Pseudo-Formulae

Additional note on naming-formulae

4. Metre

Prosody

Outer metric

Inner metric

Other

Summary

5. A Language for Geography?

IV. Dionysius and Didactic Poetry 85

1. Of Catalogues and Lists

2. Didactic

The Narrator

Addressees and Spectators



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Authors and Narrators

3. Bird’s-Eye Vision

Landscape in Motion

V. Geopoetics 133

1. Epithets

2. Chorography and Ethnography

The landscape

Natural resources

Peoples and their environment

The divine

Mythology

History and time

VI. The End of the Journey 183

Bibliography 194



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References in the form ‘See 178 n.’ or ‘See ad loc.’ are a cue to the reader to the more

detailed discussion that will be found in my forthcoming commentary.

I have used broadly the same bibliographical system as for my commentaries on Lucian and

the Sibylline Oracles. Other than works cited by abbreviated title (listed below), I refer to

frequently cited works by author’s name alone. These are listed in the final bibliography. The

name – date system is used to distinguish works by authors cited twice or more. The details of

works cited only once are given in the passage in question. If a work is cited only in a few,

localised references, on second and any subsequent occasions the reader is directed back to

the first citation with ‘op. cit.’, ‘art. cit.’, or footnote number. Citations of RE are usually by

lemma alone, unless the entry is out of its normal sequence (for example, is in a Supplement

volume, or among Nachträge at the end of a volume). Editions and commentaries on classical

texts are not usually given separate listing in any bibliography (e.g. West on Hes. Op. 247),

but it is as well to make clear here that I have used the following editions of certain

geographical texts:

for Agatharchides, De Mari Erythraeo: GGM i. 111 – 95;

for Agathemerus, Geographiae Hypotyposis: GGM ii. 471 – 87;

for Arrian’s Periplus Ponti Euxini: A. G. Roos (Munich, 2002), ii. 103 – 28;

for Avienius’ Descriptio Orbis Terrae: P. Van de Woestijne, La Descriptio Orbis Terrae

d’Avienus (Bruges, 1961);

for Hannonis Periplus: GGM i. 1 – 14;

for Marcianus of Heraclea, Periplus Maris Exteri (cited as Peripl .):GGM i. 515 – 62; Epitome

Peripli Maris Interni (cited as Epit .): GGM i. 563 – 73;

for Nicephorus Blemmydes’ Gewgrafi/a Sunoptikh/ (based on a paraphrase of the

Periegesis): GGM ii. 458 – 68;



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for Ptolemy’s Geography: books 1 – 5, K. E. Müller (Paris, 1883 – 1901); books 6 – 8, C. F. A.

Nobbe (repr. Hildesheim, 1966);

for ps.-Scylax: G. Shipley, Pseudo-S kylax’ s Periplous: The Circumnavigation of the

Inhabited World: Text, Translation and Commentary (Exeter, 2011); the numeration

is based on Müller’s, but with added subsections;

for Stephanus of Byzantium: M. Billerbeck (Berlin, 2006 – ) for a – i, thereafter A. Meineke

(Berlin, 1849);

for Strabo: S. L. Radt, Strabons Geographika: mit Übersetzung und Kommentar , 10 vols.

(Göttingen, 2002 – 11);

for the anonymous Hypotyposis Geographias:GGM ii. 494 – 509;

for the Paraphrasis of Dionysius’ poem: where there is no further indication I have used the

edition that Müller substantially reproduced from Bernhardy in GGM (ii. 409 – 25, cf.

pp. xxxi f.), but on 1170 Ludwich’s edition, based on his own collation of fresh

manuscripts and leaning heavily on T (Parisin. gr. 2723) (cf. Ludwich, 553 – 5);

for the anonymous Periplus Maris Erythraei: L. Casson, The Periplus Maris Erythraei:

Edited with Introduction, Translation, and Commentary (Princeton, 1989) (cf. GGM i.

257 – 365);

for the anonymous Periplus Ponti Euxini: A. Diller, The Tradition of the Minor Greek

Geographers (Lancaster, Pa., 1952), 102 – 46;

for the anonymous Stadiasmus Maris Magni, GGM i. 427 – 514.

http://solo.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/primo_library/libweb/action/display.do?tabs=detailsTab&ct=display&fn=search&doc=oxfaleph019229003&indx=1&recIds=oxfaleph019229003&recIdxs=0&elementId=0&renderMode=poppedOut&displayMode=full&frbrVersion=&dscnt=1&vl(103770091UI1)=all_items&scp.scps=scope%3A%28NET%29%2Cscope%3A%28OX%29&frbg=&tab=local&dstmp=1338562015669&srt=rank&mode=Basic&dum=true&tb=t&vl(1UIStartWith0)=contains&vl(freeText0)=shipley+periplous&vl(169119528UI0)=any&vid=OXVU1










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WORKS CITED IN ABBREVIATED FORM

ACO Acta conciliorum oecumenicorum, iussu Societatis scientiarum

Argentoratensis, ed. E. Schwartz (Berlin, 1914 – ).

ANET Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament 3, ed. J.

B. Pritchard (Princeton, 1969).

ANRW Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt: Geschichte und

Kultur Roms im Spiegel der neueren Forschung , ed. H. Temporini,

W. Haase, et al. (Berlin, 1972 – ).

BNP Brill’s New Pauly: Encyclopaedia of the Ancient World , 15 vols.,

ed. H. Cancik and H. Schneider (Leiden and Boston, 2002 – 10).

Buck – Petersen C. D. Buck and W. Petersen, A Reverse Index of Greek Nouns and

Adjectives (Hildesheim, 1945).

CA Collectanea Alexandrina, ed. J. U. Powell (Oxford, 1925).

CAG Commentaria in Aristotelem Graeca

CCAG Catalogus Codicum Astrologorum Graecorum, edd. varr., 12 vols.

(Brussels, 1898 – 1953).

CEG Carmina Epigraphica Graeca, ed. P. A. Hansen, 2 vols. (Berlin,

1983 – 9).

CGF Comicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, ed. G. Kaibel (Berlin, 1899).

Chandler H. W. Chandler, A Practical Introduction to Greek Accentuation

(Oxford, 21881).

CLE Anthologia Latina: Pars Posterior . Carmina Latina Epigraphica,

ed. F. Buecheler, 2 vols. (Leipzig, 1895 – 7).

CMG Corpus Medicorum Graecorum (Leipzig, 1908 – ), edd. varr.



x

Diodore Diodore de Sicile, Bibliothèque Historique, edd. varr. (Paris,

1972 – ); individual volumes are cited as P. Bertrac, Diodore, i.

(Livre I) etc.

D. – S. C. Daremberg and E. Saglio, Dictionnaire des antiquités grecques

et romains : d'après les textes et les monuments, 5 vols. in 10

(Paris, 1877 – 1919).

EtGen Etymologicum Genuinum. a – b ed. F. Lasserre and N. Livadaras,

Etymologicum magnum genuinum: Symeonis etymologicum una

cum Magna grammatica; Etymologicum magnum auctum (Rome,

1976 – ).

EtMag Etymologicum Magnum, seu verius Lexicon , ed. T. Gaisford

(Oxford, 1848).

FGE D. L. Page, Further Greek Epigrams (Cambridge, 1981).

FGrH Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker , ed. F. Jacoby (Leiden,

1923 – 58).

FHG Fragmenta Historicorum Graecorum, ed. K. Müller (Paris, 1841 –

51).

Garland The Garland of Philip, ed. A. S. F. Gow and D. L. Page

(Cambridge, 1968).

GCS Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten drei

Jahrhunderte

GG Grammatici Graeci, edd. varr.

GGM Geographi Graeci Minores, i – ii, ed. C. Müller (Paris, 1855 – 61).

GL Grammatici Latini, 8 vols., ed. H. Keil (Leipzig, 1857 – 80).

GLM Geographi Latini Minores, ed. A. Riese (Heilbronn, 1878).



xi

HE Hellenistic Epigrams, ed. A. S. F. Gow and D. L. Page

(Cambridge, 1965).

Jacques ii J.-M. Jacques (ed.), Nicandre: Œ uvres. Tome II: Les Thériaques

(Paris, 2007).

Jacques iii J.-M. Jacques (ed.), Nicandre: Œ uvres. Tome III: Les

Alexipharmaques (Paris, 2007).

K. – B. R. Kühner, rev. F. Blass, Ausführliche Grammatik der

griechischen Sprache, Erster Teil: Elementar- und Formenlehre3,

2 vols. (Hanover, 1890 – 2).

K. – G. R. Kühner, rev. B. Gerth, Ausführliche Grammatik der

griechischen Sprache, Zweiter Teil: Satzlehre3, 2 vols. (Hanover,

1898 – 1904).

Lasserre, Eudoxos F. Lasserre (ed.), Die Fragmente des Eudoxos von Knidos:

herausgegeben, übersetzt und kommentiert (Berlin, 1966).

Lasserre, Strabon F. Lasserre (ed. and transl.), Strabon: Géographie, vols. i.

(introduction, avec G. Aujac), iii – ix (Paris, 1969 – 81).

Lausberg H. Lausberg, trans. M. T. Bliss, A. Jansen, and D. E. Orton,

Handbook of Literary Rhetoric: A Foundation for Literary Study

(Leiden, 1998).

LfrgrE Lexikon des frühgriechischen Epos, ed. B. Snell, H. J. Mette, et al.

(Göttingen, 1955 – 2010).

LP Select Papyri, iii: Literary Papyri, Poetry, ed. D. L. Page

(Cambridge, MA, 1941).

Merkelbach – Stauber R. Merkelbach and J. Stauber, Steinepigramme aus dem

griechischen Osten, 5 vols. (Stuttgart, 1998 – 2004).



xii

Nonnos Nonnos de Panopolis: Les Dionysiaques, edd. var., 19 vols. (Paris,

1976 – 2006); individual volumes are cited as F. Vian, Nonnos, i:

Chants I – II etc.

PG Patrologia Graeca, ed. J.-P. Migne

PGM Papyri graecae magicae: Die griechischen Zauberpapyri, ed. K.

Preisendanz, 2nd edn., rev. A. Henrichs, 2 vols. (Stuttgart, 1973 –

4).

PL Patrologia Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne

PMG Poetae Melici Graeci, ed. D. L. Page (Oxford, 1962).

RE Paulys Real-Encyclopaedie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft ,

ed. A. F. von Pauly, rev. G. Wissowa et al. (Stuttgart, 1893 – 1972).

RLAC Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum, ed. T. Klauser et al.

(Stuttgart, 1950 – ).

Roscher W. H. Roscher, Ausführliches Lexicon der griechischen und

römischen Mythologie, 6 vols. (Leipzig, 1884 – 1937).

SH Supplementum Hellenisticum, ed. H. Lloyd-Jones and P. J. Parsons

(Berlin, 1983).

TLL Thesaurus Linguae Latinae (Leipzig, 1900 – ).

Vian i F. Vian (ed.), Apollonios de Rhodes: Argonautiques, i: Chants I – II

(Paris, 1976).

Vian ii id. (ed.), Apollonios de Rhodes: Argonautiques, ii: Chant III (Paris,

1980).

Vian iii id. (ed.) Apollonios de Rhodes: Argonautiques, iii: Chant IV (Paris,

1981).



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PART ONE

INTRODUCTION

Helpe therefore, O thou sacred Imp of Jove,The Noursling of Dame Memorie his Deare,To whom those Rolles, layd up in Heaven above,And Records of Antiquitie appeare,To which no Wit of Man may comen neare;Helpe me to tell the Names of all those Floods,

And all those Nymphes, which then assembled were

To that great Banquet of the watry Gods,

And all their sundry Kinds, and all their hid Abodes.(Edmund Spenser, Faerie Queene,

Book IV, canto XI, st. x)

Well, you know or don’t you kennet or haven’t I told you every telling has a taling andthat’s the he and the she of it. Look, look, the dusk is growing! My branches lofty aretaking root. And my cold cher’s gone ashley. Fieluhr? Filou! What age is at? It saon islate. ’Tis endless now senne eye or erewone last saw Waterhouse’s clogh. They took itasunder, I hurd thum sigh. When will they reassemble it? O, my back, my back, my bach!

I’d want to go to Aches-les-Pains. Pingpong! There’s the Belle for Sexaloitez! AndConcepta de Send-us-pray! Pang! Wring out the clothes! Wring in the dew! Godavari,vert the showers! And grant thaya grace! Aman.

James Joyce, Finnegans Wake, Book I, Chapter 8



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I. PRELIMINARIES

ALL the world’s a text . . .

. . . or so the postmodernists would have it. And for Dionysius of Alexandria, whose Periegesis of the Known World wraps the whole thing up in less than 1200 very cultivatedhexameters, it quite literally is. The mainstream of ancient geography was literary, but the

Periegesis is very literary even by those standards. Planting himself firmly in the tradition ofancient didactic poetry, but glancing frequently at epic and hymn along the way, the poet setsout to do for the earth what Aratus had already done for the heavens. Moreover, as heobligingly expounds his subject for a keen and receptive pupil, he presents himself as aHesiod who is rich, not in personal experience, but in direct contact with the Muses. We areas far as can be from the world in which lack of eye-witness or first-hand experience of asubject was a matter for reproach.1 Other geographical poems, certainly important forunderstanding the Periegesis’ background, advertise themselves as manageable digests whichsubstitute for first-hand experience on the reader’s part,2 but Dionysius goes still further. Hisuntravelled narrator, borne aloft by inspiration, has no knowledge of his subject outside thebelles lettres that his Muses represent.

We ought to decide what we want from a text like this. Christian Jacob, who has published more on the Periegesis in the last thirty years than anyone else, has distinguishedthree possible ways of approaching it.3 The first, ‘lettura referenzionale’, or positivist, studieshow it marries up with external realities. The second, ‘lettura interna’, pays attention tomatters of composition, structure, ‘la retorica propria’, and so on. The last, ‘letturacontestuale’, directs attention to its context in contemporary culture. What is at stake indeciding which to bring to bear on the Periegesis, or on any other text, is whether it is simplya ‘signifying system’ playing games with itself and with other texts, or there is any use inconsidering its stance vis-à-vis the world out there.4 In this case, the poem’s literarinessmight well encourage the second and third approaches at the expense of the first, yet the firstcannot just be given an opprobrious label (‘positivist’) and dismissed, for we might decidethat an appreciation of the relationship between the world out there and classical literaryrepresentations of it is essential to understanding the strengths and weaknesses characteristicof ancient geography. There is a bend in the Nile at a certain place; what does it tell us about

ancient conceptions of space that no ancient geographer registers it? A given feature of thelandscape was there to be recognised; what does it say for the Periegesis that Dionysius hasdecided to pass it over, or that he has distorted it in some describable way? In other words,the text’s relationship to the reality it describes is a measure of the kind of observation we are

1 As it was, famously, for Polybius in his criticisms of Timaeus and Ephorus (12.25d-h).2 ps.-Scymn. 98 – 102; Dionysius of Byzantium, GGM ii. 1, ll.14 – 19.3 Jacob 1985, 83 – 4.4 Jacob 1990, 39.



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to expect from it, a measure not to be forgone, whether the text is studied in its own right oras a representative of an ancient genre.

Various kinds of ‘lettura contestuale’ have been practised on the Periegesis over theyears. Scholars have tried to find contemporary significance in certain names: Hadrian in the

repeated reference to the Adriatic; Antinous’ homeland (or Dionysius’ own) in theinsignificant little river Rhebas; Hadrian’s family in the references to Gadeira/Cádiz.5 Theyhave seen references to Hadrian’s journeys, and have proposed some eyebrow-raisingly

precise dates for the poem on the assumption that it can be connected to one of the emperor’svisits to Alexandria.6 The second acrostich, which mentions the god Hermes, has lent itself tovarious contextual interpretations, whether to Hadrian’s visit to Samothrace in 123 (with the

poem itself written very shortly afterwards), or with the death of Antinous in 130 and hissubsequent deification as Hermes (513 – 32 n.). More generally, the poem can be set againstvarious backgrounds: the literary culture of Hadrian’s court, and perhaps the contemporary

character of Dionysian cult, if indeed this can shed light on the god’s portrayal in the poem.

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Over the last decade and a half a multicultural approach has become fashionable inHellenistic poetry, in attempts to demonstrate the amenability of Alexandrian literature tonative Egyptian mythological paradigms; that approach has now been extended to the

Periegesis as well.8

Something will be said about most of these questions. But the main aim is tounderstand the Periegesis both in its own terms and as a specimen of ancient geography — forwhich reason a fourth style of approach, ‘lettura comparativa’, may be added. Thisintroductory chapter lays out some of the main backgrounds necessary for an appreciation of

the Periegesis, and the next four consider the Periegesis’ sources and characteristic ways ofhandling those sources, its language, and relationships to the classical traditions of bothdidactic poetry and ethnography. A wide range of material has been brought to bear on the

poem, in the further hope of shedding light on other areas —and that, given the text’s literary

5 Bowie 1990, 75; Birley, 253; Leo, 149; for Dionysius and the Rhebas, Suda d 1181.

6 Birley, 240 (stating as fact that Dionysius was one of the Alexandrian litterati in the vicinityof the emperor during his visit to Alexandria in 130), 252 – 3. For Leo, 161 – 6, the occasion ofthe poem was one of Hadrian’s visits to Alexandria, maybe as a special commission;Dionysius was one of the learned men of the Museum who entertained Hadrian during his

stay. It was perhaps an e0pibath/rioj written for the arrival of the emperor in 124, or apropemptiko/j, after the death of Antinous and after the visit to Thebes in Nov. 130, but

before his departure in spring 131. It was intended for oral delivery (cf. also 155 – 6), in thea0kroath/rion or w0dei=on. Although these interpretations, in my view, press too hard, the

present work does assume a Hadrianic date. Heather White’s attempt to take the poem backto the reign of Augustus and Tiberius (‘On the date of Dionysios Periegetes’, Orpheus, 22(2001), 288 – 90) has been refuted by Amato 2003 and Ilyushechkina 2010, 38 – 41.7 Literary culture: Leo, 159 – 60; cult of Dionysus: Leo, 149, Counillon 2001b, 107, 109 – 10,112.8 Amato 2005b (but see Ilyushechkina 2010, 47, 121).



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affiliations, means above all the reception of the high Alexandrian poets in the imperial period. My ‘lettura contestuale’ refers sooner to liter ary, or literary-historical, than tohistorical context. It is of a different order of difficulty from ‘lettura interna’, on account ofthe paucity of existing studies and the enormous amount of work that still remains to do.

Nevertheless, a final section draws together those findings which might contribute most tofurther studies on this neglected, yet central, question.

Reefs are awaiting us in the oceans ahead. The Periegesis covers a huge amount ofspace — the whole earth — in less than twelve hundred lines, and in doing so is necessarily

brief and economical. The point is to evoke, not so much the places themselves, as thereader’s awareness of them, literary associations and cultural memory.9 The problem is togauge how much weight a single word, or an epithet, can carry: in other words, to understandthe relationship between the poem’s extreme economy of means and the enormous weight ofcultural tradition that underlies it.10 How many associations are carried in the penumbra of a

single name? The question arises with every unembellished geographical name, whosehistorical, mythological, and other associations — often very rich — do not break the surface.Indeed, it arose already in Eustathius’ commentary on the poem without being posed as a

problem, for Eustathius assumes that he is simply expanding whatever already was there:names have their backgrounds already built in.11 But this is not the end of it, becausequestions also arise about silences and suppressions; about things that are not mentioneddirectly but are evoked, if at all, in a roundabout way; about the use of devices that bothreveal and conceal. For example, Estelle Oudot has argued that although the Periegesis doesnot mention Athens, Greece’s most famous city is evoked through the mention of the Atticriver, which figures in a famous passage of Plato’s Phaedrus; granted that allusion, further

associations are also carried over from the Platonic dialogue that we are entitled to consideras reflections on Dionysius’ poetics.12 The Periegesis tends to encourage such an approach,

but neither confirms that these associations are present nor rules them out. We ought to beaware, if we proceed like this, that we have responded to the text’s implicit encouragement toread in to it,13 that we are constructing meanings for ourselves. To take a different example,the city of Sinope is mentioned, on the southern coast of the Black Sea, and Dionysius tellsthe most extensive of his mythological stories about it. But the story turns out to be acomposite of earlier myths, and the location is wrong. The real Sinope had a rich history,

9

On cultural memory, see Chaniotis, 255 – 9, with further bibliography in n. 9.10 Compare Chaniotis, 256: ‘Cultural memory is usually expressed through a few keywords’;ibid. 262, writing of a fragment of an encomium on Athens pronounced by the Hellenistichistorian and orator Hegesias of Rhodes: ‘He could afford to be merely allusive in hisreferences, precisely because the sites, persons and events to which he referred were parts ofthe Athenian cultural memory.’

11 Eustathius, GGM ii. 205 – 6; cf. Jacob 1981, 68 – 9.12 423 – 5 n. Oudot also endorses Christian Jacob’s wish to see an allusion to Hadrian’sPanhellenion (also based in Athens) in 333.13 As did ancient readers (410 n.).



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supposedly founded by the Argonaut Autolycus, then refounded by Milesians; it was thechief city of the Mithridatic dynasty for some decades until it was conquered by Lucullus, butin Dionysius’ day was once again an important trading town, the chief port in its area, finelyand distinctively situated. Why has Dionysius chosen to bury all this under pretty

mythography?

14

Does the gap between his account and others, such as Strabo’s (12.3.11),with a more topographical or political or biographical focus, itself contribute to the poem’sinterpretation?

1. POETRY AND PROSE

In truth, mountains, rivers, heroes, and gods owe a great part of their existence to the poets; and Greece and Italy do so plentifully abound in the former, because they

furnished so glorious a number of the latter.(Fielding, The Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon, Monday, July 8.)

The Periegesis puts a broad construction on the didactic tradition. Its ultimate model is theHomeric Catalogue of Ships, and it draws on other poems with a geographical dimension(Apollonius’ Argonautica; Callimachus’ fourth Hymn). Among specifically didactic poems,its most important Hellenistic forerunners are not geographical, though the representation ofspace is also central to its celestial counterpart, Aratus’ Phaenomena. But there is also a pre-

history of specifically geographical didactic, including iambic poems by ps.-Scymnus

15

andDionysius son of Calliphon16 (which are partly extant) and a hexameter poem by the first-century didactic poet Alexander of Ephesus17 (which is not, although it apparently influencedthe Periegesis). At the same time, Dionysius avails himself of the riches of prose geography.

14 Though Apollonius’ treatment of Sinope was even more reticent about the city: Thalmann,113 – 14.15 742 lines survive in manuscript, and it was Diller who rescued almost 300 more from theanonymous compilation Periplus Maris Euxini (1952, 165 – 76). There are recent editions byMarcotte 2002 and Korenjak (with German translation and commentary). For a detailed study

of the author’s Pontic geography, see K. Boshnakov, Pseudo-Skymnos (Semos von Delos?):

ta\ a0 ristera\ tou= Po/ ntou : Zeugnisse griechischer Schriftsteller über den westlichen

Pontosraum (Stuttgart, 2004); Bianchetti 1990 studies selected aspects of the poem; cf. alsoMeyer 1998b, 72 – 80. For the epistolary preface, which also contains an important declarationof method and principle, see Hunter 2006. The work is dedicated to Nicomedes, king ofBithynia, generally thought to be II or III; for discussions, see Marcotte 2002, 7 – 16 (with adate range of 133 – or 127/6 – 110/9), Bianchetti 1990, 23 – 35 (137 – 3), Boshnakov, 4 – 6, 70 – 8(dedicated to Nicomedes III, c.120).16 Ed. Marcotte 1990, who suggests (pp. 34 – 8) a date-range of 100 – 87 BC.17 Fragments in SH 19 – 39; cf. A. Meineke, Analecta Alexandrina (Berlin, 1843), 371 – 7.



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The Periegesis shows all the eclecticism characteristic of ancient geography, with its mixtureof routes and descriptions, its attention to both the physical landscape (especially rivers andcoastlines) and human settlement. ‘Capaciousness’ (to use the word of Katherine Clarke) is acharacteristic of ancient geographical writing evident throughout its history, from the little

embellishments and digressions throughout the Catalogue of Ships (p. 99), to thecombinations of itinerary and ethnography that begins with Hecataeus, and above all in thespeculative mapping, ethnography, and historiography of Herodotus.18

The first task, then, is to justify the claim, not only that the prose and poetic traditionsmust be studied side by side, but also that Dionysius is the product of centuries of give-and-take between the two. This section is intended to pre-empt any tendency to treat the poeticand prose aspects of Dionysius’ inheritance as disseverable.

Geography is at home in the earliest Greek poetry. It lists places and peoples,describes journeys into the known and unknown, and with the description of Tartarus in the

Theogony even sets out to explicate the architecture of the cosmos. Spatial description isstrongly linked to mythology and to adventure narratives, as witness the archaic Argonautica,

poems about Heracles, the wanderings of Odysseus or Menelaus, or the nostoi of other heroesof the Trojan war. Other geographical passages in archaic poetry are lists of places, usuallyinset within larger frames: alongside the Catalogue of Ships there are smaller-scalecatalogues, such as the Trojan rivers of Il . 12.20 – 2, or the rivers of the oi0koume/nh in Hes. Th.337 – 45; or even the peoples to the north of Troy in Il . 13.4 – 6.19 And others again seem torepresent a combination of forms. The Hesiodic Catalogue of Women includes ageographical review of places through which the Boreadae chase the Harpies, whose literary

form is somewhere between narrative (in which it is embedded) and list.

20

It also containsname-etymologies and tribal eponyms.

Conversely, there is, and remains, a strongly literary, even poetic, streak throughoutancient prose geography. Within it, an essentially scientific tradition has been repeatedlydistinguished from a more humanist one, implying various sorts of contrast, betweenmathematics and belles lettres, pure science and empiricism; ‘description’ can be invoked oneither side, contrasted with schematism on the one hand, with an imaginative or poetictendency on the other.21 This second, humanist, current shows that capaciousness and

18 Clarke 1999, 59 – 65; for capaciousness, see 127, 130, 138, 177, al. See also Rawson, 250,on the interrelationships of geography-cum-ethnography with mythology-cum-history.19 I. de Jong, ‘Homer’, in de Jong 2012, 21 – 38, at 31 – 2, notes that other Homeric spatialdescriptions may also be structured in the form of lists.20 Hes. frr. 150 – 7 M. – W. See M. L. West, The Hesiodic Catalogue of Women (Oxford,1985), 84 –5; A. Rengakos, ‘Hesiod’s Narrative’, in F. Montanari, A. Rengakos, and ChristosTsagalis (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Hesiod (Leiden, 2009), 203 – 18, at 218; Thalmann, 11.

21 Van Paassen; cf. Aujac 1981, 9 (‘la double tendance qui se manifeste dans la géographiegrecque: la tendance scientifique, illustrée par Ératosthène et le découpage géométrique de la

carte en sphragides, la tendance empirique ou imaginative, qui assimile les contours des paysà des objets familiers et cherche à faire de la carte géographique un beau dessin, évocateur et



8

diversity just described; it is affiliated to history, ethnography, and mythography. It tellsstories, especially about foundation traditions and colonisation. It is ‘influenced by traditionallearning, stories, and f ables in literature as well as by empirical knowledge’.22 In particular itremains in thrall to Homer, who was seen as the founding father of ancient geography as of

so much else. Eratosthenes, who held that Homer was an entertainer, not a sombre purveyorof geographical Realien, was a breakaway; the vast majority were united in the belief that itwas legitimate and worthwhile to locate Homeric geographical references —Odysseus’wanderings, the Hippemolgoi, the divided Ethiopians, and so on — on a map of the real world.A further ramification of the non-scientific character of ancient geography is in the subjectiveand affective way it tends to regard space. Space is not understood as something that can beanalysed by geometry or calibrated in standard units; no grid can be imposed on it. Rather, itis imbued with the experience of those who have travelled through it, and becomessignificant through memory and literary association.

So when geographical writing begins to appear in prose, there is give-and-take between it and poetry. Seen in this perspective, the Periegesis is simply a latecomer in a longtradition in which poetry has shown itself receptive to the conventions of geographical prose.About the archaic period no certainty is possible, though scholars have been willing tospeculate how far the authors of any given archaic poem were familiar with the accounts ofearly travellers (and in what form), and whether there were any early signs of awareness ofthe literary form of the periplous and periegesis, which would later become the standardliterary form for the travelogue.23 The influence of early geography has been conjectured forthe Homeric poems,24 for the Arimaspeia of Aristeas,25 and, later, for ps.-Aeschylus’

donc facilement mémorisable’); Prontera 1984a, 190 – 1, 254. For empirical/descriptive versus scientific or theoretical geography, see also Nicolet, 58 – 9. On the other hand, A. Podossinov,‘Die antiken Geographen über sich selbst und ihre Schriften’, in M. Horster and C. Reitz(eds.), Antike Fachschriftsteller: Literarischer Diskurs und sozialer Kontext (Stuttgart, 2003),88 – 104, distinguishes scientific (including practical) geography from works of popularscience (including Strabo) and these again from belletristic works like the Periegesis.22 Meyer 2008, 276.23 Jacoby, RE s.v. Hekataios, 2687.22 – 2688.15, infers the existence of epic periegeses and

periploi (cf. Meyer 1998a, 199 and n. 28). The pre-Odyssean Argonautica narrated a voyageout and a voyage back — though how far it reflected any formal features of the periplous isentirely unclear (Vian 1987, 250 ‘un périple argonautique’; Meyer loc. cit. ‘der ältestefaßbare Periplus’). 24 Jacoby, loc. cit.; Elliger, 111 – 12; Meyer 1998b, 64 – 5. Norden, 13 – 18, tries to show thatthe Odyssey poet is familiar with ‘die Entdeckungsfahrten ionischer Kauffahrer’, and evenwith the technical language of such accounts. He certainly demonstrates the Odyssey’s

interest in ethnography, while Janni 1984, 120 – 1, discusses the Odyssey’s use of hodologicallanguage. For the Catalogue of Ships, see Norden, 16 and n. 1.



9

Prometheus Bound .26 With Hellenistic poetry the influence of prose writing becomes clearand demonstrable: Apollonius’ Argonautica used Herodotus, Timaeus, Timagetus, and otherhistorians and geographers;27 Callimachus’ geographical interests found parallel expressionin poetry and prose;28 the proem of ps.-Scymnus’ iambic geographical poem expressly cites a

panoply of prose historians and geographers.

29

The loss of all but scraps of thecomplementary geographical and astronomical poems of Alexander of Ephesus isunfortunate, but fragments of his geographical books suggest that he availed himself of all theelements of the ethnographical tradition: descriptions of placement (qe/seij), geometricalcomparisons for the shapes of countries, fauna (and presumably flora), and foundationtraditions.30 In other words, a set of formal conventions, or conventionalised elements, hasdeveloped for geographical description, and they may appear in either medium, poetry or

prose.

So Dionysius not only stands in the mainstream of ancient geography, but is also heir

to many of the ways in which poetry handled geography and spatial description.In the first place, it is highly amenable to catalogue treatment. If the Catalogue of

Ships is the single most important precedent, geographical catalogues and enumerations arealso very prominent in Hellenistic poetry; geographical particularism is one aspect of thegeneral Hellenistic taste for minutiae. As with Hesiodic Boreadae, these lists are usually morethan pure enumeration; they are narrativised in some way.31 (Callimachus lists the regions of

25 Meuli, 155 ‘nach Art der peri/ploi’; Bolton, 17– 19; Ivantchik, 39 – 41, 67; cf. also Norden,20 – 2, who suggests, not that Aristeas was influenced by specific prose models, but that hiswork shows signs of the influence of the spirit of i9stori/h.

26 Accepting a 5th-c. date, Bonnafé, 143; arguing for a 4th-c. interpolator, Finkelberg, 131suggests that he reflects knowledge of the voyage of Pytheas for north-west Europe, and ofCtesias for the geography of Asia.27 On Apollonius’ geographical sources, see Delage; Pearson; H. Herter, ‘HellenistischeDichtung II. Teil: Apollonios von Rhodos’, Bursians Jahresbericht , 285, Jahrgang 1944/55(1956), 213 – 410, at 302 – 4; Vian, i. 128 – 33, 154 – 68; iii. 11 – 68 passim, esp. 29 – 46, 57 – 64;id. 1987, 251 – 2, 253 – 5; Hunter 1993, 94 – 5; Meyer 2008, 271 – 2.

28 Prose works on rivers (SH 294; frr. 457 – 9 Pf.), winds (404 Pf.), barbarian customs (405

Pf.), foreign names (406 Pf.), thaumata (frr. 407 – 11 Pf.).29 ps.-Scymn. 109 – 27; cf. Korenjak, 16 – 18, Boshnakov (n. 15), 7 – 9. The poem of Dionysiusson of Calliphon also contains an epistolary preface in which the author/narrator presents hiswork as a synthesis of earlier writings (8 – 10).30 For the elements of the ethnographical tradition, see Thomas 1982a, 1 – 7. SH 25 and 29indicate qe/sij, SH 33 a local landmark, SH 34 a kti/sthj, SH 36 both geometrical shape andfauna.31 Weber, 316 – 18, cites Call. Hymn 1.18 ff.; 4.16 – 22, 41 – 54, 70 – 205; Theocr. Id . 15.100 ff.,

17.68 ff. A Latin example in V. Georg . 4.367 – 73, the catalogue of subterranean riverswitnessed by Aristaeus.



10

Greece as they flee from Leto, or the islands as they gather before Ocean and Tethys, or therivers of Arcadia not yet in existence when Rhea gave birth to Zeus.) In this perspective it isinteresting that Dionysius’ own catalogue turns back to the Homeric model. The catalogue is

primary, rather than secondary to some other structure such as narrative in which it is

embedded.In the second, the familiarity of the landscape with mythological travellers is still

reflected in the Periegesis, a work shot through with traces (explicit and implicit) ofOdysseus, Jason, Heracles, Dionysus, Io, and sometimes with reminiscences of the poems inwhich they figured. The addressee is imagined proceeding along the course these heroes andheroines once took, and the persona loquens even as the narrator of those earlier exploits.

In the third, Dionysius is still in thrall to Homeric geography. He takes his place in along tradition of critical reflection on geography in Homer, especially the wanderings ofOdysseus. One question here concerns Dionysius’ adaptation of Homeric geography to the

‘real world’, and how he relates to the various ancient schools of thought on this matter;another concerns his knowledge of the Homeric commentary tradition and creative use ofHomeric exegesis.

Once geography developed as a discipline, it had to take a stance on Homer, to whoma range of attitudes developed over the Hellenistic period.32 Some would defend Homer’s

basic geographical knowledge and competence (Polybius); some would even make himanticipate Hellenistic science (Crates). At the opposite extreme, Eratosthenes utterly rejectedthe conventional view of Homer as a didactic poet, famously asserting that ‘you will find thescene of the wanderings of Odysseus when you find the cobbler who sewed up the bag of the

winds’.33 Homer meant to entertain, not to instruct — a view not wholly remote from those ofAristarchus and Apollodorus, author of a commentary on the Catalogue of Ships, whoremarked that even if one admitted that Odysseus’ wanderings took place in the vicinity ofSicily, one should go further and add that the poet placed them out in the ocean ‘for the sakeof story-telling’ (muqologi/aj xa/rin) (7.3.6, cf. 1.2.37).34 Even Strabo, convinced ofHomer’s geographical competence, allowed that an overlay of fantasy and myth wasappropriate to the nature of poetic story-telling (1.2.8 – 11). Although Dionysius certainlyshows Eratosthenic influence (pp. 28-9), he reverts to the conservative position, first that theHomeric poems do refer to precise geographical locations, and, second, that it is reasonable

to attempt to locate legendary places on the map — two assumptions shared with Strabo.

32 D. M. Schenkeveld, ‘Strabo on Homer’, Mnemosyne4, 29 (1976), 52 – 64; Jacob 1991a, 20 – 4.

33 Eratosthenes I A, 16 = Strab. 1.2.15 to&t' a2n eu(rei=n tina pou~ 0Odusseu_j pepla&nhtai,o3tan eu3rh| to_n skute/a to_n surra&yanta to_n tw~n a)ne/mwn a)sko&n (transl. Jones) = Polyb.34.2.11; cf. I A, 11 = Strab. 1.2.7, Homeric commentators and Homer himself purveyflua/rouj; I A, 19 = Strab. 1.2.3, poetry as graw/dh muqologi/an. On Eratosthenes’ view ofHomer, see Berger 1880, 19 – 40, Thalamas, 199 –201, and ‘Étude’, 138 – 49.34 See Lehrs, 241 – 6, esp. 243 – 5 on Aristarchus and Apollodorus.



11

Dionysius accommodates Homeric geography to the real world in a variety of ways,now referring explicitly to Odysseus’ adventures, now quoting or closely paraphrasing fromthe epics, now simply suggesting that the world described in his poem is compatible withHomer’s. He refers to the home of the Lotus Eaters beyond Lepcis Magna in Libya, and then

appends a notice about Odysseus’ visit there— as if the place could stand on its own two feet,and the reference to Odysseus were only supportive (206 – 7). The reference to the Isles ofAeolus, given a specific geographical location since the time of Thucydides, is fortified withunmissable allusions to the Odyssean original (461 – 4), and an apparently new location

proposed for the Plotai which justifies and substantiates the island’s Homeric epithet.Egyptian Thebes is embellished with its Iliadic epithet (249). Some allusions go further: it isas if Homer provides the point of departure, with which the world must be brought intoconformity, because this is what Homer said. The Ethiopians are divided between west andeast Africa (not to mention another group in the south), and a place found on the map for theEremboi (180), the tribes of Agauoi and Hippemolgoi of the steppes of southern Russia (308 –

9), and the Abantes of Euboea (511), even at the price of anachronism or the confusion ofmyth and reality.35

Sometimes an ingenious interpretation or combination permits a Homeric reference.In 336, the apparently casual similarity between the names of Abila (one of the Pillars) andAlybe ( Il . 2.857) allows Dionysius to suggest that the Homeric ‘birthplace of silver’ islocated in the mines of southern Spain (336). Perhaps he has been similarly opportunistic at88 – 90 in suggesting a link between the Cretan promontory of Kriou Metopon and the rockwhere some of Menelaus’ fleet was dashed to pieces on the return from Troy. In other cases,the approach seems more suggestive and tentative. No definite reference is made; at the most,

Dionysius suggests that certain Homeric places might be so located, or at least that they havecharacteristics shared with the ‘real world’ as portrayed on his map. This is the case with theallusions to the land of the Cimmerians on the northern ocean (33 – 5), and to the home of thedawn and rising-place of the sun in the island of Chryseia in the eastern ocean (589 – 90). Inneither case is the location definite: the Cimmerians are not located on the northern ocean (assome said they were), nor Aiaia located on the edge of India. It is interesting that thistechnique of gentle shading rather than positive assertion is used precisely for the twolocations on the ocean. Dionysius certainly avoids the hard-line position on exokeanismos — the idea that Odysseus’ wanderings took place in the outer ocean rather than the

Mediterranean — which was espoused by Crates;36

or even Strabo’s modified view that ‘most’of the wanderings were outside the Pillars of Heracles (3.4.4, ta\ polla/). He refusesdefinitely to locate any of the Odyssean wanderings in the outer ocean; at most he concedes atouch of Odyssean colouring to places in the far north and far east, both times in connectionwith the appearance of the sun.

There are layers of tradition behind every pronouncement about Homeric geography,and parallels with the Homeric scholia and other sources suggest that Dionysius worked with

35 Also an issue in the Argonautica: Delage, 37.36 Fr. 31 Mette (cf. pp. 59 – 60) = F 77 Broggiato, cf. F 44 Broggiato.



12

the full range of ancient interpretation of Homer. There are several apparent parallels withCrates — the interpretation of pro\j h0w= to mean ‘southwards’ (243, 332; (?)437; fr. 21 Mette= F 52 Broggiato), the implied exokeanismos of the Cimmerians (33 – 5; fr. 37a Mette = F 54Broggiato); and also the implication that the Erembi were black-skinned (962 – 9; fr. 46 Mette

= F 41 Broggiato) — but there are also dissonances,

37

and above all Dionysius’ approach isquite remote from Crates’ attempts to make Homer into a proto-scientist. Whatever his exactsources, his use of them aligns him with other learned poets who turned Homeric exegesis totheir own ends — Apollonius, who consulted lexicographical material on Homeric glosses, orVirgil, who used the Homeric scholia, not only for the interpretation of contested words, butalso for commentary, interpretations, and criticisms, to which his recrafting of the Homericepics responds.38 Unlike Virgil, who was largely concerned with matters of decorum and

propriety, Dionysius’ Homeric researches are driven by fact, specificity, and identificationsof place. In the next chapter Dionysius will be seen to blend Homeric learning with his othergeographical data in his own typically combinatory way.

In sum, ancient geography is so poetic in character that it is artificial to treat the prosaic and poetic elements in Dionysius’ heritage separately. Sometimes this has provednecessary in what follows, but only in the interests of organising the material; the real gaincomes, not from dissevering them, but from appreciating the intricacy and felicity of theircombination. As we shall see, Dionysius is extremely eclectic in his use of sources, especiallythose that purvey concentrated geographical information. Prose and poetry are equallyexploitable, and can be combined, tessellated, and harmonised. As for language, Dionysiususes a basically poetic register, but one which is hospitable to some prosaic or technicalterminology. Poetic language may also serve as a counterpart to prose, with associations of

its own that meet and match the language of a prose treatise; moreover, as with the notion ofthe circumambient ocean (27 n.), the poet is sometimes able to use traditional poetic ideas asa counterpart, or complement, for more recent ones, whether empirical or speculative. Andfinally, in terms of genre, we can appreciate the heterogeneity of Dionysius’ poem, thecombinability of poetic catalogue with world description, periplous, ethnography, and so on:the Periegesis is an outstanding case, but it stands in an ancient tradition of geographicalwriting characterised by eclecticism and the interpenetration of literary form.

2. H YPOTYPOSIS G EOGRAPHIAS : THE OVERVIEW OF THE K NOWN WORLD

There is no part of the world which I have not visited.

37 He does not accept the corollary of Crates’ theory about the Erembi, that they wereIndians; nor does he pick up Crates’ connection of the Planktai with the verb pela/zein (fr.41a Mette = F 48 Broggiato).38 For Apollonius’ use of ‘a collection similar to the D scholia’, Rengakos 2008, 249– 50. For

Virgil, see R. R. Schlunk, ‘Vergil and the Homeric Scholia’, AJP 88 (1967), 33 – 44; id. The Homeric Scholia and the Aeneid (Ann Arbor, 1974).



13

(Osiris, ap. Diod. Sic. 1.27.5.)

The Periegesis is a description of the whole world. Let us consider how such descriptionsarose.

In antiquity the conceptualisation of the world took leaps forward at times ofintellectual adventure, exploration, or both. The Ionians drew up the first world maps(peri/odoi gh=j) which they accompanied with explanatory commentary.39 In the wake ofAlexander’s conquests, Eratosthenes— drawing on the Alexander historians, as well as theSeleucid general and explorer Patrocles and Pytheas of Massilia’s account of his sea voyagethrough the Pillars of Heracles and beyond, into north-west Europe — systematised thisknowledge in a work in which the word gewgrafi/a may have appeared for the first time.40 Certainly his approach was new. While the first two books tackled the history of the subjectand methodological issues, the third outlined a new, quasi-geometrical division of the world.Eratosthenes was critical of the traditional analysis into three continents, and at least forsouthern and eastern Asia proposed a series of divisions into sphragides or approximatelygeometrical shapes.41 The greatest length and greatest breadth of the whole oi0koume/nh weremeasured by a main line of latitude, which Eratosthenes had taken over from Aristotle’sfollower Dicaearchus, and a main meridian; they may or may not have been reinforced by subsidiary parallels.42 The basic approach was cartographical, geometrical, and schematic.

39 Corcella on Hdt. 4.36.2 gh=j perio/douj (with bibliography).

40 Fragments of Eratosthenes’ geographical work collected by Berger 1880; with Englishtranslation (no Greek) and a new commentary by Roller. On Eratosthenes’ use of the termgewgrafi/a, see van Paassen, 34 and 364 n. 3, 44 – 5. For the different forms in which thetitle of the work is attested, see Berger 1903, 387 n. 2; Knaack, RE s.v. Eratosthenes, 367.23 – 33. On Eratosthenes’ sources, see Roller, 16– 20.41 Continental division: Strab. 1.4.7 = II C, 22 Berger; sphragides: III B, 2 – 4 Berger, and1880, 166, 223 – 4, 229; id. 1903, 433 – 6; Thalamas, 227, 241 – 7; van Paassen, 42 – 4, 47 – 8, 52;Dicks, 128 – 9; Pédech, 105; Roller, 25 – 7, 175.42 For Eratosthenes’ meridians and lines of latitude, see Berger 1880, 188– 210; Thomson,163 – 6; Aujac 1981, 7; Roller, 24 – 5. Dicaearchus had traced a main line of latitude (fr. 110Wehrli = 123 Fortenbaugh – Schütrumpf, cf. P. T. Keyser in W. W. Fortenbaugh and E.Schütrumpf (eds.): Dicaearchus of Messana: Text, Translation, and Discussion (NewBrunswick, 2001), 367; Berger 1880, 166, id. 1903, 378 – 9; F. Boll, RE s.v. Diaphragma,341.64 – 342.3, and Knaack, RE s.v. Eratosthenes, 369.32 – 43; Dicks, 30; Shipley, 17; Dueckand Brodersen 2012, 95) and perhaps a main meridian on which Syene/Lysimacheia lay(Berger 1880, 173 – 4; F. Wehrli, Die Schule des Aristoteles, i: Dikaiarchos (Basel, 1967), 77;Pédech, 97 – 8; Nicolet, 60; Zimmermann 1999, 57). Eratosthenes certainly took over theformer (Strab. 2.1.1 = III A, 2 Berger), and his main meridian (17 – 18 n.) is a prolongation of

the Nile – Hellespont line which Dicaearchus may already have traced. Beyond that, there isdisagreement about how many other parallels and meridians he established. According to



14

From his sources he took over ethnographical and chorographical details, but this wassubsidiary to his project of dividing up the oi0koume/nh into rational portions, defining their

perimeters, and measuring lengths.43

In the early empire a number of world geographies emerge which revert to a basically

non-geometrical approach and to the traditional three-continent system. Strabo’s Geography is by far the most important (he also takes on Eratosthenes and is our main source for histheories), but there are also several shorter or potted descriptions of the oi0koume/nh. This isDionysius’ proper context. I shall be arguing for the possibility or probability that he knewStrabo himself, but in terms of its scale and ambition the Periegesis is in some ways bettercompared with these handy, traditional digests or inventories of the main components of theoi0koume/nh. Although they never quite settled down into a fixed scheme, they neverthelessrepresent a consensus view with more or less recurrent elements. The texts in question are:

(i) the pseudo-Aristotelian De Mundo, which is generally dated (by those who do

not consider the work genuine) to approximately the end of the first century BC orfirst half of the first century AD;44

(ii) a sketch, or hypotyposis, of the inhabited earth which Strabo offers beforelaunching into his detailed exposition;45

Thalamas it was Hipparchus who developed parallels and meridians into a network (190,209 –15, and ‘Étude’, 156– 7, 163 – 7; Thomson, 166; van Paassen, 41); recently, however,Shcheglov has tried to show that Eratosthenes anticipated Ptolemy’s seven bands of latitude,

or klimata, defined by length of longest solstitial day.43 See 927 – 61 n. for the character of our longest fragment of Eratosthenes, on the PersianGulf.44 See Festugière, 460 – 518; J. P. Maguire, ‘The sources of Pseudo-Aristotle De mundo’,YClS 6 (1939), 109 – 67; Prontera 1984a, 228 – 9; Moraux, 5 – 82 (for geography, see 16 – 20,unsurprisingly finding Eratosthenic influence); J. K raye, ‘Aristotle’s God and theAuthenticity of De mundo: An Early Modern Controversy’, JHPh 28 (1990), 339 – 58; J.Mansfeld, ‘Peri kosmou: A Note on the History of a Title’, VChr 46 (1992), 391 – 411; D.Holwerda, ‘Textkritisches und Exegetisches zur pseudo-aristotelischen Schrift Peri tou

kosmou’, Mnemosyne4, 46 (1993), 46 – 55; G. Reale and A. P. Bos, Il tratt ato “Sul cosmo per Alessandro” attribuito ad Aristotele (Milan, 21995); J. P. Martín, ‘Sobre el autor del tratadoDe mundo en la historia del aristotelismo’, Méthexis, 11 (1998), 103 – 11. As for date, Moraux(81 – 2) and Martin favour the end of the 1st c. BC or first half of the 1st c. AD; Mansfeld (400)suggests a terminus post quem of the late 1st c. BC; and Reale and Bos regard the work — quite untenably — as genuine.

45 2.5.18 – 33, with u9potu/pwsij at 2.5.18. The same word was used as the title for a littletreatise, the 9Upotu/pwsij Gewgrafi/aj, ascribed to Agathemerus son of Orthon, whence itwas taken for another, anonymous, treatise, here cited as Hypotyp. Geogr . (Müller, GGM ii.

xli f., 494 – 509; Aly, 3*, Test. 18, and 109* – 110*; Diller 1975a, 40 – 1; Pédech, 193; Radt, i.xiii; Marcotte 2002, xl f.). The latter certainly leans on Strabo, but seems also to show the



15

(iii) a similar ‘sketch’ ( summa . . . rerum . . . figura) in Manilius’ astronomical poem,where it sets out the area on which the stars exert their influence;46

(iv) the Chorography of Mela, especially the introduction (1.4 – 23);47

(v) two accounts from later encyclopaedic compilations by Martianus Capella and

Isidore of Seville;48

(vi) and, as an outlier, a couple of chapters in the memory-treatise of Ampelius, whichis not a description, but which simply lists the major components of the earthunder various headings.49

One feature common to all these texts except the Periegesis is that they acknowledge that theknown world is only part of a larger whole. Some give a sketch of zone theory, others explainthat the world we inhabit is balanced by others in different quarters of the globe.50 Ps.-Aristotle acknowledges the probability of other continents, and even Manilius, who is briefest

at this point, explains the cardinal points and the winds that blow from the four quarters ofthe heavens. Eschewing cosmography,51 Dionysius overleaps all this and commences with anaccount of the circumambient ocean, which in these other world-sketches tends to follow theexposition of spherical geography.

influence of Dionysius: (i) the Aegean, Pontus, and associated seas follow the eastern

Mediterranean rather than precede it, as in Strabo; (ii) the same three names appear for thenorthern ocean in §45 as in Periegesis 32 – 3; (iii) the extent of the Pamphylian sea is similarlydefined in §50 and in Periegesis 127 – 8; for further arguments see Anhut, 20 – 4; Counillon1983, 164 – 5.46 Astr . 4.585 – 696; on this section see Abry 1997 and 2000.

47 Text, commentary, and French translation by Silberman; German translation by Brodersen1994b, cf. id. 1995, 87 – 94; annotated English translation by Romer; text and Italiantranslation by Mosino (very difficult to use, because section numbers are not marked). See

also G. Winkler, ‘Geographie bei den Römern: Mela, Seneca, Plinius’, in W. Hübner, 141– 61, at 142 – 6. The work is dated to AD 43/4 on the grounds that it refers to Claudius’ Britishtriumph of 44 as imminent.48 Martianus Capella, De Nupt . 6.590 – 703; Isid. Orig . 13 – 14.49 Lib. Mem. 6 De orbe terrarum, 7 De maris ambitu.50 Zone theory: Strab. 2.5.5; Mela 1.4; Isid. Orig . 13.6; Mart. Capell. 6.602; four habitableregions: Strab. 2.5.5 – 6, 13; Ampelius 6.1; Mart. Capell. 6.604 – 6.51 Ilyushechkina 2010, 52: ‘Das Werk des Dionysios entspricht nicht den Aufgaben der

kosmologischen und physikalischen Naturphilosophie, sondern denen der kulturhistorischenEthnographie.’



16

Other elements are shared by all the texts. These include the ocean’s four gulfs;52 atour of the component seas within the Mediterranean, beginning at the Pillars of Heracles;53 and the three continents (in a fluctuating order) with their divisions.54 There is also (usually)a place for islands, Mediterranean and oceanic.55 It is hard to say where these shared elements

come from. The circumambient ocean and its four gulfs are apparently Eratosthenic, but hecan hardly have originated the form, since he rejected the traditional division into continents.In general, the sketches repeat the same basic elements over and over again, and in so doingspeak to the strongly conservative strain among the geographers of the Roman Empire.Eratosthenes had set out to systematise new knowledge, and had boasted of the recentadvances made in the knowledge of the inhabited world;56 likewise, it was available toRoman geographers to advertise their works by appealing to the broadening of horizons bythe Romans and their neighbours (and sometimes to their own personal explorations).57

52 ps.-Arist. De Mundo 3 (393 b2 – 11); Strab. 2.5.18; Manil. 4.595 – 7, 642 – 57; Mela 1.5;

Ampelius 7.1; Isid. Orig . 13.17; cf. Mart. Capell. 6.619, 624.53 The Mediterranean in an extended sense, also including the Propontis, Black Sea, andMaeotis: ps.-Arist. 393a18 – 34; Strab. 2.5.19 – 25; Manil. 4.597 – 629; Mela 1.6 – 7, 17;Ampelius 7.2 – 5; Mart. Capell. 6.624 – 5, 649 – 51, 661 – 2; Isid. Orig . 13.16; further referencesin Radt on Strab. I p. 47,29 – 33.54 ps.-Arist. 393 b23 – 394a3; Strab. 2.5.26 – 33; Manil. 4.658 – 95; Mela 1.9 – 23; Ampelius 6.2;Mart. Capell. 6.626 – 702; Isid. Orig . 14.3 – 5.

55 The greatest differences arise with respect to the islands. Some treat them in a section of

their own; others append them to the nearest portion of mainland. Mediterranean: ps.-Arist.393a12 – 16 (unsystematic); Strab. 2.5.19 – 21, 30 (dealing with them in groups within theindividual seas of the Mediterranean); Manil. 4.630 – 41; Ampelius 6.12 – 15; Mart. Capell.6.643 – 8, 658 – 60; Isid. Orig . 14.6.14 – 44 (broadly from east to west). Oceanic: ps.-Arist.393 b11 – 19 (again unsystematic); Strab. 2.5.15, 30 (no separate review of oceanic islands,only a few mentioned in passing); Ampelius 6.12; Mart. Capell. 6.666, 696 – 9, 702; Isid.Orig . 14.6.1 – 13 (Britain, the islands of the western ocean, then those of the Indian Ocean).Mela treats islands, not in his introductory review, but in the main body of the Chorographia,the Mediterranean islands in the course of his circuit of the Mediterranean (working from the

Maeotis down through the Black Sea and Propontis to the Mediterranean, and then from theeast end of the latter to the west), the oceanic islands in his review of the outer ocean(between the Pillars and the Caspian there is a separate section, 3.46 – 58, but from that pointonwards they are appended to the corresponding section of the mainland). Oceanic islandsare not treated by Manilius.56 Strab. 1.3.3 = I B, 11 Berger. On the advances of which Eratosthenes took advantage, seeThalamas, 201 – 7.

57 On the extent to which late Hellenistic and early Roman geography benefited from theopening-up of new areas, see Rawson, 250 – 66; Nicolet, 64 – 5, 85 – 94; Mosino, 10, 14. See

Polyb. 3.58 – 9, who contrasts the practical difficulties faced by earlier writers, so prejudicialto the accuracy of their accounts, with the new knowledge of the world opened up by



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Nevertheless, there is also a strong contrary tendency to stasis — a systemic inertia whichleaves writers content to pass on traditional, outdated information, reaping little or no benefitfrom the opening-up of new areas by Roman conquest and exploration.58 These littleoverviews of the component parts of the oi0koume/nh contain nothing new. Artistic effort may

be invested in their composition, but as far as geographical knowledge is concerned, sclerosishas set in.

Naturally the Romans could put geography to extremely political purposes.59 Straboconceives his Geography (which takes in the whole world, not just areas under Romancontrol) as partly ‘philosophical’ and partly functional or instrumental, something ofimmediate practical importance to statesmen. Some authors specifically review the contentsof the empire.60 But the oi0koume/nh schemes in which we are interested set out to describeeverything in it; the scheme in principle is non-political — except insofar as descriptions of theoi0koume/nh ipso facto could be seen to have ideological resonance under the Caesars. Their

authors have very varied interests. Manilius is trying to explain the theory of astral influenceover regions of the earth; the pseudo-Aristotelian De Mundo is a philosophical disquisition onthe universe which culminates in praise of the divine principle that guides it. It is a matter forthe author himself whether to invest his description with political overtones. Some may havean eye to the blessings of Roman rule,61 have an enhanced awareness of the position of Romein the world they describe;62 or associate features of the landscape with historical events(especially Roman triumphs).63 Strabo calls his descriptive enterprise his ‘first and most

Alexander and the Romans (and partly by himself, in the course of travels through Africa,Spain, and Gaul); Diod. Sic. 3.38.3, on Julius Caesar in the far north; Strab. 1.2.1, 2.5.12,11.6.4, on new knowledge obtained through Roman exploration, Mithridates, and theexpansion of the Parthian empire. Mayer, 53 – 4, shows how Roman poets sometimesexploited this new geographical knowledge, at least in the use of resonant place-names.

58 Ossification: F. Gisinger, RE Suppl. IV (1924), s.v. Geographie (Verfall), 670 – 85; Tozer,287; Pédech, 151; Rawson, 252; Aujac 1987, 171 – 3 (on the conservatism of cartography);Silberman, pp. xxv – xxix; Mattern, 26, 65; on the survival of ethnographic stereotypes,Woolf, 89 – 117. For Manilius, see Abry 2000, 90 – 1.

59 Nicolet; P. Counillon, ‘Géographie et pouvoir impérial à Rome’, in A. Baand and C.-G.Dubois (eds.), Imperium Romanum: images romaines du pouvoir (Talence, 1994), 19 – 25;Dueck 2012, 10 – 16.60 App. Praef . 1 – 18.61 Strab. 2.5.26, in his paean of Europe.

62 Manil. 4.694 – 5; Mela 2.60 (though see Batty 2000, 76 – 8); Dionysius, 354 – 6; Mart. Capell.6.636 – 7.63

Mela 2.105 (a victory which Mela apparently turns into a defeat; cf. Batty 2000, 83 – 4), 3.4,3.49; Dionysius, 209 – 10; 1051 – 2.



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important concern, both for the purposes of science and for the needs of the state’.64 But ps.-Aristotle’s eye is on physical geography, while other texts descend into inventory,mnemotechnics (Ampelius), or encyclopaedism (Martianus Capella, Isidore).

The impulse in these descriptions is very often graphic, if not cartographical: they aim

to convey a distinct visual impression. Manilius calls his description a figura. Strabo usescartographical language,65 and the anonymous hypotyposis which is based partly on Straboactually sets itself up as a mental substitute for a map.66 All except Ampelius, who merelylists, aim to convey in words a two-dimensional picture. They do not simply enumerate one

place after another.

But what sort of cartography? In the opening chapter of his Geography, Ptolemydistinguishes two kinds — world and regional. The former, he says, is schematic, and aims torepresent whole or large parts; the focus of the latter is on smaller details. The concern of thefirst is with relationships and proportionality between parts; of the latter with likeness. In

other words, it is partly a matter of scale and partly a qualitative difference in the kind ofrepresentation aimed at. These two methods are sometimes implied by the literary sourcesthemselves.67 On the other hand, Strabo speaks of both a gewgrafiko\j pi/nac (2.5.13),which represents the oi0koume/nh as a portion of the whole earth, and a xwrografiko\j pi/nac(2.5.17) which shows the outlines of continents as well as details (poiki/lmata) such as thelocation of cities, without making it clear that he is making a distinction between the two.68 In

both the hypotyposis and the Geography as a whole, Strabo includes schematic elements — especially in the form of geometrical comparisons — as well as close-focus detail on

practically every page. Yet he extends the regional approach to the oi0koume/nh as a whole,

which an actual map would presumably be taxed to do. Much the same can be said of the Periegesis. Dionysius offers for the whole oi0koume/nh the sort of visualised description oflandscape features that is envisaged by regional, rather than world, cartography.

In this and in many other ways the best comparison for the Periegesis is thehypotyposis — for whose probably direct use I shall argue in the next chapter. Some elementsof the account match Strabo better than any other ancient source, especially the four gulfs ofthe ocean, the review of the seas and islands within the Mediterranean (especially the western

64 2.5.13 ta\ me\n ou]n prw=ta kai\ kuriw/tata kai\ pro\j e0pisth/mhn kai\ pro\j ta\j xrei/ajta\j politika/j; transl. Jones.

65 2.5.13 pi/nac, sxh=ma, 2.5.18 u9potu/pwsij, 2.5.26 u9pograpteo/n.

66 Hypotyp. Geogr . 5 . . . w9j du/nasqai r9a= |sta/ tina . . . th\n o3lhn oi0koume/nhn mhde\nei0ko/noj dehqe/nta tw= | nw= | periaqrh=sai.67 Ptol. 1.1 (see J. L. Berggren and A. Jones, Ptolemy’s Geography: An Annotated

Translation of the Theoretical Chapters (Oxford, 2000)); cf. Eustathius, GGM ii. 212.15 – 213.11; S Dion. Perieg. GGM ii. 428.1 – 6; Nicolet, 4, 171 – 2; Meyer 1998b, 61.

68 Nicolet, 100 – 1. The tide seems to have turned against the notion that the xwrografiko\j

pi/nac is a reference to Agrippa’s map (Prontera 1984a, 246 – 7 and n. 116; cf. also Radt onStrab. II, 120.31).



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Mediterranean), and the tribal review of Libya. There are also matters of sequence: thegeneral order, with the circumambient ocean first, then its gulfs, then the Mediterranean, thenthe continents.69 And finally there are matters of general method: both accounts might bedescribed as both seaward and landward, tackling the ocean and its gulfs and the internal

parts of the Mediterranean where the land is background to the sea, rather than vice versa,and also reviewing the continents and their parts, where the focus is on the land. Importantcoastal areas are liable to be treated from a double perspective.70

There are of course also differences from Strabo — differences in content, sequence,and genre. The hypotyposis is much more taken up with physical geography, and less with theinhabitants of the landscape. Most of Strabo’s effort is invested in presenting overviews oflarge areas — oceans, seas, continents, and countries; in delineating their boundaries andsketching their shape, and even in trying to evoke their surface appearance. His itineraryfollows an order which is particularly close to Dionysius’— but as we shall see, Dionysius has

reverted to the model of a periplous, or at any rate linear itinerary, the traditional form foraccounts of the oi0koume/nh.71

The simplest and most traditional form of the whole-world periplous starts at thePillars of Heracles72 and completes a clockwise circuit of the Mediterranean (with foraysinland), returning to the Pillars via the north African coast. Some authors introducesophistications: they begin their itinerary at some point other than the Pillars;73 or they breakoff halfway through and undertake a different itinerary from the same starting-point;74 or theycombine internal periploi with external ones that follow the course of the ocean.75 In this

69 In general, all authors put the ocean and seas before the land. Mela has the same sequence.So do Manilius and Isidore, save that they place the Mediterranean before the other gulfs.70 The Pillars: Strab. 2.5.19 + 33, Dionysius, 64 – 5 + 281 – 2; the Syrtes: Strab. 2.5.20 + 33,Dionysius, 104 – 8 + 198 – 203.71 Prontera 1984a, 216 – 31; Nicolet, 58: one form of the periplous ‘can be a visualization(eventually graphic) of regions so extensive that it becomes a “drawing of the world”, agraphic and global representation (on a small scale) of the world (known, inhabited, oraccessible, as the case may be)’.

72 Jacoby in RE s.v. Hekataios, 2691.24 – 8, traces it back to him.73 Menippus of Pergamum, who started from the Hellespont (Prontera 1984a, 224).74 Artemidorus of Ephesus, who went from the Pillars to the Tauric Chersonese but thenreturned to Libya to proceed along the African coastline (Prontera 1984a, 222).75 Mela has a double periplous, first of the interior and then of the exterior seas. He proceedsanticlockwise round the Mediterranean and clockwise round the ocean (Prontera 1984a, 224 – 5; Batty 2000, 87 – 8). Pliny takes the usual route from the Pillars to the Tanais, thence crossesoverland to the ocean and returns round northern and western Europe to the Pillars. Then he

sets out again from the Pillars along the African coast, and when he reaches the Caspiancrosses to the eastern ocean as far as India, and works back through Parthia, Mesopotamia,



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respect Dionysius has several peculiarities. He arranges his western material in repeatedcircuits beginning at the Pillars. There are six such departures;76 no other periplous returns soobsessively to the starting point (Strabo does so only twice77). His treatment of Europe is

peculiar as well: he departs first from the Pillars for a tour of northern Europe, in which the

Danube figures as a boundary line between peoples of the north and peoples reaching southas far as Thrace; then he returns to the starting-point and tours Mediterranean Europe,following the coastline through three great promontories or peninsulas (Spain, Italy, andGreece). This is not Strabo’s way. The hypotyposis reviews Europe only once, neverdoubling back on itself, but proceeding from west to east with a repeated zigzag movementfrom north to south, so that it glances at Italy and Greece as it moves eastwards. However,Strabo does mention — even if he does not follow — the three-peninsula system forMediterranean Europe, which he derives from Eratosthenes;78 and he also shares withDionysius the use of the Danube as a boundary-line through the centre of northern Europe,allowing him to review, first, the races on the north, and then those on the south.

As for Asia, there is again a greater similarity with the hypotyposis than with anyother ancient itinerary — but still an inexact match. Asia needs only to be surveyed once, notrecursively in a series of journeys. Like Strabo, Dionysius starts off with the northern half ofthe continent. Both begin with the continent-dividing Tanais and work eastwards, eventuallyreaching the peoples to the north of India, then return to the Caucasus, whence they proceedon an anticlockwise tour of Asia Minor (Strab. 2.5.31, cf. 11.1.5 – 7). The rupture comes next,

because Strabo takes southern Asia from east to west, while Dionysius takes it from west toeast. So, having reviewed northern Asia, Strabo shuttles from Phrygia, Lycaonia, and Lydia,via the mountain peoples who live along the great chain of the Taurus, to India (2.5.32).

Dionysius, meanwhile, completes his circuit of the entire coast of Asia Minor — which he hasalready rendered more periplous-like by drawing substantially on the Argonauts’ voyagealong the southern shore of the Black Sea — and then, after pausing to overview the whole ofsouthern Asia (881 – 93) simply returns to the point where he had left off, where Syriasucceeds Commagene (877 – 80, 894 – 6). In other words, while there comes a moment on thenorthern tour when both authors have to bring themselves back westwards (and both return tothe same point), Dionysius manages the tour of southern Asia as a whole in the unbrokenfashion of a periplous/periegesis.

Arabia, the Arabian Gulf, Ethiopia, and the oceanic coast of Africa, eventually to Mauretania(Prontera 1984a, 224).76 (i) The seas within the Mediterranean (72 – 3), (ii) the northern coast of Africa (184 – 5), (iii)northern Europe (281 – 2), (iv) Mediterranean Europe (334 – 6), (v) the Mediterranean islands,

beginning with Gadeira (450 – 2), and (vi) the oceanic islands, beginning with Erytheia (558;though the Pillars themselves are not mentioned here).

77 2.5.19, 26 (the reviews of the Mediterranean and of continental Europe). The islands areworked into the review of the Mediterranean; the review of Libya begins in the south; andthere is no double periegesis of continental Europe.78 Strab. 2.4.8 = Eratosthenes III B, 97 Berger.



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In sum, the Periegesis makes the linear principle even more prominent than it is inStrabo. This can be seen in the ‘great circles’ which the narrator traces so repetitively fromthe Pillars, and in the orderly reviews of sections of coastline (along the coast of north Africa,round Italy, along the coast of Black Sea) which we miss in the hypotyposis. Sequence is

close, but not identical: taking Libya before Europe, Dionysius’ first landward route is alongthe north coast of Africa, a route shared (presumably coincidentally) with Mela. Nevertheless, taken as a whole, it is preferable to see Dionysius’ itinerary as a modificationof Strabo’s rather than as an independent variation on it. The similarity is thrown into relief

by the other immediate comparanda, especially Mela and Pliny: their itineraries areconducted on different principles, rather than modifications of the same one.

The basic difference between the two is that where the hypotyposis is offered as a preparatory sketch, the Periegesis is both an overview and a finished work in its own right. Inthis respect, with its range of interests, it is closer to Mela’s Chorography or even — though it

falls out of the series of tricontinental whole-world descriptions — to the geographical poemof ps.-Scymnus. Since Hecataeus, the normal ancient method for geography was the orderlyreview, combining the forward movement of the journey and the descriptive pause,79 andDionysius, like ps.-Scymnus and Mela, strikes his own balance between the coastal voyageand the description of lands and peoples.80 This latter is used mainly used for non-classical

peoples outside Europe, who are dealt with as ethnic units, whereas the linear itinerary isused where more detail is available.81 Strabo’s hypotyposis does indeed mention ethnicgroups, but usually apropos of some landscape feature; landscape is the dominant element, towhich other aspects of the description are secondary. Descriptive ethnography is almostentirely absent,82 as is the history of colonisation and settlement; absent, too, are all the rich

details (potamography, curiosities and marvels, gemstones) with which Dionysius’ account isembellished. This is hardly surprising in a sketch, only intended as prelude to the denselyinformative books that follow. In contrast, the works of ps.-Scymnus and Mela, though theytake a different path through their respective universes, are generally similar in texture, withstrong emphasis on myth and history, especially ktisis myth, as well as paradoxography andnatural marvels. Each author proceeds to impose his own selections and emphases on the

79 Jacoby, RE s.v. Hekataios, 2691.7 – 20; Janni 1984, 122 n. 118; Meyer 1998a, 200.80 Mela’s journey is organised by two large circuits (n. 75). For a given country we generallyhave a mixture of coastal review and chorographical/ethnographical detail (though, as inDionysius, the treatment of Egypt is basically chorographical/ethnographical, beginning witha south –north review of the Nile’s course). But the focus remains on the coast, from whichmovements inland are deliberate departures; this differs from Dionysius, who gives up thecoastal review in certain places (especially Asia) altogether.81 For a similar situation in Pliny, see Evans 2005a, 51 – 2; Doody, 66.82 Save for the Libyan Nomads at the very end, 2.5.33.



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enormous range of material that the chorographical and ethnographical traditions madeavailable;83 this discussion continues in section 5.

3. CONCEPTIONS OF SPACE

I soon learned not to expect knowledge of the country they passed through. Except for thetruck stops, they had no contact with it.

Another kind of traveler requires to know in terms of maps exactly where he is pin- pointed every moment, as though there were some kind of safety in black and red lines, indotted indications and squirming blue of lakes and the shadings that indicate mountains.

(John Steinbeck, Travels With Charley, Part Two).

Scholarship, especially in the second half of the twentieth century, has opened up a new branch of geography: the study of ‘mental maps’, cognitive geography, or perceptions ofspace, both those we take for granted ourselves and those of pre-modern societies. The

Periegesis, which displays the literary character of ancient geography to a high degree, offersan excellent opportunity to reflect on ancient conceptions of space. Moreover, the shiftingforms and genres of the Periegesis imply different ways of looking at its subject-matter and

accordingly slightly different conceptions of space; the narrator’s focalisation of his subjectwill be considered further in section 4.

Modern geography has reflected extensively on what is meant by concepts such as‘place’ and ‘location’;84 sometimes an antithesis is drawn between ‘place’ and ‘space’. Thecontrast usually intended is between space that is abstract (mathematical, geometricallydisposed upon a grid) and place that is experienced (affective, subjectively-perceived).85 Yetspace, too, may be experienced subjectively; the influential modern geographer Yi-Fu Tuan

83 For instance, save for Thule and the sun in northern climes, Dionysius seems considerablyless exercised by meteorology and natural science than Mela (Brodersen 1994b, 6 – 7).84 See for instance F. Lukermann, ‘Geography as a formal intellectual discipline and the wayin which it contributes to human knowledge’, The Canadian Geographer (1964), 167 – 72,esp. 169 – 70; J. Agnew, Place and Politics: The Geographical Mediation of State and Society (Boston, 1987), 28; Thalmann, 15 – 17, drawing on the work of David Harvey. The relationalaspects within and between places are usually stressed (demographic, social, economic), asare process and the dimension of time.85 Clarke 1999, 8 – 10, 17 – 18, 25 – 9. Already O. F. Bollnow, ‘Lived-space’, in N. Lawrence

and D. O’Connor (eds.), Readings in Existential Phenomenology (Engleton Cliffs, NJ, 1967),178 – 86, distinguished ‘mathematical space’ from ‘lived-space’.



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instances the perception of someone from a small north German town gazing out at the openspaces of the Baltic.86

These thoughts suggest various applications to ancient texts. While much ancientgeography is concerned with the lived environment, some geographers are more interested in

the physical landscape than its human population.87 An approach which concentrates on theexperience and history of those who live in a landscape and travel through it contrasts withone concerned with its geometry, for example the calculation of the earth’s circumference,estimates of the length and width of the oi0koume/nh as a whole or portions thereof, theimposition of lines of longitude and latitude.88 Texts pay attention to different aspects of‘place’, and to the external or internal relations of a given locale, for instance its topography,wider environment, and how these relate to the social relations within or across communities;the Periplus Maris Erythraei is particularly interested in economic networks. The attentionthe historical dimension receives is especially variable.89 It is developed in geography that

places a premium on traditions of settlement, of migration and colonisation, but is completelyabsent from an account only concerned with the placement of coordinates on a map.90 Weshall find Dionysius more sensitive to certain aspects of place than others: some aspects ofenvironment interest him, as does the history of settlement, while economic exchange is lessimportant, and social relations rank still lower. The only evidence he provides for thesubjective affiliation of an individual to a given location is — and it is only implicit — in hisown identity as an Alexandrian.

The distinction between (experienced) place and (abstract) space is also related to thetwo different approaches to space distinguished in Pietro Janni’s monograph on the thought-

world of ancient geographers and travellers, conceptions of space, and the use of maps.

91

Janni distinguished between the one-dimensional, or ‘hodological’ principle— expressed byitineraries which record the experience of the landscape as one passes through it from A to

86 Y.-F. Tuan, Space and Place: The Perspective of Experience (Minneapolis, 1977), 3 – 4.

87 Such as Agathemerus, son of Orthon (Diller 1975a).

88 In practice, the opposition between ‘mathematical’ and ‘human’ geography is not so clear -cut, for Eratosthenes and even Ptolemy included ethnographic material (Clarke 1999, 10 n.18).

89 Clarke 1999, 17 –18, citing Tuan, for the idea that ‘passage of time [is] essential for thetransformation of abstract space into significant place.’ 90 Famously, Pliny tries to exclude it ( NH 3.2 locorum nuda nomina), an enterprise doomedto failure (Evans 2005a); Strabo embraces it (6.1.2).91 Janni 1984; cf. id. Athenaeum 60 (1982), 602 – 7, esp. 606. Janni’s book was published inthe year before Rawson’s Intellectual Life, and one assumes that they wrote in mutualignorance, though she entirely concurs with his conclusions (259). On the hodological viewof the world, see also T. Bekker- Nielsen, ‘Terra Incognita: The Subjective Geography of the

Roman Empire’, in Studies in Ancient History and Numismatics Presented to Rudi Thomsen (Aarhus, 1988), 148 – 61; Mattern, 39 – 40; Purves, 145 – 8.



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B — and two-dimensional thinking, which is a prerequisite for mapping. According to Janni,the former dominated ancient spatial thinking; but perhaps he underestimated the extent towhich it coexisted with the latter, which is entailed (for example) by the comparison ofcountries and regions to shapes (n. 100), as well as by later and more sophisticated attempts

to draw up lines of latitude and longitude, and to establish coordinates.

92

Nevertheless, thelatter tended to be handled less adroitly and less happily, if only because of technicalshortcomings. The difficulty in antiquity was the lack of, or failure to use, technical means ofdetermining position; this in turn implied the failure to measure and to represent large,complex shapes, except with disappointing schematism.

The two mental systems are not mutually exclusive. They can co-exist, with one predominating over the other, or there can be slippage between them,93 so that it is no particular surprise to find them combined, as they are in the Periegesis.94 Indeed, because the poem draws so widely on so many kinds of earlier writing, we must expect Dionysius to

show the characteristic features, the strengths, weaknesses, and idiosyncrasies, of ancientgeography in its presentation of space.

The one-dimensional principle is illustrated in the linear itineraries which the Periegesis favours95 — whether following routes that stick (more or less) closely to acoastline,96 or surveying whole regions, one after another, in sequence. The separate items inlinear itineraries are strung together with words implying sequence (ei]ta, meta/, e9cei/hj,e1nqen; a1nw, ka/tw), contiguity (a1gxi, e0ggu/qi, o9mou/rioj; e0pi/, para/, u9pe/r, u9po/; a1nta,(kat)antikru/, pro/paroiqe, pro/sqe; perhaps even expressions like kata\ me/sson), or stillmore basically the idea of going forwards (prote/rw(se), e.g. 478 prote/rwse perh/saj,

580 pollh\n de\ prote/rwse tamw\n o9do\n 0Wkeanoi=o, 923 th=j d’ a2n i1doij prote/rw,notiw/teron oi]mon o9deu/saj). The hodological principle is even clearer where a dative participle foregrounds the participation of a traveller in this route.97 Other details, not soimmediately obvious, betray the influence of this same principle. The notion of seas, or other

92 Nicolet, 70 – 1, and for a similar criticism of Rawson, Clarke 1999, 103 n. 59. Gehrkeredresses the balance by discussing signs of geometrical and two-dimensional thinkingalready among the pre-Socratics, Ionians, and in Herodotus; Danek, 68 – 9, argues that thehodological principle in the Catalogue of Ships is already ousted by a more cartographicalnotion of successive regions, rather than points on a route.

93 Janni 1984, 81, with the review of B. Nicolai, RFIC 113 (1985), 235: ‘i due modelli sono poli di attrazione, non esistono in forma pura ed esclusiva in nessun essere umano.’ 94 Brodersen 1994a, 14 – 19, id. 1995, 95 – 9.95 Ilyushechkina 2010, 57 – 9, 118 – 20.96 But which are also ready to make detours inland to register notable features of the interior.This has been a feature of the periplous since Hecataeus, and is clearly instantiated by ps.-Scymnus’ large-scale excursuses on the Celts and other peoples, the Borysthenes, and theScythians (see Korenjak’s map, opposite p. 10). 97 Janni 1984, pp. 123, 125, 127.



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bodies of water, having a muxo/j, or inmost point, is born of the idea that there is a routeround them which comes to an end somewhere.98 And promontories and harbours as coastalfeatures loomed larger in the ancient concept of space than they do for us because ancientvoyages tended to hug the coast.99

The two-dimensional approach, meanwhile, is illustrated by the use of shapecomparisons, both geometrical comparisons and to more mundane objects (p. 122).100 This isthe way the two-dimensional principle has longest manifested itself. Most of Dionysius’comparisons have a traceable prehistory; the immediate background of several could well bethe hypotyposis of Strabo, who got them from Eratosthenes, Posidonius, or further afield. Hemay have initiated others (the cone-shaped continents of Libya + Europe and Asia; thecomparison of the whole of Egypt, not just its delta, to a triangle), but the principle itself iswholly traditional and solidly implanted in ancient geographical thinking. Moresophisticatedly, a two-dimenstional, even cartographical, principle is illustrated by the

attempted determination of lines of longitude and latitude. Such lines are only vestigially present in Dionysius’ poem, but they are there; and it is unsurprising that they have thecharacteristic weakness of ancient attempts to trace meridians and parallels, for they are notconceived as neutral lines on a grid but are already value-laden, chosen because significant

98 93, 117, 147, 382, 688, 924, cf. 988, of a lake; Janni 1984, 96 – 8.99 Promontories: 87, 111, 129, 364, 469, 507, 561, 606, 785; harbours: 75, 195, 480, 516, 617(generalising); Janni 1984, 130 – 1, 134.100 Geometrical comparisons are used for continents (175 – 80; 277 – 8, 620 – 2; 887), for India(1130 – 1, with an Eratosthenic background), and for Egypt (242 – 4, based on the traditionalnotion of the triangular Delta). Non-geometrical comparisons are more miscellaneous: 7 (theworld sling-shaped); 156 – 62 (the Black Sea bow-shaped); 287 (Iberia an ox-hide); 404 – 7(the Peloponnese like a plane-leaf). On shape comparisons, see Göthe, 8 – 9; Bernays, 50;Aujac 1981, 8 – 9, 1987, 174 – 5; Thomas 1982a, 3; Janni 1988, 147; Lund, 20 – 2; Brodersen1994a, 14 – 17, 1995, 94, 95 – 7; Dueck 2005, 2010, 247 – 8, 2012, 83; Ilyushechkina 2010, 70 – 2. Specifically on geometrical comparisons, see Berger 1903, 85, 432 – 5; Jacob 1981, 39;Janni 1984, 47 and 49 n. 85; Greaves, 75 – 87; Clarke 1999, 103 – 5; Dueck 2005, 24 – 38. Forgeometrical schematism already among the Ionians, see Jacoby, RE s.v. Hekataios, 2703.60 –

6; Burkert, 418; K. von Fritz, Schriften zur griechischen Logik , i (Stuttgart, 1978), 40 – 1, 42 – 3; Gehrke, 175, 181 – 2. For example, Herodotus compared Scythia to a square (4.101.1). Forcomparisons with everyday objects, see Berger 1880, 332 – 5, 1903, 437; Aujac 1981, 9; Janni1984, 48; Dueck 2005, 38 – 52; such comparisons can be traced back at least as far asTimaeus, FGrH 566 F 63; ps.-Scylax, 106.3 (the passage is defended against Müller byShipley, 10 n. 14). Whole-world comparisons come later: if the (possibly) Eratosthenicdescription of the oi0koume/nh as chlamys-shaped is interpreted as Zimmermann 2002suggests, then the earliest example is Posidonius’ sling-shaped earth (5 – 7 n.). The utility ofsuch comparisons in forming a mental conception of an area otherwise difficult to grasp is

brought out in Rutilius Namatianus’ comparison of Italy to an oak leaf ( De Reditu Suo 2.17 – 20, esp. 17 – 18 Italiam ... qui cingere visu | et totam pariter cernere mente velit ).



26

places lay on them.101 In ll. 10 – 18, by an elaborate system of sleights and manipulations,Dionysius manages to reconcile three different systems of continent division: by river, byisthmus, and by lines of latitude and longitude, thus locating Alexandria at the point ofintersection of the lines separating Europe from Libya, and Asia from both Europe and Libya.

There could be no better illustration of the affective principle at work in ancient mappingthan the manipulation of a grid to centre on an author’s home.

A weaker manifestation of two-dimensional thinking is the use of cardinal points fororientation: in their simplest form, directions for ‘how to get from A to B’ list the features ofthe journey the traveller must pass, and have no need to locate the journey in abstract space.

Nonetheless, the use or failure to use cardinal points does not constitute a strong opposition between one- and two-dimensional systems of thought, for many periploi make uninhibiteduse of cardinal points as well.102 And some systems of reference are compatible with eitherapproach. One of Dionysius’ favourite, and one of the commonest, ways of locating one thing

with reference to another is to say that it is ‘next to’ it. This is of course both the language ofthe linear itinerary and also compatible with the (verbal) description of what is represented ona map: Herodotus’ Aristagoras describes the scenes represented on his map, occasionallyusing cardinal points, but above all in terms of what is ‘next to’, ‘contiguous with’, or‘adjoining’.103

In sum, Dionysius uses the hodological language which is a hallmark of ancientlandscape description, but combines it with a certain cartographic sense and with animpression of perspective to be discussed further in Section 4. He is indeed happier listingthings one after another; abstract concepts of space are not handled well: lines of latitude and

longitude are well off-beam, references to cardinal points schematic and four-square; riversand mountain-ranges are conceived as straight lines, or straight lines with angular bends.Throughout antiquity, thinking about space and representing it in abstract terms tends to bethe affair of intellectuals, not for practical mariners or soldiers. Dionysius has produced adidactic poem, obviously not a practical manual, but one whose literary character locates it inthe mainstream of traditionally subjective, affective ancient geography.

101 Janni 1984, 66 – 70, cf. Berger 1880, 199; contrast, however, Shcheglov, 357 – 8, arguingthat Eratosthenes used objective methods to define his main parallel. Nonetheless,

Eratosthenes was taken to task by Hipparchus, who insisted on the use of better empirical,above all astronomical, data (Thomson, 205 – 8; Dicks, 35 – 6, 160 – 4). On the difference

between Eratosthenes and his more rigorous successors, see Berger 1880, 199 – 200.

102 ps.-Scylax very often refers to bore/aj and no/toj; the Periplus Maris Erythraei to allfour compass-points; see also Hannonis Periplus, 3 pro\j e9spe/ran, 11 e0pi\ meshmbri/an.This is acknowledged by Janni 1984, 123. On the compatibility of periploi with compass-

point directions see also Gehrke, 185 – 6; he shows how Hecataeus already uses them forinland features which cannot be oriented by the coastline.

103

5.49.5 – 7; expressions of place include a0llh/lwn e0xo/menoi, tou/toisi de\ pro/souroi,tw=nde e1xontai, e1xetai de\ tou/twn.



27

II. SOURCES

’Twixt us the difference trims:—

Using head instead of limbs,

You have read what I have seen;

Using limbs instead of head,

I have seen what you have read —

Which way does the balance lean?”

(Butler, quoted by Sir Walter Scott, St Ronan’s Well , epigraph to ch. xvii.)

SCHOLARSHIP has certainly not been silent on the subject of Dionysius ’ sources, but neither

has it made as much progress as it might have done. The first efforts were in the spirit of

nineteenth-century Quellenforschung .1 They tended to rest content with first-level

identification of a ‘source’, and to assume that, a ‘source’ for a given detail having once been

identified, it could serve as the basis for inferences about a whole passage, like a clew

through a labyrinth. Given Dionysius’ eclecticism, this is precisely what one cannot do.

Moreover, they were inept at handling the relation of poetry to prose. Göthe concentrated on

the prose sources almost, but not quite, to the exclusion of poetry, while Bernays’s

dissertation, coming thirty years later, did something to redress the balance, but adopted a

pan-Callimacheanism which a century’s further study of the Periegesis’ permeation with

Hellenistic poetry has now left behind. Nevertheless, there has been no real attempt to set the

two traditions, prose and poetry, side by side. Now it is time to reopen the question and,

especially given recent interest in the relation between didactic poetry and didactic prose,2 toaddress it more sophisticatedly.

Seen in this light, the Periegesis is particularly complex and interesting. Not only

does the poem have multiple backgrounds and affiliations, but the poet also employs a

compositional technique that has produced an extremely elaborate stratigraphy. As we have

seen, the Periegesis is rooted in the traditions of catalogue and didactic and what can be co-

opted into them, and is also shot through with evocations of hymnody, epic, and epyllion. At

the same time, however, this is a didactic poet who indisputably uses prose sources — a good

number of which are either extant or so nearly related to extant texts as to make it feasible to

study the latter in lieu of their putative lost relatives, in the confidence that the outcome will

be little affected. We can, then, test what happens when prose is recast into poetry, and

should do so by acknowledging that each has a distinctive identity — neither regarding poetry

as ‘mere’ versification, prettification of ‘hard’ facts, nor prose as ‘mere’ source material to

1 Göthe (drawing heavily on the notes of Müller’s edition), followed by Bernays.

2 G. O. Hutchinson, ‘Structuring Instruction: Didactic Poetry and Didactic Prose’, in Talking

Books: Readings in Hellenistic and Roman Books of Poetry (Oxford, 2008), 228 – 50; id.

‘Read the Instructions: Didactic Poetry and Didactic Prose’, CQ2 59 (2009), 196 – 211.



28

which the poet then adds all the surplus value that endows it with interest and charm.3 The

inquiry extends well beyond questions about lexicon (how receptive is the traditional

hexameter lexicon to technical vocabulary? does it reject or assimilate it?) and style (is it

really possible to see the distinction between poetry and prose as one between decoration and

embellishment, on the one hand, and specificity and ‘hard fact’ on the other?) to thecompeting claims of prose and poetic catalogues to provide comprehensive accounts of their

subject-matter. It is of particular interest to consider how Dionysius has selected and

manipulated his sources to convey changing impressions of selectivity and amplitude; and

crucial, too, to be aware of his technique of interleaving sources — poetry and prose — so as to

create a thick texture of allusion as well as an assemblage of (sometimes barely coherent)

geographical data.

Eratosthenes is where we should begin, for his system is woven deep into the fabric of

the poem.4 This was already apparent to ancient commentators5 — and it remains the case

despite divergence on matters of such fundamental principle as the traditional continentaldivisions and the whole enterprise of locating Homeric myth in the real landscape (pp. 8, 14).

Dionysius adopts his basic notion of a circumambient ocean enclosing the known world,

which it penetrates in four major inlets (assumed to be Eratosthenic: 43 – 57 n.); the three

promontories with which southern Europe extends into the Mediterranean sea; the Taurus

3 Assumption of the poet’s essential passivity has vitiated study of both Aratus and Nicander.

(i) Aratus. Vitae I and III of Aratus tell us that Antigonus gave him a work of Eudoxus to

versify. In his extant commentary on the poet, Hipparchus sought to demonstrate that he was

substantially dependent on Eudoxus’ Phaenomena, though Jean Martin, Aratos: Phénomènes

(Paris, 1998), i, pp. lxxxvi – xcv, has contended that the work from which he cites is itself

dependent on Aratus; we still await a proper response to this theory. At all events, as Martin

says, Aratus demonstrably modifies his material in the Diosemeia, and may be presumed to

have done so in the Phaenomena as well. (ii) Nicander . Otto Schneider formulated what

became the consensus view, that Nicander had versified Apollodorus’ Peri\ Qhri/wn.

Jacques shows that, although he used it, he both omitted and apparently added much, since

many items are unique to him. Our major opportunity to compare them is in the compound

antidote based on tortoise blood (700 – 13 ~ Apollodorus fr. 6 Jacques, ii. 288, ap. Galen, xiv.

184.1 –12 Kühn), though complicated by the fact that Apollodorus’ original has not survived;for discussion, see Jacques, ii. 194 – 6. (Comparison between Nicander and his poetic

predecessor Numenius also reveals considerable divergence: Jacques 2006, 40 – 1.) Jacques

places Nicander in a therapeutic tradition whose very essence was modifiability, as remedies

were handed on from one doctor to the next.

4 Berger 1880, 16; Greaves, 51 – 6; Ilyushechkina 2010, 76 – 80.

5 S 1 (GGM ii. 428 – 9) 0Eratosqe/nouj de\ w2n zhlwth/j . . . Dio/nusioj de\ tou= 0Eratosqe/nouj w2n e0rasth/j, cf. S 4 (Ludwich, 578); Eustathius on 1 . . . kaqa_ kai\ 0Eratosqe/nhj doca&zei, ou{ zhlwth&j e0stin e0n polloi=j o( to_ oi0koumeniko_n touti\

suntagma&tion poihsa&menoj.



29

range cutting Asia into a southern and northern half. It is worth stressing these similarities

and, simultaneously, the absence of any correspondingly impressive similarities with what we

know of the foundations of Posidonius’ system, especially the notion of zones whose

inhabitants had their own distinctive ethnographical characteristics.6 The excesses of

nineteenth-century pan-Posidonianism have had their day; a more sober review of theevidence now suggests that the Periegesis owes significantly less to Posidonius than to his

Alexandrian predecessor. This is still more evident from the consideration of details than it is

from the consideration of the system as a whole (lists of tribes, the courses of rivers, the

comparison of India to a rhombus, or the Sacred Cape as the furthest point west in the

oi0koume/nh). These details are not usually taken over ‘straight’; rather, they are part of a

bricolage which frequently compromises or undermines their original significance.

Eratosthenes’ main meridian ran through Alexandria, Rhodes, and ultimately through the

mouth of the Borysthenes, but Dionysius wavers rather unsatisfactorily between the

Borysthenes and Tanais (312 – 13 as against 17 – 18) because he wants the line to coincide with

the continental division of Europe and Asia. Eratosthenes compared India to a rhombus

projecting sharply to the south east, but it is not easy to see how that figure, which Dionysius

echoes (1131), can be reconciled with the idea of a cone-shaped continent, which seems to be

his own (277, 621; 270 – 80, 887 – 96 nn.). But that is an illustration of Dionysius’ technique,

not an argument against the use of the source. What remains is to consider the form in which

Dionysius was using Eratosthenes, whether directly, or mediated through an author such as

Strabo; but the discussion of Strabo himself has to come first.

Strong similarities with Strabo’s sketch or hypotyposis of the known world have

already been noted.7 The general sequence of sections is similar, though the continents are

treated in a different order, and Dionysius reserves a separate section for the islands in the

6 Contra Counillon 1983, 13, 182 (though Bernays, 55 – 6, does not say what Counillon

attributes to him). If zone theory is implied at all, it is in a very attentuated form (see on pp.

39 – 40; Ilyushechkina 2010, 215 – 18, inter al. notes the overlap in 1176 –9 with Eratosthenes’

Hermes, which does contain zone theory). Certainly, Dionysius uses patterning and contrast

(p. 180-1, e.g. Libyan Nomads and Egyptians, or Erembi and Blessed Arabians), but there is

little sign that differences of cultural level are to be attributed specifically to climatic zones.

For Posidonius’ zone theory, see Strab. 2.2.1– 3.8 = F 49 E. – K. = 13 Theiler; Clarke 1999,

146, 172, 208.

7 p. 19; Greaves, 65 – 75. For further arguments for Dionysius’ use of Strabo see Göthe, 33

(certain details in the description of Greece), 37 – 8 (Phrygia and Lydia, 809 – 38), 40 – 2

(Arabia and the Troglodytes, 927 – 69). The use of a common source was the view of

Mommsen, 809, and Knaack, RE s.v. Dionysios, 920.43, is not altogether discountenanced by

Radt on Strab. II pp. 121.16 – 28, 124.42 – 125.2, 130.25 –131.22, and is maintained ‘mit großer

Sicherheit’ by Ilyushechkina 2010, 87– 93 (but if the reversed directions in the review of

Libyan tribes and Aegean islands constitute an argument against direct dependence, then

Dionysius and Apollonius ought, by the same logic, to have used a common source for the

southern Black Sea coast); less dogmatically on 211, 228, 283.



30

centre of the poem. There are some similarities, too, with the internal organisation of the

continents: the Danube bisects northern Europe (270 – 446, 298 – 330 nn.); Libya is described

as a series of tiers (south to north in Strabo, north to south in Dionysius), in which many

tribal names overlap (174 – 219); while the northern half of Asia, which as a whole is bisected

by the Caucasus (beginning at Pamphylia and running due east to the eastern ocean: 639), begins at the Tanais and goes, first eastwards, then west to Asia Minor (620 – 1165, 652 –

880 nn.; Strab. 2.5.31 – 2; 11.1.5 – 7). Three shape-comparisons are shared between Strabo and

the hypotyposis — the Black Sea as a Scythian bow (157 – 62), Libya as a trapezium (174 – 80,

cf. that of its surface to a leopard-skin, 181 – 3), and Iberia as an ox-hide (287) — of which the

second is unique, while the first, though reasonably common, displays particular similarities

in these two sources. Perhaps the most impressive correspondences are with particular

sequences or lists — the four oceanic gulfs (43 – 57 n.); the seas within and adjoining the

Mediterranean (58 – 169, 146 – 62 nn.), and (although treated simultaneously in Strabo,

separately in Dionysius) the islands within both, especially from the Balearics as far as the

Peloponnese and the islands of the eastern Aegean (447 – 619 n., cf. 499, 513 – 32, 525, 533 –

7); the European tribes north of the Danube (302 – 20 n.). Finally, we could note some

passages where Dionysius seems to be paraphrasing either the hypotyposis itself, or

something extremely like it (44, 50, 51, 56 – 7, 70, 76, 109, 139, 156, 159 – 60, 161 – 2, 181 – 3,

525, 539 – 40).

If we are sufficiently impressed by the cumulative weight of this evidence to accept

the likelihood or strong possibility Dionysius was working from either the hypotyposis itself

or something very like it, is there any sign that he knew and used the Geography as a whole?

This is where matters become murkier. There are indeed various broad similarities, but

specific links are harder to prove. I would suggest, first, the continued use of parts of Strabo

as ground-plan. If the hypotyposis provided a model to which the Periegesis could very

broadly adhere, its divisions of northern Asia are further elaborated at the beginning of book

11, and these correspond solidly with those of the Periegesis, at least for the peoples east of

the Tanais (652 – 880, 652 – 89, 680 – 9 nn., comparing Strab. 11.1.5 – 7 and 11.2). Another part

of the Geography which parallels the Periegesis’ division of space is the description of

Greece in books 8 – 10. If the similarity were accepted, it would imply a different approach,

the shadowing of a large tract of description rather than the use of relatively short passages as

templates; but it might be objected that that similarity is only relative to the greater

dissimilarities with other extant sources. In general, the matches that we find are local inscope. Some are more compelling than others, but particularly suggestive are the account of

silk-making (752 b – 757 n.); the understanding of Coele Syria as a region bounded by two

mountain-ranges (897 – 922 n.); the tribes which exemplify the three zones into which Persia

is banded (1069, cf. the palaces of Strab. 15.3.3).8 A few geographical names are unique to

8 Perhaps also the situs of Arabia (927 – 34); the placement of Armenia to the west of Media

(1016 – 19); the north – south treatment of Persia (1062 b – 1065); Patalene treated specifically as

an island (1089 – 93). The tribes on the east coast of the Black Sea overlap partly with Strab.

11.2.1, but other lists were no doubt available and several are extant (652 – 89 and 680 – 9 nn.).



31

the two authors (687, the Zygii; 752, the Frou=roi/Fau=noi); but in the light of all the

literature that has been lost it is not safe to infer that Strabo is the source for these items.

Finally, verbal correspondences between the Geography and Periegesis drop off notably

outside the hypotyposis, but it is still worth drawing attention to 408 (Peloponnesian

coastline); 606 – 7 (Ogyris); 643, 644 – 6, 647 – 9 (Taurus range); 988

b

– 989, 990 (Tigris); 1130,1131 (shape of India).

My own view is that Dionysius used the hypotyposis and probably the rest of the

Geography as well. Alternatively, he might have been working from an epitome in which the

hypotyposis (a handy digest, after all) was generously reproduced,9 but the supposition that he

knew the entire work permits all the correspondences to be explained more economically.

Even if references to the Geography are few and far between before Strabo’s great

renaissance in Stephanus of Byzantium and afterwards,10 that is not to say that the work

languished in total obscurity. Perhaps residence in Alexandria, or the distinct possibility that

his father worked as a librarian in Rome,

11

gave Dionysius an advantage; we cannot say.After all, if we deny the use of Strabo, we should simply have to posit the use of an unknown

text or texts remarkably similar to his.

Another factor when considering the parallels between the Periegesis and the

Geography as a whole are the frequent correspondences between the poem and excerpts from

other authors, above all Eratosthenes, but also Posidonius and some others, transmitted by

Strabo. With Eratosthenes, there are indubitable links with the lists of tribes around the

Caspian (726 – 6012) and in Arabia (954 – 9). Other Eratosthenic details include the

identification of Meninx as the island of the Lotus-Eaters (479 – 80); the Sacred Cape as the

furthest point west in Europe (561 – 4); the location of the Sakai, Sogdians, and Bactrians(736 – 7, 739 – 51); the course of the Euphrates (976 – 82, 981, 982); and India as a rhombus

9 Compare (although on Aly’s dating it is later than Dionysius) the anonymous u9potu/pwsijgewgrafi/aj, whose final sections, describing the Mediterranean and associated seas (§§47 –

53), are agreed to draw extensively on Strab. 2.5.18 – 23 (p. 15 n.45; the exception is Göthe,

10 – 11, who held that §§48 – 50 went back to a common source, but that §§51 – 2 came from

Strabo himself). Nevertheless, any epitome that Dionysius used must have reproduced Strabo

still more extensively.

10

Honigmann, RE s.v. Strabon, 151.30 – 50; Aly, 1* – 8* (esp. Test. 12 – 16); Diller 1975b, 7 – 10; F. Lasserre, in G. Aujac (ed. and transl.), Strabon: Géographie, i. (Paris, 1969), xlix;

Clarke 1997, 93; Ilyushechkina 2010, 93.

11 Suda d 1173; Leue; Bernays, 21 –6; A. Klotz, ‘Zu Dionysius Periegetes’, RhM 2 64 (1909),

474 – 5; W. Schmid and O. Stählin, Geschichte der griechischen Litteratur , ii. (Munich,

1924), 677 (§681); Diller 1975b, 8; Bowie 1990, 77 – 8; Tsavari, 28; Leo, 157; Amato 2005a,

66 – 7 and 2005b, 98 n. 5. For some inconclusive considerations about Strabo’s final place of

residence and of the Geography’s composition, see Honigmann, RE s.v. Strabon, 83.30 – 85.6.

12 Cf. 733 – 5, where Dionysius follows Eratosthenes rather than Strabo himself on the

placement of the Derbices.



32

(1131). If Dionysius could read Strabo when hardly anyone else did, then presumably the

same could be argued for Eratosthenes; and since it is Strabo to whom we overwhelmingly

owe our knowledge of Eratosthenes, it is self-evident that it is in Strabo that correspondences

will be found. Weighed against Dionysius’ sheer eclecticism, the divergences from

Eratosthenes’ system (Berger 1880, 16) count for little. My hunch remains that Strabo wasthe mediator.13 In 1062 b – 1065 the misleading implication about the Caspian Gates looks to

have been based on the wording of Strabo, who transmits the fragment in question. We might

also point to 773, the mistaken connection of the Thermodon with Armenia. Strabo mentions

this, stigmatising it as an error; but that does not rule him out as mediator of the notion.

With Posidonius my hunch that Strabo was mediator is stronsger. True, the total

harvest is meagre. Contrary to that self-generating momentum of Posidonian studies in the

nineteenth and earlier twentieth centuries which saw his influence everywhere it looked,14

Dionysius simply does not seem to have been especially interested in Posidonius’ ideas. They

part company, for example, over the two sets of Ethiopians (180), over the status ofHippemolgoi as epithet or noun (309), over the identity of the Erembi as Arabians (962 – 9),

and Dionysius takes no notice of his interpretation of the Cimmerians of northern Europe

(33 – 5). He does echo Posidonius’ theory of a sling-shaped earth (5 – 7), and Patrick Counillon

has argued persuasively that the ‘trapezoidal’ shape of Libya (174–80 n.) reflects Posidonius’

definition of that figure. He also reports on the women of the Loire estuary (570 – 9), and

Posidonius’ theory about the Pillars of Heracles seems to be one element in the general

medley in 64 – 7. The last two passages are transmitted by Strabo, and in 563 Dionysius’

Homeric vocabulary was possibly designed to tessellate with Strabo’s rendering of

Posidonius’ prose. Much the same applies to 1010, save that the transmitting author is

Diodorus Siculus, and the Posidonian origin of the passage unproven; if a further echo of

Posidonius is to be discerned in 278, the channel by which the material reached Dionysius is

wholly unclear. Again, one can do no more than establish probabilities, but given (say) that

Dionysius did not have a section on oceanic islands handed to him on a plate and had to

create one for himself, it seems more economical to suppose that he took the Loire island

(Posidonius) and Tauropolos on Icaria (Eratosthenes) from Strabo, where they both figure,

13 Göthe believed in Eratosthenic influence, but allowed that it was direct only in the passage

about the Euphrates and Tigris (1875, 42 – 4; 976 – 1013); if his conjecture about the

Eratosthenenic origin of the name Siris (223) was right, then it would show that Dionysius

had access to Eratosthenes other than through Strabo. Counillon also prefers the influence to

be direct (1983, 170, 174, 182, 197, 292, 304, and passim).

14 Müller, GGM ii. xxiii – iv (the position of India and the downsizing of Asia); Göthe, 7 – 8,

11 – 14, 16, 33 – 4; Bernays, 47 – 8, 54 – 6, 61, 63; Knaack, RE s.v. Dionysius, 920.32 – 921.32 (an

extraordinarily enthusiastic survey); Rostovtzeff, 73 (the description of the races of the Black

Sea coast, via Alexander of Ephesus) and 77 (the tableau of Scythia). More recently,

Counillon makes ambitious claims for Posidonian influence (1983, 12 – 13, 137 – 8, 142, 146,

180, 184, 202, 226, 227, 256, 294 – 5, 306; 2001b, 111); so too Ilyushechkina 2010, 80 – 6, 143

(302 – 20 n.); a more cautious overall account in Greaves, 56 – 9.



33

than that he took them from their original sources and happened to preserve unique

correspondences with Strabo in both cases.

The Periegesis contains a vast quantity of chorographical and ethnographical

material, theory and observation, travellers’ reports and literary topos, and looking at it from

the opposite perspective it is barely possible to say by what channels much of it was filteredthrough to Dionysius. Pytheas underlies the northern ocean and Thule (32 – 3, 33 – 5, 316 – 19,

580 – 6 nn.). The accounts of Italy and the far west have a number of points of contact with

Timaeus (367, 455 – 6 nn.) and Ephorus (347 – 9, 376 – 7, 559 – 60 nn.), though it is hard to

prove the extent of their influence (339 – 82 n.). The Alexander historians still underpin the

accounts of the far East, and the account of Dionysus in India, in particular, seems to have

been erected on the foundations of Cleitarchus’ account of the god and his foundation of

Nysa. Traces of Megasthenes also show up in the account of India (1107 – 65 n.);

Agatharchides lies behind the much-transmuted account of Arabia (927 – 61 n.). A detail in

the account of tribes round the Caspian sea concurs strikingly with Artemidorus, astransmitted by Strabo (680 – 9 n., the placement of the Kerketioi), and the Caucasian source of

the Tanais with Theophanes of Mytilene (663 – 5 n.), also via Strabo. On the other hand,

certain traditions manifestly were not transmitted via Strabo: Ctesias on Semiramis’ building-

works in Babylon (1005 – 8 n.); Pytheas on the northern ocean (three names feature in 32 – 3,

only one of which is transmitted by Strabo); the traditions about the colonisation of Italian

Locri by slaves (365 – 6 n.) and the Sybarites’ hybris towards Olympian Zeus (372– 4 n.). In a

handful of cases Dionysius’ geographical sources are relatively up to date: excluding a barely

conceivable reference to the Huns in 630, we still have the Heptanomia in Middle Egypt

(251), the Alani (305), and the Indo-Scythians on the Indus in 1088; a reference to Dalmatia

as a province is uncertain (95 – 102 n.).

There are also a few real rarities. The Pisidian city of Lyrbe (859) figures in only a

single other literary source (Ptolemy), and one suspects that Aigila (499) figured in a list of

Aegean islands whence it was inserted into an island-sequence derived from the hypotyposis.

In other words, as well as consulting literary geographers and poets, Dionysius may have run

the gamut all the way to itineraries and lists. A number of passages which either name rivers

which figure in no other ancient writer (575 – 6, 733 b – 735, 913, 1144 b – 1148 nn.) or give

unparalleled, sometimes eccentric, information about familiar ones (314 – 15, 496 – 7, 780 –

1 nn.) suggest the use of a specialist tract or tracts on rivers. Callimachus wrote a peri\

potamw=n, though the extant fragments, 457 – 9 Pf.,15 do not seem to tie up with Dionysius’

treatise. And once we allow the use of specialist potamography, we must do the same for

minerals. A poem on precious stones is ascribed to a Dionysius which, given the striking

overlaps in the tiny sample available, must be by the same writer (p. 151); but admitting the

connection still leaves the problem of sources open, because much of what Dionysius says

about precious stones is entirely sui generis.

15 Demonstrably used by Latin poets: Thomas 1986, 192 – 3. For Callimachus on rivers, see

also Williams on Hymn 2.108.



34

It is a relief to turn to Herodotus, where we have an opportunity to study how

Dionysius availed himself of a famous text which is extant, in full, and where there is no need

to worry about channels of mediation. In many passages Herodotus is the fountainhead of a

tradition, rather than the direct ascertainable source,16 but where he has been used directly, a

distinct pattern emerges. Unlike Eratosthenes and Strabo, Herodotus has not been used fordeep structure, the shape of the world, the layout of continents or the orientation of countries.

On the contrary, he had rejected such traditional notions as the circumambient ocean, the

three continents, the Caspian as an oceanic gulf, all of which Dionysius inherits, while his

own eccentric view of the continents (4.37 – 41), elaborated as a challenge to the Ionians, is of

no interest to Dionysius whatsoever. Irrelevant for the armature of the universe, Herodotus is,

nevertheless, used for details of a bigger picture whose principles derive from elsewhere.

Such details include physical geography (64 – 8, 115 – 16, 165 – 6, 222 – 7, 244 (perhaps), 262 b –

264, 784 – 6 nn.); miscellanea about tribes (211, 309, 652 – 9a, 739 – 51 nn.); and other colourful

topographical details (671 – 2, 1009 – 10, 1114 – 15 nn.). What Herodotus was most famous for

in antiquity — tall stories, anecdote, court tales — barely register, though the Massagetan lack

of wine (744) could evoke the story of Tomyris and her son; sensational tales have little to

offer the kind of world Dionysius wanted to create. And although Herodotus stood at the

beginning of the ethnographical tradition, Dionysius’ ethnographies in practice draw on

Hellenistic sources which have superseded his badly outdated pictures of, say, the tribes of

Libya or India. Nevertheless, Herodotus remains useful as a source of occasional detail,

which is treated to the typical Dionysian techniques of fragmentation and recombination

(clearest of all in his treatment of Mount Atlas) and of interleaving with poetry (1009 – 10 n.),

which we are about to study more closely.

Dionysius’ poetic sources are considerably easier to identify than his prose ones.

While undoubtedly important influences such as Alexander of Ephesus’ geographical poems

have been lost,17 all-important early Greek hexameter and Hellenistic poetic models are still

extant. We are directed towards them, not by the kind of explicit referencing that we find in

some Hellenistic poetry (Hesiod in Callimachus’ Aitia, Homer and Hesiod in Nicander), but

by programmatic passages (especially at the beginning and end) which construct the tradition

into which the poet inserts himself, and by ubiquitous citations and echoes of words and

phrases. While these necessarily raise the question of how to distinguish between deliberate

reference, unconscious reminiscence, and chance concatenation,18 the number of

16 559 – 60 (Long-lived Ethiopians); 906 (Phoenicians from the Erythraean Sea); 911

(antiquity of Tyre); 944 – 5 (cinnamon-bearing birds); 1125 – 7 (Indian kalamoi).

17 Another possible mediator of Eratosthenes? Cf. Berger 1903, 532 – 3; Tkač, RE s.v. Saba,

1493.28 – 32. For his influence on the Periegesis, see 593, 606 – 7, 910 – 20 nn.; Greaves, 48 –

51. SH 34 i9mero/essa La/phqoj recalls the delightsome tone of Dionysius, and SH 38

indicates that the poem also contained mythological narrative, possibly following recherché

Hellenistic poetic models (Euphorion fr. 52 P. = 72 L.).

18 Thomas 1986, 174.



35

uncontestable allusions is nevertheless so high that it allows us to proceed more confidently

with an analysis of Dionysius’ methods than we can, say, with the poets of the Sibyllina, with

their flotsam and jetsam of far-flung correspondences.

The Periegesis is wrought from a series of core texts, augmented by a large number of

outliers. Beside the massive use of Homer and Hesiod, echoes of the Homeric Hymns aremuch less extensive, but can occasionally be heard.19 The influence of the pseudo-Hesiodic

Scutum is detectable as well.20 Again, beside the enormous impact of Apollonius’

Argonautica,21 Callimachus (especially the fourth Hymn), Aratus, and Nicander, there are

reminiscences of Theocritus,22 Posidippus (319, 328, 439, 724; 1120; p. 154), Euphorion (90

and 1159, 221 = 246 and 296; 558; 722; 947; for correspondences that are not unique to

Euphorion, cf. 22 = 94; 780; 811), Moschus’ Europa (141, 157, 264, 716, 720, 791, 1118;

perhaps the Megara in 1115); perhaps also Alexander of Aetolia (659) and Parthenius (485).

Nor is the range of allusion altogether confined to hexameter poetry, archaic or Hellenistic.

Lyric, elegy, and tragedy are the source of geographically specific allusions (Mimnermus,1108; Aeschylus, 227, 515; Sophocles, 227, 521, 522; Euripides, 227) and of epithets

(Sophocles, 972; cf. also 542, 860 megalw/numoj, an epithet of divinities before Philodamus

and Dionysius apply it to the landscape), for which Pindar is a particularly valuable fund of

suggestion, given his encomiastic treatment of place (p. 135; 244, al . baqu/krhmnoj; 554

a0gakle/hj; 770 baru/gdoupoj). In 843, Anacreon seems to have been used to convey the

light-hearted, gladsome tone appropriate to a Dionysian revel. Dionysius was clearly imbued

with classical poetry, but even here the question arises whether, once in a while, he echoes a

fragment that was mediated to him by a source which quotes it — in practice Strabo once

again (1108, Mimnermus; 213, 851 – 3, Callimachus).23

19 In many cases the correspondence is not unique to the Homeric Hymn in question, but see

210, 289, 447, 524, 737, 777, 885, 899, 922, 1055, 1079.

20 Cf. esp. 358, 464, 500, 702, 966, 1062.

21 Dionysius’ relationship to Apollonius is remarkably undersold by the scholia, which

remark (on 1) zhloi= (de\) to\n 0Apollw/nion, ou0 xarakth=roj w2n e0rasth/j, a0ll’ e0pikai/rou

dia\ th\n xrei/an e0pibolh=j, as if the former does little more than make sporadic raids on thelatter.

22 With geographical names or local relevance to a particular locale: 113, 179, 436, 509, 811,

837, 916, 1088; others: 227, 353, 372, 528, 529 = 873, 792, 838, 842, 873, 965, 997, 1010,

1022, 1033, 1077, 1100(?), 1112, 1134, 1157, 1168.

23 For Strabo and Callimachus, see F. Pontani, ‘Callimachus Cited’, in B. Acosta-Hughes, L.

Lehnus, and S. Stephens (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Callimachus (Leiden, 2011), 93 – 117, at

100; and for Strabo’s poetic citations, D. Dueck, ‘Strabo’s Use of Poetry’, in D. Dueck, H.

Lindsay, S. Pothecary (eds.), Strabo’s Cultural Geography: the Making of a Kolossourgia

(Cambridge, 2005), 86 – 107; Dueck 2010, 246 – 7.



36

From the very beginning of the poem, with its evocations of Homer, Hesiod’s

Theogony, and Apollonius, which simultaneously advertise poetic models, generic

affiliations, and techniques of allusion, we are primed to look for the kind of micro-

management of sources familiar, of course, from the Hellenistic poets themselves, and

studied in Virgil’s Georgics by Richard Thomas (1986). Dionysius runs the gamut of thesetechniques: most often he signals his models by verbatim allusion, but sometimes pointedly

varies his models by eschewing citation in favour of synonymity (e.g. 109 – 11, 190, 463 – 4,

489 – 90, 942 – 3 nn.), or by miniaturisation and condensation (e.g. 341 – 2 ~ Il . 15.410 – 12; 416

~ Call. Hymn 1.21 – 6; 443 ~ Ap. Rhod. 4.143 – 4; 445 ~ HHom. Ap. 6; 527 ~ Call. Hymn

4.278 – 9; 1170 ~ Il . 23.255). What this section will concentrate on is Dionysius’ use of the art

of combination and its implications, while the linguistic content of those allusions — the

quotation and manipulation of words and phrases, per aures echoes — will be considered

further in the next chapter. First, however, it is appropriate to reflect briefly on some of the

ends to which allusion is used.

Many borrowed phrases are simply ornamental — especially at line-end, and especially

concerning running water.24 Also useful are naming-formulae, the aetiological ‘so too even

now’,25 place-names and embroidery on them.26 In more sophisticated instances,

geographical information in the original is relevant in the echo, and it depends on the reader

to spot the appositeness.27 A still more sophisticated example is the echo of Callimachus’

description of the Peloponnese at 386, which in the new context is talking about a peninsula

in Illyria. The echo is not to be explained by ransacking Callimachus himself, but must be

connected with the belief (elsewhere attested) that the two peninsulas were the same size.

Dionysius does not signal this explicitly: it is a piece of buried learning, and depends on

knowledge of the source’s context and further geographical learning to appreciate it.

Imitation is very often a matter of analogy. In straightforward cases, there is a more or

less clear analogy between the imitated passage and the new context. The astronomical data

24 140 sto/ma Bospo/rou ~ Ap. Rhod. 1.1114; 267 Tritwni/doj u3dati li/mnhj ~ Ap. Rhod.

4.1391.

25 226 ei9ligme/noj ei0j a3la pi/ptei ~ Hes. Th. 791 (respectively the Nile and Styx); 326 ku=ma

polufloi/sboio qala/sshj ~ Il . 2.209; 644 kanaxhda\ r9e/ousin ~ Hes. Th. 367, Call. Hymn 4.45; 950, 1029 tou1neken ei0se/ti nu=n ~ Ap. Rhod. 1.1354, 4.534.

26 389 ta\ Kerau/nia kiklh/skousin ~ Ap. Rhod. 4.519; 415 0Arka/dej 0Apidanh=ej ~ Ap.

Rhod. 4.263; 739 kela/dontoj 0Ara/cew ~ Ap. Rhod. 4.133; 767 polu/rrhnej Tibarhnoi/ ~Ap. Rhod. 2.377; 975 sto/ma Qermw/dontoj ~ Ap. Rhod. 2.370, 805.

27 203 e0pitroxa/ei yama/qoisin from Ap. Rhod. 4.1266 (the Syrtis); 325 9Ellh/spontona0ga/rroon from Il . 2.845 (the territory of the Thracians); 338 u9pai\ po/da from Il . 2.824 (rich

people under a mountain); 1066 trixqa\ de/ from Il . 2.668 (threefold living-space). Cf.

Thomas 1986, 176, 178 –9, on Virgilian allusion which depends on the reader’s awareness of

the original context to appreciate the connection.



37

from Pytheas concerning Thule suggested a connection with Hesiod’s reference to the winter

sun; hence the black-skinned southerners of Op. 527 were transferred to 586. Mining in harsh

conditions links Apollonius’ Chalybes (2.1006) to the Arieni quarrying their rocks for

sapphire (1106); at the same time there is a piquant contrast between the crude metal, black

smoke, and the blue-and-golden stone. The Dionysian choruses of 841 – 2 are a conglomerateof earlier passages united by the theme of celebratory circular dances, sacred and secular.

Again, the gods in question in 702 and Ap. Rhod. 2.701 may be different (Dionysus and

Apollo respectively), but both passages involve divine epiphany, the institution of choruses,

and divine epicleses.

This kind of imitation can be quite sophisticated when it relies on recognition of

something in the model’s context for the allusion to be appreciated. Take 948, which echoes

Ap. Rhod. 4.431 – 2. Both times Dionysus is described as ‘tipsy with wine’ (a0kroxa/licoi1nw|), but the special relevance of Apollonius to Dionysius, who is describing the god in

Arabia, is that just a few lines earlier Apollonius has called his deity ‘lord of Nysa’ (a1nacNush/ioj), a motif Dionysius has implied (rather than stated) in his own treatment. There

may be another example in 144 – 5 (on the Kyaneae or clashing rocks at the Bosporus), where

Dionysius borrows a line-end from Apollonius — and his art is fully appreciated only when it

is realised that the model is already concerned with a rock, a different one, withstanding the

elements in the middle of the sea. Such additional resonances are like a series of echoes

following after a sound, or ripples spreading out from a centre: Dionysius enables a

philologically astute reader to catch them, but does not obtrude them.28

On other occasions, the analogy between x and y is bien trouvée: Dionysius

demonstrates ingenuity and wit. His description of the wretched life of the iron-workingChalybes (768 – 71), based on Apollonius laced with Callimachus, also draws on Hesiod’s

description of the Iron Age (Op. 176 – 7), which he wittily literalises as if its denizens

themselves worked iron ore (they do not). A couple of passage imply, rather than state,

serpentine imagery through echoes of Nicander. In 183, with kata/stiktoj foli/dessin

Dionysius takes us from a leopard’s spots (Cornelius Piso’s description of the surface of

Libya) to the dappling of a snakeskin, via similar compound adjectives used by Strabo and

Nicander. An echo of Nicander in 47, which seems to describe the long, narrow channel

connecting the Caspian Sea with the ocean, implies the serpentine imagery which Dionysius

elsewhere applies overtly to his coastlines and waterways. In such cases, Dionysius uses

analogy to create new associations through his combinatory ability. But there are also

instances where simple opportunism seems to have prevailed, and any echo of the original

context would be plain bizarre.29

28 For this sort of effect in Callimachus, see Reinsch-Werner, 362 – 3; for Aratus, Kidd, 24 – 5

(‘overtones that enhance the significance of the Aratean word or phrase’).

29 e.g. 212 (the sandy oracle of Ammon) and (‘probabilmente’: Magnelli 2006a, 245) Od .

14.136 (the imagined death of Odysseus); 460 (Corsica’s abundance of wood) and Call. Hymn 2.42 (Apollo’s abundance of skill); 654 (the race of Sauromatae) and Ap. Rhod.



38

Dionysius’ allusions are interleaved with one another; they are conflative or

combinatory. He rarely sticks to a single source for long; his treatment of the southern

coastline of the Black Sea is therefore unusual in its sustained reliance of Apollonius,

although even here there is plenty of further embroidery (761 – 98). With this technique —

inherited from his Hellenistic models — Dionysius constructs the literary tradition to which hewishes to affiliate himself. Enrico Magnelli has drawn attention to passages in later

Hellenistic poets (Euphorion, Nicander) where similar concatenations of models draw

attention to the literary tradition in which the poet stands. 30 Richard Thomas has illustrated a

very similar way of proceeding in Virgil’s Eclogues and Georgics; he called it the art of

‘multiple reference’ or (in its most sophisticated form) ‘conflation’. Thomas pointed to

passages where Virgil combined an early Greek hexameter with a Hellenistic model, or a

Hellenistic model with a neoteric one in such a way as to advertise ‘the active tradition of his

own verse’.31 He paid particular attention to G. 1.231 – 46, a scientific passage on zone theory

in which Virgil has engrafted onto the basic fabric, from Eratosthenes and Aratus, a multitude

of other poetic sources (Homer, Apollonius, the Latin poetic translators of Eratosthenes and

Aratus, and other Latin didactic poets).32 This last is a particularly close parallel for

Dionysius, not for subject-matter alone, but above all for technique, for the embroidery of a

source which provides the basic framework with an array of allusions to other poetic models.

What remains to be seen is whether Thomas’ interpretation of this technique in Virgil as

3.1366 (the lump of rock Jason throws into the midst of the Sown Men); 742 (the

Massagetae) and Od . 20.376 (Telemachus); 744 (no wine at home) and Od . 13.46 (noHephaestus at home); 845 (costume of the Lydian women) and Il . 9.490 (the infant Achilles);

953 (Arabian raiment) and Il. 24.796 (Hector’s funeral); 1053 (‘if sweet desire should seize

you’) and Il . 3.446, 14.328 (seduction scenes); 1130 (four sides of India) and Ap. Rhod.

1.946 (six-armed giants of Cyzicus); 1168 (only the gods enjoy true ease) and ps.-Theocr. Id .

25.175 (Heracles). This category comes very close to that of mere sound-echoes.

30 For Nicander, see Magnelli 2006b 193 –6, ‘Combination technique’. For Euphorion, see

Magnelli 2002, 6 – 21 (on Homer) and 22 – 37 (on the Alexandrians); also De Stefani and

Magnelli, 537 – 8.

31 Thomas 1986, 193 – 5 (G. 1.138, from Il . 18.486 and Call. Hymn 1.41; G. 1.332, from

Theocr. Id . 7.77 and a putative neoteric propempticon), 197 – 8 (G. 1.246, from Arat. 48 and

Il . 18.489); id. 1982b, 145 ( Ecl . 6.52, from Theocr. Id . 11.72 and Calvus’ Io, fr. 20 Hollis);

cf. 1986, 195: ‘Taken together they represent the chief areas of Virgil’s reference and also

represent in microcosm the method of his poetry in broader terms: to fuse, subsume, and

renovate the traditions which he inherited.’ For combined allusions to archaic or classical and

Hellenistic Greek models by Roman authors wishing to ‘claim them for the Latin context’,

see also K. Gutzwiller, A Guide to Hellenistic Literature (Oxford, 1997), 214, tracing the

technique back at least to Ennius.

32 Thomas 1986, 195 – 8.



39

‘ultimately polemical’, that is, as serving ‘to revise the tradition’,33 also holds good for

Dionysius. The terms combination and conflation are certainly appropriate, but

‘harmonisation’ is perhaps a better description of the intellectual implications of the method

in the Periegesis.

One of Dionysius’ trademarks is to interweave a Hellenistic source with Homer andHesiod, but he is equally fond of combining one Hellenistic poet with another, or even with

himself.34 So elaborate is this interweaving that each member of a three-word phrase may

refer to, or evoke, a different model, but they are integrated and held together by some

common theme or motif — a lump of rock in 144 – 5, Delian festivals in 527, metallurgy in

768 – 71, maidens dancing in 841 – 2 — and sometimes by a specific word or common root,

such as the shrill (ligu-) cries of the birds in 528 (Od. 19.518 – 19, Il . 14.290 – 1), the choruses

in 527 (Call. Hymn 4.279 xorou/j, 313 xorou=), or the Asopid maidens in 777 – 9 (Ap. Rhod.

2.947, 4.567).35 When Dionysius cites two sources, the later of whom has himself used the

earlier, he uses the well-known technique of window-allusion,

36

certainly practised by theHellenistic poets themselves and then adopted, with relish, by their Latin successors (on

whom more work has been done):37 examples in the Periegesis include 123, 307 – 11 (298 –

33 Ibid. 193.

34 e.g. 534 (Apollonius); 526 – 7 (Callimachus); 1008 (Odyssey). By way of comparison, Nic.

Th. 266 –8 is of particular interest, a passage which Magnelli describes as ‘a remarkable

patchwork of Apollonian echoes’ (2006b, 195). For the conflation of different passages from

the same author in Accius and Catullus, see Thomas 1982, 158 – 60.

35 Thereby implying a procedure not unlike that of ancient biblical exegetes who felt justified

in interpreting one passage in the light of another on the basis of lexical correspondences

between them. Rabbinic rules of exegesis included that of gezera shava, or the law of

analogy, where the Torah’s use of analogous words or phrases permitted the application of

one passage to the elucidation of another (cf. S. Lieberman, Hellenism in Jewish Palestine

(New York, 21962), 58 – 62; D. Daube, ‘Rabbinic Methods of Interpretation and Hellenistic

R hetoric’, HUCA 22 (1949), 239 – 64, at 259).

36 The term was suggested by Thomas 1986, 188 (‘the intermediate model thus serves as a

sort of window onto the ultimate source, whose version is otherwise not visible’). F. Cairns, Tibullus: A Hellenistic Poet at Rome (Cambridge, 1979), 63, described it as ‘looking

through’ a source to a precedessor (and notes that it was well enough known in Latin poetry

to be spotted by the 1st-c. scholiast on Persius); while J. C. McKeown, Ovid: Amores, i

(Liverpool, 1987), 37, called it ‘double allusion’ (which does not differentiate it clearly

enough from other sorts of combination). The term should only be used where there is a

reasonable probability that source a is indeed itself alluding to source b.

37 Bibliography on window-allusion, mostly in Latin poetry, but with some Greek examples,

in Nelis 2001, 5 n. 24. In Hellenistic poetry, for Theocritus see R. Hunter, Theocritus and the

Archaeology of Greek Poetry (Cambridge, 1996), 81 n. 19; M. Grazia Bonnano, ‘Allusivitàteocritea’, RFIC 115 (1987), 196 –202 (‘un’autentica immagine teocritea, “scorciata” e



40

330 n.), 833 – 8, 966, 1076 – 7, 1181, and possibly also 341 – 2, 443, 600 – 1. The already

formally-demanding arts of combination and window-allusion require special dexterity in the

selection of models that tessellate with each other and whose original contexts contribute

something to the present passage, but in Dionysius’ hands it can be done. The interwoven

allusions in the first three lines to the beginning of the Argonautica and the main body of theTheogony (after the proem) are one example; another is the salutation to Delphic Apollo at

the end of the tour of Europe in 447. This miniature gem combines the salutation of Apollo at

a transitional (i.e. structurally parallel) moment in HHom. Ap. 165, but the third-person

salutation i9lh/koi is replaced by the apostrophe i9lh/koij from an Apollonian salutation to the

same god which occurs precisely in the context of the slaying of Delphyne (2.705 – 8). In

other words, both members of the coalition have something to contribute.

So far we have been speaking about Dionysius’ prose and poetic sources as if they

were separate and separable, but it is a falsification of his project if they are not considered

together. The engrafting and interlacing of sources is one of the best ways to appreciate howinextricably connected poetry and prose are. There are instances of all possible combinations,

besides the ubiquitous interlacing of poetic sources. The sections of the poem which rest on

Strabo’s hypotyposis, or something very like it, are recast in poetic terms (take the

comparison of the Black Sea to a drawn bow in 157 – 62, which is tricked out with diction and

clausulae drawn from Hellenistic poets) and spiced up with detail drawn from Herodotus; the

Black Sea coast, which leans on Apollonius, is embellished with further poetic allusion and

details drawn from Herodotus once more. Moreover, felicitous choice of vocabulary may

simultaneously evoke more than one background. The epithet kata/stiktoj in 183 both

echoes Cornelius Piso’s description of the surface of Libya, quoted in Strabo’s hypotyposis,

and evokes a Nicandrian clausula which insinuates the image of a snakeskin alongside the

primary one of a leopard’s spots. In 1009 – 10, on the date-palms of Babylonia, the

Herodotean underlay is updated with a detail from (possibly) Posidonius — using a word

(a0kro/komoj) which also evokes Theocritus, and the whole cast in terms of a traditional

verse-pattern for species of tree. These are instances of showmanship, bravura combinations

by which Dionysius displays his virtuosity.

From an informative point of view, all varieties of source are treated to the same

ultimate end. Poetic geography is treated no differently from prose; information furnished by

Homer or Apollonius stands on the same footing as Herodotus’, or ps.-Scylax’s, or Strabo’s,

and can be combined with it in the same way (e.g. 691 – 4 n.). It is a sort of hyper-didaxis and

minute mosaic —which depends for its full effect on the reader’s ability to appreciate

precisely how each tiny individual piece has been tessellated with the rest, with infinite pains,

“sintetica”, ed anzi “sovrimpressa”’); Fantuzzi and Hunter, 205 (suggested but not

demonstrated). In Callimachus: Reinsch-Werner, 90, 359 – 63; the interpretation by Bing

(105 –6) of Callimachus’ tribute to Aratus in Ep. 27.3 – 4 Pf. = HE 1299 – 1300, with a

reference to both Arat. 2 and Hes. Op. 4. In Posidippus: Hunter 2004b, 103 – 4. Euphorion fr.

131 P. (127 L.) refers both to Call. Hec. fr. 34 Hollis (whence kele/bh and (a0f)afu/ssw) and

its model, Od . 19.387 (whence u3dwr).



41

into a harmonious whole.38 Not a word is to be lost in packing the poem with content, and to

this end material is both compressed and amplified and augmented with supporting allusions

and ancillary references. Where the different sources contain no discrepancy, there is no

particular problem. For example, if Dionysius inserts into a hypotyposis-based passage about

the four main inlets of the ocean (43 – 57) a detail about the narrow neck of the Caspian, that procedure might be described as supplementation; the detail complements the whole (and

presumably originally belonged with the same set of observations) and the result is coherent.

But sources are also combined which not only did not originally belong together, but which

may be talking about different things, or offer incompatible information about the same

thing — or even belong to different orders of reality, as when 309 – 10 combine vague tradition

about steppe nomads of whom the poet of the Iliad was dimly aware, historical peoples, and

one of the semi-bestial tribes which haunt the imagination of the fringes. Often the result is

geographical chaos. In 288 –9, Apollonius’ tableau of Celts beside the Eridanus is conflated

with the geographers who made the Pyrenees the border between Iberia and the Celtic

country, with the strange result that the Eridanus seems to flow from, or very near, the

Pyrenees.39 And if, apropos of the Pillars of Heracles, Dionysius brings together a notice

from Herodotus about Mount Atlas (in a different part of Africa) and Posidonian speculation

about a bronze pillar in the temple of Melqart at Cádiz (67 – 8), these items refer to different

things and can only have been brought together in a dense display of erudition which cares

nothing for the integrity of separate sources, or the patient exposition of a complex reality.

Combination and conflation occur with all sorts of subject-matter. The passage on

Delian festivals (527 – 7) combines elements of three distinct occasions, two from

Callimachus, one perhaps from a Hellenistic source known also to Virgil. So many

backgrounds clamour for attention that the result, from the informative aspect of the poem, is

38 The following description of Callimachus’ technique applies to Dionysius perfectly: ‘Die

Verknüpfung beider Szenen bei Kallimachos ist so eng, daß man annehmen muß, der

Philologe Kallimachos habe die Abhängigkeit beider Szenen voneinander erkannt und wolle

den Leser mit seiner Anspielung gerade auf die Gemeinsamkeiten in beiden Partien

aufmerksam machen. Er gibt ihm die einzelnen Mosaiksteine in die Hand und fordert ihn auf,

mit dieser Gedächtnishilfe die beiden Vorbilder jeweils gesondert zusammenzusetzen, um

dann selbst eine kleine philologische Untersuchung vorzunehmen. Die nötigen Kenntnisse

brachte das alexandrinische Publikum mit’ (Reinsch-Werner, 88 – 90). Jacob 1982, 229, also

uses the mosaic metaphor, though not of the combinatory treatment of sources; Counillon

2004b, 201, speaks of ‘patchwork’ and ‘mosaïque’ of the reworking of Callimachus in 525–

7. Roberts, 70 – 91, explores the implications of the metaphor for late antique poetry.

39 Other examples: 561 – 4, apparent conflation of Hesperides and Cassiterides; 663 – 5, sources

of the Tanais; 691 – 4, sources of the Phasis; 739 – 51, three rivers of north-eastern Asia; 899 –

901, Coele Syria (897 – 922 n.); 1097 – 1110, Aria and Ariene. Apollonius does not seem to

proceed in quite this way, but see Mooney on 1.936 ff. and Delage, 93 –8, 281 (‘le poète aime

à “contaminer” lorsqu’il se trouve en présence de plusieurs variantes d’une même tradition’)

on his simultaneous description of Cyzicus as an island and a peninsula (1.936, 938).



42

only to throw dust into the reader’s eyes if she reads in expectation of being ‘informed’ in a

simplistic way. Mythology is treated similarly, as we see with the harmonisation of different

traditions about Cadmus and Harmonia (390 – 7) and the Delphic serpent (441 – 2); it does not

even seem to matter if the result is incoherent (as it is in 868 – 73, the naming of Tarsus:

whose footprint was it, anyway?). The art is in the combination, and it is an art whoantecedents can be found in Hellenistic and neoteric poetry. Nicander’s myth of the dipsas

begins with a couplet combining the Homeric with the Hesiodic and Callimachean account of

Zeus’ accession to power: this micro-combination within a familiar story is an excellent

parallel to Dionysius’ technique.40 Richard Thomas has illustrated something very similar for

the first fourteen lines of Catullus 64, where the poet is similarly in possession of a number of

models which he is at liberty to conflate and indeed to pass implicit judgement on.41

One step further, and it is possible to create stories ab initio through bricolage. The

best example is Sinope (774 – 82), which conflates at least two Apollonian stories about

Asopid nymphs together with the common myth of Io — and transposes them to a newlocation, where Apollonius had recorded something entirely different. We can once again

point readily to analogies in Hellenistic poetry for the construction of new myths out of old —

for example, to Aratus’ story of Dike, which combines elements of Hesiod’s Myth of Ages,

culminating in the departure of Aidos and Nemesis from the earth in the present age (Op.

109 – 201), with his personified Dike (Op. 220 – 4, 256 – 62).42 Apollonius’ version of the myth

of the Argonauts in Libya is an ingenious composite of the archaic version, in which they

arrived in southern Libya and then carried the Argo across the continent, together with a later

one in which they were carried to the north African coast by the north wind. 43 But if the

technique itself is not new, Dionysius nevertheless makes it his hallmark; and by extending

the art of combination from mythography into geography itself he emphasises the literary,

confected, character of the latter.

For Richard Thomas, the combinations and conflations which he identified in

Catullus and Virgil were ultimately polemical in spirit. ‘Conflation, or multiple reference . . .

allows the poet to refer to a number of antecedents and thereby to subsume their versions, and

40 Ther . 344 – 5. Zeus is both Cronos’ first-born son ( Il . 13.355, 15.166), and also apportions

the brothers their kingdoms, following Hes. Th. 884 – 5 and Call. Hymn 1.60 – 6, rather than

Homer, where the brothers drew lots for their realms ( Il . 15.187 – 92). Delage’s analysis (108–

13, cf. 290) of A pollonius’ story of the Argonauts, Doliones, Heracles, and Giants in Cyzicus

(1.936 – 1077) is another example of the art of combination in Hellenistic poetic mythography,

this time involving the reconciliation of competing accounts by local historians.

41 Thomas 1982b, 158 – 64. His last example, showing that Catullus 15 combines two separate

episodes from Apollonius (1.549 – 51 and 4.930) with a possible reference to Accius, who did

the same, provides another excellent parallel to Dionysius’ technique.

42 Fakas, 151 – 60.

43 Vian, iii. 57 –64 (noting, however, on 60 that ‘on ignore si cette construction est l’œuvre du

poète ou si elle a été puisée à quelque source’); id. 1987, 251– 2.



43

the tradition along with them, into his own . . . This type may include within it the category of

correction, and like that category its function is ultimately polemical — that is, its function is

to revise the tradition.’44 In general this adversarial spirit is missing in the Periegesis. If

Dionysius learnt the technique of combination from the Hellenistic poets and their heirs, he

nevertheless for the most part eschews an even more characteristically Alexandrian way ofhandling multiple sources or multiple variants of a tradition — that is, to discuss, to evaluate,

to reject, and to do so in an ostentatiously clever way.45 In one case, a traditional formula is

subjected to reinterpretation (523), and in 829, by a deft substitution within an imitation of

Callimachus, he engineers a learned allusion to one of Ephesus’ former names, thereby

outdistancing the master himself in learning. The scholiast on 364 also indicates

disagreement with Callimachus over the origin of the name of Ephizephyrian Locri, but the

passage hardly reads as a strident challenge.46 So too Dionysius’ combinations seem more in

the spirit of harmonisation and reconciliation than of correction and self-assertion. His

contentedness to allow different views to sit down side by side is a little like degree-zero

doxography: doxography, that is, which does indeed juxtapose different points of view, but is

so little concerned with formalities as neither to distinguish those viewpoints nor to identify

their owners. Another analogy is with the gospel harmony, where it is assumed that the

different strands can indeed be brought together without contradiction, as parts of a perfect

whole. Perhaps Dionysius would indeed have liked his reader to believe that the world was so

beautiful that all things therein could be reconciled. From the many passages where he

carefully compiles different authorities or conflicting pieces of data it is at least evident that

he is keen to display his mastery of literary tradition. The effect is clever, and its learnedness,

at least, might be called Hellenistic. But the Hellenistic poets, who certainly loved to register

44 Thomas 1986, 193; cf. id. 1982, 146 ‘Reference to earlier poetry is potentially far from

casual . . . but has a specifically polemical function: to demonstrate the importance of the

poet’s models, and often to indicate the superiority of his own treatment’; art. cit. 154 ‘the

spirit is essentially polemical’, 158 ‘an implicitly polemical commentary on those models’.

45 What Thomas calls ‘correction’: 1982b, 146 – 54; id. 1986, 171, 185 – 9. G. Giangrande

makes repeated use of the term oppositio in imitando, which he apparently derived from K.

Kuiper, Studia Callimachea i. ( De Hymnorum i – iv dictione epica) (Leiden, 1896), 114, but

‘opposition’ in this context means reversal, or the choice of antonym, rather than correction

(CQ2 17 (1967), 84; PLLS 1 (1976), 273; and for reversal, see also AC 39 (1970), 46).

46 Other possible examples, if they are to be seen polemically: (i) 292 u9fh/menoi ai0gei/roisi,if this is to be seen as a demythologisation of, and challenge to, Apollonius’ Heliades (4.604

e0elme/nai ai0gei/roisin); (ii) 389, if this is meant to link the tomb of Cadmus and Harmonia

with the Ceraunian mountains, from which, in Ap. Rhod. 4.516 – 19, it is kept separate; (iii)

415, where, in a passage intensely connected with Callimachus, Erymanthus is pointedly

made a mountain (as in Od . 6.103) instead of a river (as in Callimachus); (iv) 315, which

echoes Ap. Rhod. 4.287, on rivers whose source is in the Rhipaean mountains. It does not

directly contradict Apollonius, but does name rivers other than the Ister — of whose sources

Dionysius takes a more up-to-date view.



44

variants, kept them distinct, where Dionysius is amalgamative; and where they would have

exercised their ingenuity in selecting, correcting, and advertising their preferred version,

Dionysius is happily ecumenical. He inhabits a calm, happy world where all sorts of

conflicting testimony can simultaneously be true.

In the process of combination the material is transformed. In the first place, recasting prose into the traditional register of hexameter poetry has certain consequences. The

hexameter lexicon per se makes available a range of connotative and figurative language,

even if some metaphor is so conventional as no longer to be perceived as such. For example,

it endows running water with an intrinsically animate quality, a vivacity which expresses

itself in verbs of movement, twisting, rushing, seething, roaring, and so on (p. 126), and one

can measure the difference from a prose source by contrasting, for example, Dionysius’

account of the four main oceanic gulfs with Strabo’s.47 Again, the use of catalogue poetry and

other passages with informational content or didactic character in hexameter poetry puts a

whole repertoire of idioms and stylistic devices at Dionysius’ disposal: descriptive epithets,naming formulae, repetitional devices, and poetic stylemes such as the priamel. These

devices mark an obvious shift away from the prose register — though not an altogether

conclusive break, because Dionysius is sometimes (as is his way) able to frame the one in the

idiom of the other.48 The transformative effect of the poetic idiom is visible at every point:

take the variatio of sea-names (58 – 169), the well-chosen epithets and content-packed

appositional phrases which supply local colour and detail to the Mediterranean islands

(compare 520 – 4, 533 – 7 with the bare lists in Strab. 2.5.21); or, in a more specifically

Callimachean vein, the replacement of the prepositions in Strabo’s account of the river s

flowing from the central mountain range of Asia Minor (ei0j, ei0j, pro/j) with the calculated

variatio of pro/j, e0j, and e0pi/ (644; for the same mannerism cf. 446).

But it is more than simply the translation into a different idiom; it is the imposition of

a new world-view. This world-view, as we shall see repeatedly, is based on natural beauty

and sanctity. If there is a connection between Strabo’s account of silk -making and

Dionysius’, the latter has nevertheless struck out bark as raw material for the precious fabric

47 43 – 57 and Strab. 2.5.18: e.g. 43 ko/lpouj d’ e1nqa kai\ e1nq’ a0pereu/getai ~ Strabo’s h9 kaq’ h9ma=j oi0koume/nh gh= . . . de/xetai ko/lpouj ei0j e9auth\n. Dionysius has many more verbs

of animation (suro/menoj, a0pokidma/menoj, ai0pu\ r9e/eqron e0piproi5hsi, kumai/netai), thanStrabo, though compare 52 to\ Persiko\n oi]dma proxeu/wn and Strabo’s o9 de\ Persiko\j kai\

0Ara/bioj a0po\ th=j noti/aj a0naxe/ontai qala/tthj. Dionysius imports (or implies)

serpentine imagery in 47. Tackling the seas within the Mediterranean, Strabo simply lists the

Iberian, Ligurian, Sardinian, and Tyrrhenian; contrast the ‘lively’ water language Dionysius

uses for the same seas in 81 – 5.

48 49 – 50 Kaspi/h| . . . qala/ssh|, | h3nte kai\ 9Urkani/hn e3teroi diefhmi/canto ~ Strab. 2.5.18

. . . w[n o9 me\n bo/reioj Kaspi/a kalei=tai qa/latta, oi9 d’ 9Urkani/an prosagoreu/ousin.



45

and replaced it by variegated flowers (752 –7); similarly, the hard grind of Apollonius’ iron-

working Chalybes has been rewritten and recast into the mining of a rare and precious stone

(1104 – 6). Whatever ethnographical data about the natural produce of Arabia Felix have

trickled down to Dionysius from Agatharchides, he has transformed them into a vision of a

utopian landscape blessed by the birth of a deity (927 – 61); and even when Cleitarchus gavehim the material for a far-eastern city founded and distinguished by a god, Dionysius took

that tradition and transformed Indian Nysa into something more exotic still, site of a display

of divine might and power at the utmost ends of the earth.



46

III. LANGUAGE

THIS section will consider some aspects of Dionysius’ language: lexicon, word-formation,

the use of formulae and pseudo-formulae, and the effect — precise or otherwise, technical or

non-technical — in a didactic poem. The key to all is manipulation of Homer’s language, andDionysius’ use of techniques refined and elaborated especially by the Alexandrians. It was

Émile Cahen who coined the term ‘ presque homérique’, which well captures the effect ofmuch Hellenistic poetry, and of the Periegesis itself. Cahen illustrated it from Callimachus’

Hymns.1 He showed how Callimachus creates a sort of synthetic or second-order Homer.

Eschewing the inert reproduction of lines — although content to reproduce half-lines and

phrases — he delicately remodels the original by means of small modifications, substitutions,

combinations of more than one passage in the original, and verbal and metrical echoes. There

is a particular tendency for the ‘ presque homérique’ to concentrate at line-ends.

Practitioners of the ‘ presque homérique’ use the same art to different ends. Callimachus uses it to suggest Homeric hymn, Apollonius epic. Dionysius, in whom we find

many or most of the devices Cahen analysed — avoidance of cento but reproduction of units

smaller than the verse, substitutions, recombinations, and a tendency to Homer-heavy line-

ends — suggests both archaic catalogue poetry and also the Hellenistic predecessors who had

already practised the technique before him.2 Cahen implies that a good deal of Callimachus’own effect consists in the arts of frustration.3 Dionysius certainly demands readers who are

capable of being teased by his alternate solicitations and deflections of the Homeric style, but

also those who appreciate how cleverly he is hitting off a manner already perfected by the

Hellenistic masters.

1. LEXICON

Dionysius’ lexicon is of course based on Homer, Hesiod, and early Greek hexameter poetry.

This is thoroughly intermingled with vocabulary from later hexameter poetry, especially

Hellenistic; debts to Apollonius are especially marked. A few words are first attested in

1 E. Cahen, Callimaque et son œuvre poétique (Paris, 1929), 519 – 23.

2

For Euphorion and the ‘ presque homérique’, see Magnelli 2002, 11– 15. Magnelli notesechoes of Homeric word-groups and phrases (some mediated by Apollonius) and verse-

patterns; combinations of different passages from Homer or from Homer and Hellenistic

poetry (e.g. fr. 9.7 P. = 11.7 L. and Il . 22.395 = 23.24, Call. Hec. fr. 60.2 Hollis; for the

combinatory approach, see p. 34 and n. 39); variation of Homeric phrases with synonyms;

modifications of case; and resemanticisation or reapplication of individual words (compare

fr. 40.2 P. = 44.2 L. Ai0aki/dao, of Ajax, and Dionysius’ own 0Arhtia/dh| in 685: see ad loc.).

3 Op. cit. 519: ‘Son [sc. Callimachus’] dessein paraît, par la ressemblance de certains de ces

groupements au texte épique, d’en éveiller le souvenir précis, par les mots et leur son, sans

jamais en faire une imitation étroite; il semble qu’il veuille mettre le lecteur ou l’auditeur surla voie du rappel, et puis l’en dérouter.’



47

imperial hexameter poetry. A small but significant stratum also comes from lyric and/or

tragedy (pp. 35-6). To catalogue all this would be tedious and analytically pointless. It is

more important to look for patterns and to consider how Dionysius manipulates inherited

vocabulary; this is what marks him out as heir of the Hellenistic poets. They stake out the

territory which he continues to inhabit.One of the most obvious ways in which Dionysius places himself in the tradition of

the Alexandrians is through the exploitation of Homeric hapax legomena and other rarities.

Several come via Hellenistic poets who have already homed in on them (Dionysius prefers to

reflect the word’s metrical sedes in the text that mediates it, where that differs from the

Homeric original): 239 o0li/zonoj, 651 i0qu/ntaton, 704 fi/lato, 718 and 987 peri/troxon,

961 peripro/; 1115 e0u+gna/mpth|si. 586 me/sf’ e0pi/ extends the Homeric hapax me/sfa with a

preposition, as several Hellenistic poets have already done. Other examples occur in echoes

of specific Hellenistic passages: 257 qew/teron (from Od . 13.111), 599 te/trhxen.

Sometimes parallels with Homeric scholia suggest that he may be reflecting a word’sinterpretative tradition: this seems to be so at 936 khw/essa, and perhaps also at 1087

megakh/teoj, though in the latter case there are also precedents in Hellenistic poets.

Homer may be refurbished by taking over Homeric vocabulary in unfamiliar senses.

By resemanticising words, an author attributes to them new, but morphologically plausible,

meanings.4 In 523 the Homeric phrase Dhmh/teroj a0kth/, usually ‘bread of Demeter’ isreinterpreted as ‘cliff of Demeter’, and in 459, 1093 e0pixqo/nioi means ‘locals’ (those in a

terrain) rather than ‘mortals’ (those on the earth). The use of e0pi/strofoj in 75 to mean

‘curved’, rather than ‘conversant with’, as in Homer, was pioneered by Ap. Rhod. 2.979.

From these displays of ingenuity are to be distinguished 714 knhmi=daj for knh/mouj; 951quhlai=j ‘incense’ instead of ‘sacrificial animals’, a new meaning which is not implausiblegiven both root and suffix (cf. also 936 n. on qu/oij); 1044 gene/qlh, ‘birth’ instead of

‘family’.

Dionysius also takes over many novelties from Hellenistic poetry, both in allusions to

specific passages and as choice items in their own right. Not all these items are remarkable in

themselves. They include regularly formed compounds: the adjectives 215, 959 a0gxi/guoi;466, 718 a0mfie/likton; 31, 285 a0reimane/wn; 946 e0pwmadi/aj; 317 h9dufah/j; 642 v.l.

o0cuka/rhnon; 649, 686, 1132 o9mou/rioj; 898 polu/ptolin; 1116 linerge/aj. More recherché

are 126 nh/xutoj, epithet of liquid; 337 r9uhfene/wn; 948 a0kroxa/lic. Compound verbs newin Hellenistic poetry include 148 e0pitroxa/ousi, 203 and 665 e0pitroxa/ei; 383

peribo/sketai; 471 ei0sane/xei; 579 a0neua/zousi; 998 e0n . . . a0e/cein; conversely, with 1115

laxai/nontej, it is the simplex that is new. Our ability to trace Dionysius’ models suffers

from the high attrition rate of literature from this period, but even so it is clear that a wide

range of Hellenistic authors is involved — and that Apollonius is at, or very near, the top of

the list: to a0gxi/guoi, a0kroxa/lic, ei0sane/xei (above) add 363 tossa/tion, 276 e0pipro/, 1158

4 See e.g. Callimachus Hecale frr. 55 and 162 Hollis (ghfa/goi and a0mazo/nej a1ndrej); for

Euphorion, Magnelli 2002, 48 – 9 and Lightfoot 2009, 195; also Nic. Ther . 605 o0ktapo/dhn (with Jacques ad loc.).



48

pleonastic h]moj o3t’, all of which occur in others authors too, but are particularly close to

Apollonius.

Relatively few of Dionysius’ borrowings from Hellenistic poetry consist of simplex

forms — either unfamiliar roots, or derivatives from familiar roots which are themselves,

however, rare: 286 o0ro/gkouj; 544 kinw/peta; 936 qu/oij; 1118 a0nau/rwn; 1157 e9li/noio‘vine’. There are no dialect glosses. Plenty of precedent for their use could have been found

in Hellenistic models, and, in Nicander, specifically for their use in a didactic poem. Perhaps

more to the point, Apollonius eschews them too (Erbse, 185 – 6). It would seem that Dionysius

aspired to be exquisite in his choice of vocabulary, and to cull the most ingenious and

felicitous inventions of his Hellenistic sources — but not to be obscure. He wanted a readable

poem. He also wanted to write like Apollonius.

This impression is fostered by Dionysius’ neologisms. Excluding adjectives and

nouns in -ij, to be dealt with separately, these are as follows.

HAPAX LEGOMENA PROTON LEGOMENA

(i) Uncompounded forms

(a) Verbs

a0ti/thsan < *a0tite/w 1158 kuane/ousi 1111

(b) Adverbs kanaxhdo/n 145

(c) Nouns a0lhmosu/nh 716

koirani/h 464

(d ) Adjectives

borew=tij 243, 565 leimwni/j 756

(v.l. -h=tij)

(ii) Compounds with a nominal, adjectival, or numerical first element

(a) Adjectives

a9limhdh/j 908 [a9lidinh/j5 908 v.l.]

e9pta/polij 251 bootro/foj 558

kerw=nuc 995 ligu/qrooj 574

melandi/nhj 577 lino/xlainoj 1096

penta/poroj 301 melisso/botoj 327

poulutenh/j 99, 340 mesh/peiroj 211, 1068

5 Nonn. D. 39.212, Par . 21.22.



49

taurofanh/j 642 poludi/nhtoj 407

(b) Nouns

mesou/rion 17

suoktoni/h 853

(iii) Compounds with a prepositional first element

(a) Verbs

a0mfe/lketai 268 e0peprh/u+nen 1052

e0pimwmh/saito 896 peribre/metai 132, 475

e0piprobe/bhke 128 proxeu/wn 52

peripiai/nousi 1071 u9pocu/ousa 61, 385

u9po\ . . . kuane/ousi 1111 u9fh/menoi 292

(b) Adjectives

u9paino/tioj 151 meth/ludej 689

u9peira/lioj 851, 1085

[u9fespe/rioj 450 v.l.]

(c) Adverbs

e0pilado/n 763 diamfi/j 5, 903, 1136

u9phre/ma 1122

(iv) Compounds with an adverbial first element

a0gxi/poroj 381

Dionysius is nowhere near as innovative in word-formation as Callimachus, Nicander,

or Euphorion (Magnelli 2002, 46 – 9). The great majority of his innovations are compounds:

(i) those with a nominal or adjectival first element (mostly adjectives, a couple of nouns), and

(ii) those with a prepositional first element (mostly verbs, with a few adjectives and adverbs).The number of simplex coinages (two verbs, an adverb, two nouns, and twoornamental

adjectives with a new suffix) is very small in comparison.

In most cases the pedigree of Dionysius’ new adjectival and nominal compounds is inHomeric and/or Hellenistic hexameter poetry (251 e9pta/polin, 301 pentapo/roij, 577

melandi/nhn, 908 v.l. a9lidine/oj, 995 kerw/nuxa, 1096 linoxlai/nouj), though the -di/nhtojcompound in 407 is better paralleled outside hexameter poetry. On the other hand, 642

taurofane/j, in the straightforward sense of ‘looking like a bull’, has its best parallels in



50

prose.6 Despite the epic or Ionic colour with which Dionysius invests it, poulutenh/j (99,

340) is not strongly characterised as a poetic formation.7 Much the same can be said for the

mes- compounds in 17 mesou/rion and 211, 1068 mesh/peiroi.8

As for the new prepositional compounds, several are again based squarely on Homer

(5, 903, 1136 diamfi/j; 128 e0piprobe/bhke; 763 e0pilado/n; 851, 1085 u9peira/lioj). 52proxeu/wn is new, but proxe/w begins its career in the Iliad . In a few other cases the best

warrant for a new compound seems to be Hellenistic (689 meth/ludej; 1052 e0peprh/u+nen).

Occasionally one suspects that the preposition in a new compounded form is ornamental, or

an attempt slightly to defamiliarise a prosaic word (151 u9painoti/h; 1071 peripiai/nousi;1122 u9phre/ma), a technique already perfected by Apollonius (Boesch, 66).

In sum, Dionysius is not an adventurous innovator. There are no new glosses,

dialectal or otherwise. Innovation is mostly restricted to the formation of new compounds,

mostly on Homeric or Hellenistic models. Perhaps his most interesting novelty (unless of

course there is a lost predecessor) is 1158 a0ti/thsan, which remodels a0ti/w or a0ti/zw

perhaps via reinterpretation of a1titoj. There are even some simple types of innovation

which Dionysius eschews, such as innovation by suffix. Poets have their own preferences,9

but Dionysius shuns even simple, Homeric types of suffixation. For example, Apollonius

favours abstracts -i/h and -su/nh, but Dionysius’ only example is 853 suoktoni/h, from

Callimachus’ suokto/noj.

6 Buck – Petersen, 722 – 3, citing from prose authors doulofanh/j, e0laiofanh/j,

krustallofanh/j, narqhkofanh/j, xalkofanh/j, yimuqiofanh/j (‘looking like x’). In poetic compounds, -fanh/j has a different sense: ai0glofanh/j, a0mmofanh/j (‘sandy’),Ei0dwlofanh/j (Parthenius, SH 630 = 18 L.), nuktofanh/j/nuktifanh/j.

7 Buck – Petersen, 724, give many -tenh/j compounds before Dionysius in prose as well as

poetry.

8 James, 130 – 1.

9 For Callimachus, Hollis 1990, 14 and on fr. 74.23 (-h/eij, -o/eij, -teira, -tu/j); for

Nicander, James, 220 (-o/eij), Jacques, ii, pp. xcviii – ci, iii, pp. xcvii – ci; for Aratus, Kidd, 25 –

6 (especially adjectives in -ai=oj); for Apollonius, Boesch, 57 – 8 (-o/eij, -su/nh), Marxer, 38(-su/nh), Giangrande, 274 (-i/h and -su/nh).



51

2. WORD-FORMATION

Hellenistic poetry provided both direct models and method for most of Dionysius’refurbishment of the traditional language of epic. There are pseudo-epicisms (259

Ei0doqeei/hj, 365 e0te/essin, 922 ferbe/menai), analogical forms (1180 e9teroi/i+oj), and forms

which fill out incomplete Homeric paradigms.10 Callimachus and other Hellenistic poets are

the origin of a couple of second-declension heteroclite plurals (117, 622, 988, v.l .at 660

muxa/ and 1060 xalina/),11 and recharacterisaton of the Homeric noun to\ ka/rh as feminine

(562). Certain manipulations of noun-stems proceed directly from Hellenistic poetry (77

ui9h=ej), are particularly favoured there (66 prhw=na), or have an analogy in a Hellenistic poet

(604 tera/ata), and the new ending of 455 naeth=rej (beside 224, 373, 397, 952, 1111

(e0n)nae/thj) is in vogue in agent nouns from the Alexandrian poets onwards. This is also the

background for various irregular comparatives and superlatives (172 ai0doie/steroj; 382, 924

mu/xatoj; 927 o0lbi/stwn; 485 thli/stwn), recharacterisations of verb stems (391 e0ni/spei;

436, 996, 1140, 1142 (e0f’)e/spetai), creations of new parts of verbs (264, 1032nenasme/noj), uses of the middle for active (377, 859 poli/ssato; 702 xoro\n e0sth/santo;

716 a3la metrh/sasqai; in the case of 997 a0qeri/ssato the middle seems to be Dionysius’own creation). Post-Homeric forms in the large majority of cases find their warrant in

Hellenistic poetry; unless, then, we are to postulate lost Hellenistic models, cases like 349

naih/santo (which has only dubious precedent, in Empedocles) and 341 i0qumme/non, the only

attested form of a perfect passive from i0qu/nw,12 are unusual. Finally, Dionysius uses a couple

of relatives in t-: to/qi for o3qi (179, 300, 380, 444, 563, 635, 764, 1138, alongside seven

instances of o3qi) and to/qen for o3qen (831). Neither is new in the Hellenistic period, but both

are in vogue then. For the former, see Gow on Theocr. Id . 22.199 and Livrea on Ap. Rhod.4.772, 1131; for the latter (first in Aesch. Pers. 100), Call. Hymn 3.114, Ap. Rhod. 4.639.

Additional note on the -ij terminations of nouns and adjectives

10 123 blosurwpo/j, masc. counterpart to Homeric fem. blosurw=pij; 350 me/rmeron, n.

sing.; 936 khw/essa, fem.; 997 a0qeri/ssato (aor. mid.); the various cases of Ai0qioph=ej in

179, 218, and 559, extend Homeric Ai0qioph=aj, cf. Ap. Rhod. 3.1192 Ai0qioph/wn, and Call.

Hymn 4.208 Ai0qioph=oj. 468 e9sthui=a, preceded by Apollonius and Nicander, supplies the

feminine for Hesiodic e9sthw/j (Th. 519, 747).

11 These have their origin in Homeric ku/kla and druma/: cf. Schwyzer, i. 581, ii. 37; for

dru8ma/, see 492 n.

12 Dr L. A. Holford-Strevens comments that ‘one might have expected i0qusme/non, cf. the

frequent a)peuqusme/noj in medical writers of the empire, h9dusme/noj from Plato onwards,

memhkusme/noj in Galen, bebaqusme/noj in Simplicius; but parwcumme/noj is found in

Lysias, Demosthenes, and Aeschines; parw&cummai in Menander, -cusm- (in other

compounds) not before Polybius (besides -cumm-); bebarumme/noj appears in Simplicius andother late authors, bebarusme/noj never ’.



52

This is Dionysius’ real idiosyncrasy in word-formation. Not that it is at all unusual.

Chantraine says that ‘le suffixe . . . a été productif durant toute l’histoire du grec anciendepuis Homère jusqu’à la koinh/ et il a été admis par tous les styles’.13 What is notable is the

scale on which Dionysius uses it, and his creativity in doing so: he is far readier to coin new

words with this than with any other formation.The majority of his -ij forms are ethnic adjectives, usually the feminine counterparts

of masculine adjectives in -ioj or - euj. His new forms are: 339 Au0soni/j; 378 Kalabri/j;

606 Karmani/j; 729, 748 Kaspi/j, cf. 1035, 1064 Kaspia/j; 185 Maurousi/j; 46, 639, 854

Pamfuli/j; 129, 507 Patarhi5j; 422 Sarwni/j; 914 0Orqwsi/j; 957 Xatrami/j. 1148

Kwli/j may be paralleled by Mela 3.59, but 592 Kwlia/j appears unique. 243, 565

borew=tij (v.l. -h=tij) and 756 leimwni/j are not ethnic adjectives, but see below.

Dionysius takes over several of these forms directly from Apollonius — in whom all

those that Dionysius subsequently borrows are attested for the first time. When he does, he

varies the nouns with which they agree, and/or the metrical context. So, 110 Salmwni/doja1xri karh/nou for Ap. Rhod. 4.1693 u9pe\r Salmwni/doj a1krhj; 614 Libusti/doj

a0mfitri/thj, for Ap. Rhod. 4.1753 h0pei/roio Libusti/doj.

The commoner pattern, however, is for Dionysius to take over metrical patterns form

Apollonius (or elsewhere), but to vary them with adjectives either of his own making, or

taken from elsewhere. Apollonius’ metrical patterns with -ij adjectives are easily extendable.

So, 185 Maurousi/doj e1qnea gai/hj, 294 Turshni/doj h1qea gai/hj, 378 Kalabri/doj h1qeagai/hj, 409 Trifuli/doj h1qea gai/hj (cf. 820 Ai0oli/doj . . . h1qea gai/hj) are all based on

the same scheme as Ap. Rhod. 1.1177 Kiani/doj h1qea gai/hj, 4.511 Kutaii/doj h1qea gai/hj

(cf. 4.741 9Ella/doj h1qea gai/hj). Two of these forms are new; the others (Turshni/j and

Trifuli/j) are attested in earlier writers,14 but there is little practical difference: they simply

have to fit the pattern. Another favoured scheme: 129 Patarhi5da thlo/qen a1krhn, 507

Patarhi5doj e1ndoqen a1krhj, 606 Karmani/doj e1ktosqen a1krh, 785 Karambi/doj e0ggu/qena1krhj are based on the pattern in Ap. Rhod. 1.929 9Roiteia&doj e1ndoqen a1krhj, 2.806

0Axerousi/doj u9yo/qen a1krhj, 4.1444 Tritwni/doj e0ggu/qi li/mnhj (not to mention other

line-ends of same general shape, 3.639 0Axaii/da thlo&qi kou&rhn, 4.1391 Tritwni/doj u3dasili/mnhj). Similarly, both Dionysius and Apollonius have a series of -i/doj ai1hj formulae, in

several of which the epithet is new, though this time the pattern is also found in other

Hellenistic poets (Call. Hymn 4.287 Mhli/doj ai1hj, cf. fr. 186.13 Pf = 97 M.; Nic. Ther . 460

9Rhskunqi/doj 3Hrhj) and has Homeric ancestry (patri/doj ai1hj).15 Lastly, 243 a0kta\j

13 P. Chantraine, La Formation des noms en grec ancien (Paris, 1968), 341 – 2 (quotation on

342); for Callimachus, see Schmitt, 22 – 6 (list) and 47 – 8 (analysis).

14 Xen. Hell . 3.2.30 Trifuli/daj po/leij; Eur. Med . 1342 – 3 Turshni/doj | Sku/llhj.

15 20, 138, 230, 627, 661, 1080 0Asi/doj; 25 0Asih/tidoj; 1148 Kwli/doj; 805 Musi/doj; 46

Pamfuli/doj; 957, 1038 Persi/doj; of these, Kwli/doj and Pamfuli/doj are innovations. In

Ap. Rhod.: 3.313 Kolxi/doj; 4.337 Ne/stidoj; 4.131 Tithni/doj Ai1hj; 4.568 Fleiounti/doj;of these, the second and fourth are innovations.



53

borew/tidaj recalls Ap. Rhod. 4.660 a0kta\j Turshni/daj and/or 4.1781 a0kta\jPagashi/daj (both in the same sedes).16

As well as substituting new ethnic adjectives for Apollonius’, changing case andword-order produces further variation.17 The noun can be replaced by a synonym (385 qi=naj

for a0kta&j), and the metrical template as a whole filled with new material: 756 leimwni/doja1nqesi poi/hj thus comes out of the same stable as the gai/hj and a1krhj formulae we have

been considering. All this gives Dionysius scope greatly to extend his use of - ij adjectives.

There are a few nouns in -ij, three of which are substitutes for the familiar form (80,

344 porqmi/j for porqmo/j; 459 Korsi/j for Ko/rsika /Korsikh/; 914 0Orqwsi/j for

0Orqwsi/a), and one of which is a catachresis (714 knhmi/j for knhmo/j). But in general, the

-ij nouns seem to be a by-product of his enthusiasm for -ij adjectives.

3. FORMULAE AND PSEUDO-FORMULAE

Dionysius’ style is repetitive.18 It is formulaic, or pseudo-formulaic, in two senses. First, he

borrows formulaic expressions from hexameter poetry. Most obviously, he borrows noun – epithet combinations, but he also takes over many other types of phrase (noun + dependent

genitive, verb + subject, verb + object, verb + object + epithet; verb + adverb; prepositional

phrase; verb + prepositional phrase) which may or may not qualify as formulae in Homeric

studies, but do in some sense qualify as formulaic or para-formulaic in Homer’s imitators,even if they occur only once in the Homeric poems themselves, in virtue of their prestigious

origins.19 The second sense in which ‘formulae’, ‘formulaic’, and ‘pseudo-formulaic’ will be

used here refers to repetitions in Dionysius himself. Especially at line-end, word-groups and

sometimes whole lines are repeated throughout the poem, both verbatim and with an

impressive amount of variation. Patterns of metre and syntax are constantly recycled, filled

16 cf. 565 borew/tidaj a0kta/j, and Ap. Rhod. 1.237 – 8 a0ktai/ . . . Magnh/tidej; 2.548

Qunhi/doj a0kth=j; 4.856 a0ktai=j Turshni/sin.

17 So, in addition to -i/doj h1qea gai/hj, cf. 639 gai/hj Pamfuli/doj. A pattern like Ap.

Rhod. 4.1693 Salmwni/doj a1krhj may be modified to produce 339 Au0soni\j a1krh, 729 Kaspi/doj a3lmhj.

18 Whitby, 107.

19 Fantuzzi 1988, 10 ‘A questo punto per formule non si intesero più solo le formule dellatradizione orale che aveva usato Omero, ma qualsiasi sintagma di Omero stesso (o di Esiodo,

dopo Esiodo): sia frasi che in Omero o in Esiodo (o in entrambi) erano state formulari, sia

frasi che non lo erano state e che magari erano attestate una sola volta, ma acquisivano uno

statuto para-formulare, ossia per così dire formulare di riflesso, nel momento in cui venivano

riprese da opere, come l’ Iliade o l’Odissea, che erano conosciute a memoria da gran parte del pubblico.’



54

with metrically equivalent alternative forms. The machinery that generates this formular

variation is the basic motor of Dionysius’ poem.20

While it would be impossible to illustrate all instances, or even all types, of variation

in Dionysius, I begin with noun – epithet combinations and phrases containing them; in the

notes below, line-references are intended in the first instance as a cue to the register of echoesand allusions in the Periegesis (Appendix 1), where more details can be found. These

examples show as well as any that Dionysius is an opportunist, and will recycle anything that

serves his purposes, especially (but far from exclusively) geographical names and common

nouns. Simplest is to recycle them at the same place in the hexameter, the next simplest to

relocate them. Dionysius is equally willing to do this with all his literary models: Homer and

the Homeric Hymns,21 Hesiod,22 the Hellenistic poets23 (and Homeric/Hesiodic combinations

20

Parry’s analysis of the first 25 lines of the Iliad had already drawn attention to phrases withmore or less parallel syntax and metre within the Homeric poems themselves (M. Parry, The

Making of Homeric Verse (Oxford, 1971), 301 – 2; see also A. B. Lord, The Singer of Tales

(Cambridge, MA, 1960), 143, with notes on 291 – 3, reproducing the first 15 lines of the

analysis with an even greater willingness to find ‘formulae’). These loose analogies, with

approximately parallel metre and syntax (and sometimes even echoes of sound), are also

found between Homer and later poetry (Lord compares Il . 1.6 and HHom. Herm. 313; I am

grateful to Oliver Thomas for noting also Od . 10.191 ou)d' o( /ph| h)e/lioj faesi/mbrotoj ei]s'u(po\ gai=an and HHom. Herm. 339 ou)d' a)ndrw=n, o9po/soi lhsi/mbrotoi/ ei)s' e)pi\ gai=an). See

also Fantuzzi’s useful review of different kinds of formulae and formular expressions (1988,

11 – 14). He illustrates them from Homer, but his last two categories are particularly relevant

to Dionysius: (i) analogical formulae (with substitutable components, e.g.

ku=doj/teu/xe’/a1lge’ e1dwken/e1pasxon/e1xousin/e1qhken) and (ii) structural formulae, based on

pure metrical equivalence (w1mw| e1ni stibarw= |/eu0nh= | e1ni malakh= |; dw=ken e9tai/rw|/teu=xeku/nessin), with other phrases falling midway between the two categories (e.g. phonically

similar, but with different syntax and/or different sense: pi/ona dhmw= |/pi/ona dh=mon;

a0mfh/luqen h9du\j a0utmh//a0mfh/luqe qh=luj a0uth/). Fantuzzi’s analysis (1988, 7– 46) is highly

stimulating: he shows how Apollonius favours ‘analogical variation’ rather than verbatim

quotation from Homer, increasingly so as his poem progresses, but his analysis suffers from

two weaknesses: (i) vagueness about how he produced the figures in his statistical analysis,and (ii) an overpointed contrast with Callimachus, for whom analogy is fundamental in the

creation of his ‘ presque homérique’ style. Further on Apollonius, see F. Cairns, ‘Orality,Writing and Reoralisation: Some Departures and Arrivals in Homer and Apollonius

Rhodius’, in H. L. C. Tristram (ed.), New Methods in the Research of Epic (Tübingen, 1998),

63 – 84; his description of the technique of the Argonautica as one of ‘reoralisation’, anattempt at ‘a new “written orality”’, displaying ‘at least an attenuated understanding oforality’ (pp. 65– 6) is equally apposite to the Periegesis.

21 Same sedes: 1 eu0re/a po/nton; 3 0Wkeanoi=o baqurro/ou; 268 eu0re/a ko/lpon (v.l.); 325

9Ellh/sponton a0ga/rroon; 326 ku=ma polufloi/sboio qala/sshj; 771 kai\ o0i+zu/oj ai0nh=j;

838 a0glao\n u3dwr; 879 polih=j a9lo/j. Phrases: 1053 gluku\j i3meroj ai9rei=. Different sedes;



55

already recycled by the Alexandrians24), and the odd example from hexameter poetry of other

periods.25 More often, however, they are modified in some way — by varying the number

and/or case,26 by replacing one of the elements,27 or by some combination of these methods.28

212 yama/qw| . . . pollh= |; 323 a0pei/rona gai=an; 393 liparo\n . . . gh=raj; 394 te/raja1llo; 815 1Ilion h0nemo/essan.

22 Same sedes: 497 di/nh|j a0rgure/h|j; 677 kakh= | qui5ontej a0e/llh|; 789 ku/na xalkeo/fwnon;

869 Ph/gasoj i3ppoj; 1149 0Wkeano\n baqudi/nhn; 1183 ou1rea bhssh/enta. Different sedes:

712, 1057 a1speton o1lbon. The following also occur across more than one work of early

Greek hexameter poetry. Same sedes: 81 a9lmuro\n u3dwr; 268 eu0re/a po/nton; 743 si/toiomeli/fronoj. Different sedes: 815 1Ilion h0nemo/essan. 753 bo/aj me\n . . . kai\ i1fia mh=lastretches bo/aj kai\ i1fia mh=la. On Dionysius’ use of Homeric and Hesiodic clausulae, seeWifstrand, 91.

23 Same sedes: Ap. Rhod.: 389 ou0re/wn t’ h0liba/twn; 739 kela/dontoj 0Ara/cew; 767

polu/rrhnej Tibarhnoi/; 960 periw/sia fu=la; 966 au0ale/oj xrw/j; 1063 peri/dromojou1resi gai=a. Callimachus: 257 qew/teron a1llon; 416 u9gro\j 0Ia/wn. Theocritus: 179

kelainw=n Ai0qioph/wn. Posidippus: 724 h0ero/essan i1aspin. Different sedes: Ap. Rhod. 415

0Arka/dej 0Apidanh=ej; 534 Pelasgi/doj . . . 3Hrhj; 1018 e0riqhle/a gai=an; 1106 bioth/sionw]non. Callimachus: 520 0Abantia\j . . . Ma/krij. Aratus: 760 xeimeri/oij a0ne/moisi.Theocritus: 529 ligu/fwnoj a0hdw/n.

24

Same sedes: 65 me/ga qau=ma; 1055 a0ena/wn potamw=n. Different sedes: 816 a0glao\na1stu (Homeric v.l.); 1024 fa/rmak’ . . . lugra/; 1033 pw/ea kala/.25 Same sedes: 2 a1krita fu=la; 1062 o1lboj a0pei/ritoj.

26 Number: 49 ai0pu\ r9e/eqron; 976 o0re/wn a1po paipaloe/ntwn (+ change of prep.). Case:

256 xrusw= | timh/enti; 264 e9ptapo/rou Nei/loio (+ omission of prep.); 433 0Axelw/i+oja0rgurodi/nhj; 439 Parnhsou= nifo/entoj u9po\ ptuxi/; 452 nh/sou e0p’ a0mfiru/thj (+ change

of prep.); 462 Ai0o/lou 9Ippota/dao; 532 kraipnoi=o . . . bore/ao; 581 eu0erge/i+ nhi5; 669

krumo/j te dusah/j (+ te); 834 ligurh\n o1pa; 1047 a0ellopo/dwn . . . i3ppwn; 1157

polugna/mpthj e9li/noio (+ change of noun). Number and case: 598, 691 ou1resinh0libatoisin; 808 o0trhro\n qera/ponta.

27 Noun: 816 palaigene/wn h9rw/wn; 1115 e0u+gna/mnth|si . . . make/lh|sin. Noun and verb:

298 e0pite/lletai i9ero\j 1Istroj. Epithet: 66 makro\n u9po\ prhw=na; 183 kuanh= |si . . . foli/dessin; 203 chrh| =sin . . . yama/qoisin; 754 e0rh/mhj a1nqea gai/hj; 831 Tmw/lw| u3p’ h0nemo/enti. Epithet and verb/participle: 443 a0peiresi/h|sin e0pifri/sswn foli/dessi; 475

makrh= |si peribre/metai spila/dessin; 584 locote/rh| . . . e0pistre/fetai strofa/liggi; 824

liparh= |si kate/rxetai ei0j a3la di/naij.

28 Change of noun and case: 476 poluglw/xini sidh/rw|. 143, 863 poluklu/stoio qala/sshj

hybridises Homeric polufloi/sboio qala/sshj (as in 326) and poluklu/stw| e0ni\ po/ntw|.Different verb, or part of verb: 45, 348 e9speri/hn a3la ti/ktei/ba/ntej; 712 i3n’ a1speton



56

Poetic models of any period, especially but not only the Homeric poems, are susceptible to

this treatment.29 For example, the whole section on Ilium illustrates how the pseudo-

formulaic style can be used to conjure Homer when Dionysius most needs him. Taking

catalogic style to extremes with a quadruple epanalepsis, he uses (displaced) noun – epithet

formulae (815 1Ilion h0nemo/essan, 816 a0glao\n a1stu), Homeric half-lines (817 Poseida/wnkai\ 0Apo/llwn, 818 0Aqhnai/h te kai\ 3Hrh), condensed echoes (817 e0po/lisse), together with

a new noun – epithet combination for the wide-flowing Trojan river (819 Ca/nqw| e1p’ eu0ru\ r9e/onti ~ Il . 2.849 (al .). 0Aciou= eu0ru\ r9eo/ntoj).

The poem is full of internally repeated words and phrases: both verbatim repetitions,

and those which allow a degree of variation. Many have identifiable sources in earlier poetry,

especially the verbatim repetitions.30 As with the noun – epithet phrases, and as indeed with all

Dionysius’ borrowings from earlier poets, there are two main sources of var iation in cases

where a source is modified: changes of ending,31 and lexical substitition,32 of which lexical

substitution is the more interesting, because it allows for the formation of groups ofexpressions, especially geographical formulae. We have seen how Dionysius’ fondness for

o1lbon e3lwntai; 952 ma/la pi/ona dh=mon e1xousi; 1033 pw/ea kala\ ne/montej; 1078

liaroi=o geghqo/tej e0c a0ne/moio.

29 Magnelli 2002, 26, notes that Euphorion’s borrowings from Callimachus ‘mancano . . .

quasi sempre di quella tendenza alla variazione formale, e spesso anche al rovesciamento

concettuale, che è una costante dell’approccio di Euforione al materiale omerico.’ No real

difference of approach in Dionysius is discernible to Homer and to Hellenistic poetry.

30 From Homeric poetry: 37, 83, 540, 1184 oi]dma qala/sshj; 178, 876 a1gxi qala/sshj;

240, 673, 744 ou0de\ me\n ou0d(e/); 803, 1018 gai=an e1xousin. From Parmenides(?): 84, 487, 970

pro_j au)ga_j h)eli/oio. From Hellenistic poetry: 36, 451 faei/netai a0nqrw/poisin; 48, 346,

666, 727 e0k bore/ao; 70, 86, 164 a0gke/xutai; 242, 281, 815, 887, 1130 e0pi\ pleurh= |si, with

324, 833, 1075 in different sedes; 303, 307 e0j sto/ma li/mnhj; 352, 783 r9o/on ei0j a3laba/llei; 542 ei0n a9li\ nh=soj, cf. 461, 554 ei0n a9li\ nh=soi; 502, 921 liparh/ te kai\ eu1botoj;

950, 1029 tou1neken ei0se/ti nu=n. In 763, 821 — — — para\ xei=loj (with sea-name) is best

supported by Mimnermus.

31 143, 863 poluklu/stoio qala/sshj; 581, 708 nhi6 perh/saij (cf. 720 nhi6 perh&seiaj);

598, 691 ou1resin h)liba&toisin; 893, 1133 a(lo_j oi1dmat'; 943 u3dasi li/mnai, 987 u3dasili/mnh.

32 e.g. of a preposition: 299, 1068 a1xri qala/sshj. Of a participle: 126, 200 baruno/menoj(-me/nh) proxoh= |sin. Of an epithet: 227, 357, 858 liparo\n pe/don; 693, 981 qoh\na0pereu/getai a1xnhn (also of sea-name in first place in line). Of a noun: 973, 1174 h)pei/roiobaqei/hj. A few substitutions are of non-equivalent parts of speech: 694, 773, 786, 978 a0p’ ou1reoj 0Armeni/oio ~ Ap. Rhod. 1.989 a0p’ ou1reoj a0i/cantej, 2.1258 a0p’ ou1reoja0i/ssonta, Call. fr. 186.9 H. (97 M.) a0p’ ou1reoj, h]xi ma/lista; 75 e0pi/strofon o3rmon

e1xousa, 480 Libustiko_n o3rmon e1xousai, 617 e0ph/raton o3rmon e1xousai ~ Call. Hymn 4.155 0Exina/dej o3rmon e1xousai.



57

ethnic adjectives in -i/j/-i/doj fuels the creation of the patterns (y) qkkai1hj; xqkk h1qea

gai/hj; and yqkk e1ndoqen a1krhj, all ultimately based on Apollonius.33

Let us consider the special case of running water, for which Dionysius’ vocabulary is particularly rich. Seas and rivers are the most dynamic aspects of his landscape: they bubble

up, twist and turn, and discharge their waters with a roar; they seethe, belch, and tumble. Butthis lexicon and formulary is basically highly traditional; it draws on an already rich lexicon

for running water in hexameter poetry, and on closer inspection turns out to be made up in

just the ways we have been investigating. There are a few direct copies of phrases, especially

line-ends, from early Greek hexameter or Hellenistic poetry,34 but above all there are

adaptations — of phrases both with and without identifiable poetic models — by inflectional

change35 and/or metrical substitution.36 If the waters of the Nile ‘descend’ (221, 246kate/rxetai u3data Nei/lou), those of both the Rhine and the Orontes ‘sweep down’ inidentical metrical form (296 katasu/retai u3data 9Rh/nou, 919 katasu/retai u9gro\j

0Oro/nthj), and the pattern can be further modified to fit seas and gulfs (380 su/retai 0Adria\j a3lmh, 864 perisu/retai e1qnea ko/lpoj).

Dionysius has a strong tendency to follow, and vary, favoured sources — but is equally

prepared to expand them in new directions and to depart from them altogether. For example,

four out of the five examples of proi/hmi follow the pattern extablished by Homer and

Hesiod, with object meaning ‘water’ and decorative epithet (49, 774, 794, 806; the other is

990). Eight of nine water-expressions using e0reu/gesqai ( simplex or compounded) are in one

of the two places for which there is a background in early Greek hexameter poetry and

Apollonius, and several are spliced with noun – epithet combinations found elsewhere.37 The

poem’s many expressions using e9li/ssein and e9li/ssesqai show how Dionysius could buildup a whole range of water-phrases from an existing, but fairly limited, base. 38 He also

33 Observe a looser similarity between 415, 431 u9po\ skopih\n kkqq and Ap. Rhod. 1.50 u9po\ skopih\n o1reoj Xalkwdoni/oio.

34 226 ei9ligme/noj ei0j a3la pi/ptei; 497 di/nh|j a0rgure/h|j; 739 kela/dontoj 0Ara/cew.

35 e.g. 123 a0gku/loj e3rpwn; 644 kanaxhda\ r9e/ousin.

36 81 e0reu/getai a9lmuro\n u3dwr; 315 9Ripai/oij e0n o1ressi dia/ndixa mormu/rousi; 440

katerxo/menon kelaru/zei; 660 e0j me/sa (v.l. muxa\) pi/ptei; 665 Skuqikoi=sin e0pitroxa/eipedi/oisin; 783 ] Irij d’ e9cei/hj kaqaro\n r9o/on ei0j a3la ba/llei; 824 Mai/androj liparh= |sikate/rxetai ei0j a3la di/naij; 838 h3suxa pafla/zontoj.

37 Before bucolic diaeresis (already Od . 5.438): 43, 81, 300; 567 (with a0pereu/getai), and

824 (with kate/rxetai) are both based on Ap. Rhod. 2.368 (with e9li/ssetai). After

hepthemimeral caesura (already Il . 15.621): 122, 693 = 981. The exception is 539, before

penthemimeral caesura. Of Apollonius’ compounds a0n-, u9p-, and e0p- (Rengakos 1993, 135),

Dionysius uses e0p- and adds a0p- (43, 567, 981) from Nicander.

38 226, with perfect middle participle, is a direct copy of Hes. Th. 791, but Dionysius also

uses the present middle participle (301, 434, 692 e9lisso/menoj, and 108, 1072 e9lisso/menoi)and indicative (71, 123, 125, 747 e9li/ssetai). With a direct object he also uses the present



58

enriches his water formulae by new combinations of traditional vocabulary;39 by extending

its application (e.g. 27 a0ka/matoj); and by coinages (above). Some innovations seem

designed specifically to further favoured themes, stars perhaps in 298 e0pite/lletai i9ero\j 1Istroj, elsewhere serpents (387, 433 o9lko\n a1gein; 55, 198, 733 o9lko\n e9li/ssein, cf. e.g.

Nic. Ther . 166 o9lkw= | de\ troxo/essan a3lwn ei9li/cato gai/h|, which Gow – Scholfield render‘wreathes its coil in a circular ring upon the ground’).

Other repeated phrases in Dionysius have less obvious models. There may be none, or

only an underlying metrical pattern. Let us call them metrical formulae. Some are quasi-

technical expressions that Dionysius has had to create for himself, for example relating to the

points of the compass.40 A number of noun-phrases name seas, tribes, and territories:41 they

are suited to the specialist nature of the poem. These expressions vary in just the same ways

as those with identifiable models, mainly by inflection and substitution of metrically

equivalent units,42 but a few simply by position in the line.43 Some are short. But because this

active indicative (198, 497, 733), participle (55, 630 – 1), and aorist active participle (979);

and with prepositional phrase the present active participle (104). The middle forms tend to be

used in the same metrical sedes as in a Hellenistic predecessor (Call. Hymn 4.105

e9lisso/menoj and Ap. Rhod. 2.368 e9li/ssetai, after trochaic caesura), but none is a copy or

close analogue, and the active forms are more innovative still (Call. Hymn 4.13 e9li/sswn, in

same sedes, with prepositional phrase; dir. obj. in Eur. IT 6 – 7 di/naj . . . e9li/sswn).

39 52 oi]dma pro/xeuwn (cf. e.g. HHom. Dem. 14 oi]dma; Il . 21.219 proxe/ein r9o/on); 626

leuko\n u3dwr (Call. fr. 546 Pf., from Homeric u3dati leukw= |) . . . kuli/ndei (Od . 1.162); 838

e0pirre/ei ( Il . 2.754) a0glao\n u3dwr ( Il . 2.307, Od . 9.140).40 160 e0j bore/hn o(ro&wsa, 633 – 4 e0j bore/hn o(ro&wnta; 299, 926, 1034 e0j a0ntoli/hntetramme/noj (-oi), cf. 931 tetramme/nh a0ntoli/hnde; 429 (poti\), 470 (e0pi\), 962 (u9pai\)r9iph\n zefu/roio; 856, 1086 tw~n de\ pro_j a)ntoli/hn; 295, 919, 976 th=j de\ pro\j a0ntoli/hn;

695 tou= de\ pro\j a0ntoli/hn.

41 92, 380 0Adria\j a3lmh, 608 Persi/doj a3lmhj, 729 Kaspi/doj a3lmhj (elsewhere a3lmh

with geographical epithets is rare: Cratinus fr. 6.1 K. – A. th\n Qasi/an a3lmhn); 305 kai\ a)lkh&entej 0Alanoi/ ~ 682 kai\ a)lkh&entej 0Axaioi/; 426 Lokri\j a1roura ~ 437 Fwki\ja1roura (different sedes) ~ 764 Xalki\j a1roura (cf. Il . 9.141 = 283 0Axai+ko\n ou]qar

a0rou/rhj?); 564 a)gauw~n pai=dej 0Ibh&rwn, 822 a)gauw~n pai=dej 0Iw&nwn. For the pattern 37

0Indiko\n oi]dma qala/sshj, 83 Turshni/doj oi]dma qala/sshj, 540 Proponti/doj oi]dmaqala/sshj (cf. 1184 e0pe/dramon oi]dma qala/sshj), HHom. Dem. 14 a(lmuro_n oi]dmaqala&sshj (cf. Ar. Av. 250 po&ntion oi]dma qala&sshj) is a part-model.

42 68 h)li/batoj, puknoi=si kalupto&menoj nefe/essin ~ 1150 h)., taxinoi=si duse/mbatojoi0wnoi=sin; 97 (e0nuali/wn), 337 (r9uhfene/wn), 505 ( 0Ihlusi/wn) pe/don a0ndrw=n; 504 kai\ th=j toi me/geqoj periw/sion ~ 568 ta/wn toi m. p.; 598 ou1resin h)liba&toisin e0oiko&ta ~

691 ou1. h). a)e/cetai; 605, 969 qh&kato dai/mwn ~ 704 fi/lato d.

43

65/451 e0sxato/wnta Ga/deira; 302, 726, 934, 960/285 fu=la ne/montai; 138/186, 1142a1speta fu=la.



59

time we are dealing, not with rewritings and remodellings, but with fresh composition by

Dionysius himself, a handful are more substantial. They are meant to be seen, are adapted to

their context, and are considerably more extensive than the sparing use of whole-line

repetition, or even the repetition of metrical and phonetic patterns, in Apollonius, Nicander (a

single instance of whole-line repetition in each of the Theriaca and Alexipharmaca), andAratus.44 By linking passages together, Dionysius implies likeness in the objects described,

harmony and order in the cosmos, and system and method in his way of writing about it.

With appropriate modifications, in order to accommodate the names of the continents,

the Nile and Tanais get a matching couplet as the world’s two main riverine continent-

dividers (230 – 1/661 – 2); so do the racial reviews of Italy and the Caspian, both beginning

from the north-west, with a ringing and confident declaration of comprehensiveness (345 – 6/726 – 7); and so too the chorographies of Greece and Arabia, which both begin by

identifying the seas to the west and east (400 – 3/928 – 30). The descriptions of Egypt, Syria,

and India all note the felicity of their population (247, 902, 1135 kai\ th_n me\n polloi/ te kai\ o1lbioi a1ndrej e1xousin) after the layout of the country, and before an overview of its centres

of population, which, as we are further told in Syria and India, ‘do not live together with thesame names, but separately’ (903 = 1136 ou)x a3ma naieta&ontej o(mw&numoi, a)lla_ diamfi/j). Such overt links invite the reader to ponder similarities and differences in what

follows, or rather, the diversity which follows initial likeness invites the reader’s admirationfor Dionysius’ versatility in his treatment of the periegesis, chorography, and ethnography.

Additional note on naming-formulae

As usual these have a double ancestry: passages in Homer (whence they ultimately derive)

which give names and labels to things, and Hellenistic refinements. Of Dionysius’ verbs ofnaming, 22, 94 hu0da/canto,45 993 e0ne/pousin, 181, 1151 e0piklei/ousin, 33 e0fh/misan (cf. 850

v.l. fhmi/zousin),46 90, 456, 1159 e0fhmi/canto, and 26, 50 diefhmi/canto can be traced to

Hellenistic poets, while kale/ousi47 and kiklh/skousi48 — the most favoured verbs — have both

44 For repetition in Apollonius, see G. W. Elderkin, ‘Repetition in the Argonautica of

Apollonius’, AJP 34 (1913), 198 – 201; F. Vian, ‘Notes critiques au chant II des«Argonautiques»’, REA 75 (1973), 82 – 102, at 98 – 9; Fantuzzi 2008, 230 – 1. Didactic poets:

Nic. Ther . 28 = 489; Al . 191 = 615 (see Jacques, ii, p. cix, iii, pp. lxxxv – lxxxvii); Arat. 396 =

895.

45 The reference in Euphorion fr. 48.3 P. (51.3 L.) is to oracular utterance. For Dionysius’meaning see also Suda h 641 hu0da/canto: e0fh/misan (Hollis 1990, 360).

46 In Call. fr. 75.58 H. (174 M.) it is not a gnomic aorist, which, depending on aspect, it might

be in Dionysius.

47 (i) Before the trochaic caesura: 32, 37, 435, 576, 899 (< HHom. Ap. 373), 1093; cf. Il .

1.403, 20.74, Od . 10.305, Ap. Rhod. 1.941, Arat. 66, 399, 444, Call. Hymn 1.14, 3.169, 199,

Nic. Ther . 49, 412. (ii) After penthemimeral caesura: 165. (iii) After hepthemimeral caesura:

153; cf. Call. Hec. fr. 117 Hollis, Hymn 1.45, Arat. 315, Nic. Ther . 579. (iv) At line-end: 38,



60

a Homeric and Hellenistic background. In general, however, we do not find the same

techniques as with the water expressions. Rarely a phrase is modelled on a metrical pattern

found in a source.49 More usually, however, Dionysius simply takes over a form in a certain

metrical sedes, sometimes adding the stock component ‘by name’.50 Naming-expressions are

an important part of the poem, and one in which Dionysius shows considerable adaptability; but it is rare for imitation and allusion to go beyond inflection and metrical position.

4. METRE

The interest of a detailed analysis of Dionysius’ metre is that it permits comparison with earlyGreek hexameter poetry, with his Hellenistic models, and with other imperial poets. What

follows will concentrate on comparisons with his archaic and Hellenistic models rather than

with his contemporaries and successors, but further research on the latter is desirable. He is

so close an observer of Callimachean, Apollonian, Aratean, and Nicandrian diction and

stylistic devices; will he prove to be their acolyte in the minutiae of metre as well?

To produce statistics in what follows, I have counted 1184 lines, omitting 118 and

917 as spurious (which the metrical analysis confirms: both contain departures from the

poet’s normal practice). In the analysis of inner metric, I have followed Magnelli’s guidelinesas to what to count as appositive and as ‘continuative’ (that is, where an enclitic or

postpositive is not sufficient to absorb the force of a preceding prepositive, and instead acts

as a bridge to throw the weight onto the next word). That is: appositives are articles,

prepositions, conjunctions, and conjunctive particles, relative and indefinite pronouns,

enclitics, negations, and preverbs in tmesis. Interrogatives, possessives, demonstratives,

forms of the personal pronouns which are not enclitic, and adverbs are not treated as

appositive. dh/, mh/n, qhn, toi, pote, poka, indefinite tij, enclitic forms of the personal

pronoun, of ei0mi/ and fhmi/, and adverbial ti, are not treated as continuative.51

PROSODY

(i) Hiatus

402, 459, 543 (< Ap. Rhod. 2.910, cf. Call. Hymn 3.205); cf. Il . 5.306, 18.487, 22.29, 22.506,

Arat. 36, 245, 476, 544; Call. Hymn 2.69; Nic. Ther . 537, 632.

48 (i) kiklh/sketai before bucolic diaeresis: 30, 223: cf. Od . 15.403. (ii) kiklh/skousi before

trochaic caesura: 205, 343: cf. Il . 14.291. (iii) kiklh/skousin at line-end: 115, 389 (< Ap.

Rhod. 4.519), 422, 641, 850; cf. Od . 9.366, HHom. Aphr . 267, Arat. 388.

49 181, 1151 ~ Arat. 92; 422 ~ Ap. Rhod. 4.1695; 641, 850 ~ Od . 4.355.

50 543 e0pwnumi/hn kale/ousin < Ap. Rhod. 2.910; 905, 955, 1098 e0pwnumi/hn yqq with

proper name ~ Ap. Rhod. 3.245.

51 Magnelli 2002, 58, with additional precisions in n. 5.



61

There are 34 examples, that is, about one in every 35 lines. This is considerably more

restrained than Euphorion (1 in 5) and Aratus (1 in 14), but less so than Callimachus, in

whom it is largely restricted to after h1 (here in 60, 446 bis, 671, 672, 937), before

prepositions with anastrophe (here in 167 and 212), and nearly always placed between

princeps and uncontracted biceps.

52

While almost three-quarters (25 instances) in Dionysiusfollow the princeps (five of them — 70, 671, 876, 1068, 1177 — before a contracted biceps),

six occur in a contracted and four in an uncontracted biceps (three between it and the

following longum; one, between the two short syllables).53 In 446 Milh/toio (v.l. Milh/tou) h2 it occurs after a short vowel at the main caesura (M. L. West 1982, 156). Several instances

are direct quotations from, or adaptations of, Homer or Hellenistic poetry. 54

(ii) Correption

The commonest position for correption is, as it is in Callimachus and Apollonius, after the

second short syllable of a dactyl.55 The least favoured foot is the second, with only seven

examples (43, 72, 126, 516 kai/; 728, 758 Sku/qai; 461 Ai0o/lou). In the third, all but two

instances (446, 711) are of kai/ (30 examples) or te kai/ (51 examples), an indication of the

catalogic nature of the poem, for almost all involve the coordination of parallel entities,

especially nouns or epithets, but also phrases and occasionally short clauses. In the fifth foot,

almost two-thirds involve middle/passive third person verb endings -etai, -atai, -itai (24),

and only four examples (out of 38) do not involve the diphthong -ai (195 a0mpe/xei; 687

e1kgonoi, 730 Ka/spioi, 1062 a0lla/ toi). In the fourth foot, the overwhelming majority

involve the -ai diphthong in verb endings, participles, or feminine plurals, or failing that -oi

52 P. Maas, Greek Metre, tr. H. Lloyd-Jones (Oxford, 1962), §141; M. L. West 1982, 156;

Hollis 1990, 22; M. Campbell, ‘Hiatus in Apollonius Rhodius’, in M. Fantuzzi and R.

Pretagostini (eds.), Struttura e storia dell’esametro greco (Rome, 1995), i. 193 – 220; Kidd,

34; Magnelli 2002, 83.

53 First-foot princeps: 61, 446, 671, 1028. Second-foot princeps: 70, 412, 620, 726; biceps

(uncontracted): 916. Third-foot princeps: 133, 549, 726, 876, 1068, 1177; biceps

(contracted): 672, 937; biceps (uncontracted): 446, 726, 872(< Il . 6.201). Fourth foot

princeps: 150, 382, 784, 889, 1158; biceps (contracted): 705, 753. Fifth-foot princeps: 167,

212, 498, 510, 535, 1083; biceps: 173.

54 Quotations: 167 w{ | e1ni (Od. 13×, Ap. Rhod. 7×), 173 ta\ e3kasta, 705 kai\ h1qea (Hes. Th.

66, Op. 222), 726 toi e0re/w, 753 kai\ i1fia ( Il . 5.556, 8.505, 545), 784 r9oai\ 3Aluoj (Ap.

Rhod. 2.366), 872 to\ 0Alh/i+on ( Il . 6.201), 1083 h0eli/w| a0nio/nti ( Il . 18.136 = Od . 12.429 =

23.362). Adaptations: 61 h2 o0re/wn (Arat. 564 h2 o2reoj), 133 kei/nw| e0nali/gkia (e.g. Od .

24.148 h0eli/w| e0nali/gkion), 510 mega/lw| e0ni/ (e.g. Il . 5.386 kraterw= | e0ni\), 916 Posidh/i+ae1rga (Homeric polemh/i+a e1rga), 1028 ou1 oi9 e1hn ( Il . 14.141 et al . ou1 oi9 e1ni).55 A repertory of instances of correption in the Periegesis in M. Schneider, 10 – 12. For

comparisons with Callimachus and Apollonius, see Hollis 1990, 22 – 3, and bibliography cited by Magnelli 2002, 84 n. 101.



62

or -ou; there are only five instances of -h (174, 408, 760, 931, 1131) and two of -w| (175,

1008). The favoured pattern (approximately once every 17 lines) is for middle/passive

present or perfect verbs with correpted endings before the bucolic diaeresis (70 examples),

with three further first person middles (-omai), two second person middles (-eai), and two

middle/passive feminine participles (-menai), all of which, combined, rival kai/ at masculinecaesura in popularity. It is not hard to understand why the pattern is so prevalent: the endings

in question belong to verbs of description, at home in a work of geography, and occur with

comparable frequency in Nicander (once in twenty-five lines) and Aratus (once in twenty-

two), who are also describing a steady states or habitual actions. By way of contrast, the

Argonautica is mostly a narrative of events, rather than a description of a state of affairs, so

that although Apollonius shares some of his verbs with Dionysius (2.368 e9li/ssetai, 2.744

a0nereu/getai, 2.981 ei9li/ssetai), only one in eighty lines of the second book, and one in

eighty-five lines of the second, contain the pattern in question.

Dionysius is also happy to admit correption after the first short syllable of a dactyl,mostly in the first (13×) and third (12×) feet; once also in the fifth and three times with kai/ inthe fourth.56

(iii) Elision

Excluding prepositions, particles, pronouns, conjunctions, suffixes, and four instances of

pote, but including verbs (and participles), nouns, adjectives, and a couple of instances of

prw=ta, there are 34 instances of elision in the Periegesis:57 that is, it occurs in 2.87% of

lines. Using West’s comparisons, Dionysius is closer to Callimachus’ 1/100 ( Hymn 3),Aratus’ 4/100 (though Kidd, 33, gives a total of only 20 for the whole poem), andconsiderably below Apollonius’ 8/100 (let alone the Iliad ’s 19/100).58 Elision at the main

caesura, generally avoided by Callimachus (but see Hollis 1990, 23), occurs with prw=t’ in347 and 1091, and with te at 57, 401, 613, 733, 929, 1047. te is elided across the bucolic

caesura in 911.

56 First foot: -w| (157, 219, 444, 819, 829), -ou (644, 848, 896), -h (550, 998), -oi (29, 1028).

Third foot: kai/ (23, 194, 458), teta/nustai (75, 91), ne/montai (285, 835), kei=tai (814, 915),

ei9li/ssesqai (546), moi (619), oi3 (906). Fourth foot: kai/ (189, 768, 771). Fifth foot: ei1h(1186). Callimachus admits this in the Hymns and Hecale, but seemingly not in the Aitia

(Hollis 1990, 22).

57 42 ou0no/maq’; 133 ku/mat’; 218 bo/skont’; 293 da/kru’; 321 Nwri/ki’ a1ste’; 345 fu=l’,pa/nt’; 347 prw=t’; 401 e1llax’; 509 klu/zet’; 518 r9w/onq’; 583 h1maq’; 646 o1nom’; 648ou1nom’; 723 qau/mat’; 761 ku/mat’; 792 ph=m’; 893 oi1dmat’; 912 Sidw=n’; 929 e1llax’; 932klu/zet’; 935 me/g’, e1llax’; 967 a1lge’; 977 fai/net’; 1024 fa/rmak’; 1037 e0kte/tat’; 1042au1lak’; 1091 prw=t’; 1092 sto/mat’; 1120 marmai/ront’; 1133 oi1dmat’; 1175 e1llax’.

58 M. L. West 1982, 156; Magnelli 2002, 84; Ilyushechkina 2010, 132 – 3.



63

(iv) Treatment of muta cum liquida

As a rule, muta cum liquida makes position, but failure to do so at word-boundary is far from

exceptional: 52 oi]dma proxeu/wn; 284 e1nqa Bretanoi/; 369 e0u+stefa/noio Kro/twnoj; 416

o3qi Kra=qij, 465 a0ndra/si Plwtai/; 566 e1asi Bretani/dej; 569 pa/sh|si Bretani/sin; 850

me/xri: Kra/gon; as well as with the v.l. at 485 o9ppo/te trilli/stwn. Attic correption within a word — exceptional in Apollonius and Callimachus — is rarer, but even excluding a1xri in

the spurious 118 we find 283 h0pei/roio tetramme/non; 434, 467 Trinakri/h;59 484, 509

0Afrodi/thj; 1173 e0klhrw/santo (cf. Call. fr. 18.10 H. (20 M.), but contrast Hymn 3.23

e0peklh/rwsan); also in 1086 Gedrwsw=n if A’s reading a0ntoli/hnde were accepted.

Dionysius’ admission of Homeric and Hesiodic 0Afrodi/thj contrasts with the

squeamishness of Apollonius and Callimachus, who prefer locutions such as Kypris and

Kythereia (cf. Fantuzzi 1988, 162 – 3); on the other hand, he shuns internal Attic correption

with Heracles ( 9Hraklh=a, 9Hraklh=oj) even though Hellenistic poets had admitted

9Hrakle/hj, traditional from Hesiod onwards, and 9Hrakle/hn, newly born of the confusion ofthird- and first-declension -hj. Marginal cases are prepositions, depending on how strongly a

word-boundary was perceived: 140 e0pi\ Qrhi+ki/ou; 331 e0pi\ trissh/n; 492 meta\ druma/; 746

e0pi\ pro\j bore/hn; 900 u9po\ prw=nej; in any case, they are greatly outnumbered by instances

where the following mute and liquid make position.60

(v) Lengthening in arsis

Unlike Callimachus, who employed both categories equally (Magnelli 2002, 85), Dionysius

is very much less given to lengthening short closed syllables (third princeps: 381a0gxi/poro n, 988 Qwni=ti j; fourth princeps 751 qe/mi j) than short final vowels.61 Counting is

complicated by the presence of variants (at 624 and 852, para/ alternates with parai/, in 674

and 962 u9po/ with u9pai/); if the artificially lengthened forms are included, it produces a total

of 21 (about once every 56 lines), a fairly comparable frequency to Callimachus (23 in 900

verses of the hexameter Hymns), and still closer if the orthographical manipulations are

59 In both cases the manuscripts vary. If we accept Trinakri/h rather than Trinaki/h,

Dionysius is following a Hellenistic licence: cf. Call. Hymn 3.57 Trinakri/h (P.Ant., and v.l.

in codd ., which read mostly Trinaki/h); fr. 40 H. (47 M.) Trina/krion po/nton; fr. 43.60 H.

(50 M.) Trinakri/hj; Theocr. Id . 28.18.

60 On the practice of the Hellenistic poets, see Fantuzzi 1988, 157 – 63; S. Slings,

‘Hermesianax and the Tattoo Elegy (P. Brux. Inv. E 8934 and P. Sorb. Inv. 2254)’, ZPE 98

(1993), 29 – 37, at 36 – 7; Magnelli 2002, 82. In Callimachus’ Hymns there are 40 failures to

make position, of which a mere six occur internally within a word; in Apollonius, there are

only 10 failures to make position at word-boundary, and a mere three cases internally; Aratus

almost completely avoids it. Dionysius’ restraint in Attic correption was one of the criteria by

which Mommsen, 813 – 14, ranked him among the later Alexandrians.

61

On the latter, see A. Rzach, ‘Studien zur Technik des nachhomerischen heroischen Verses’,SAWW 95 (1880), 681 – 872, at 713 – 15.



64

omitted. Position in the line is largely a matter of the part of speech involved. There is a

strong preference for lengthening in the fourth foot with prepositions and preverbs in tmesis

(the only exceptions are 918 e0ni/ and 186 (W3), 979 e0pi/, in the second); in this respect he

seems to have regularised and extended a pattern already partially visible in his models.62

Four out of the five examples with te, on the other hand, go in either the second (502 pollh/ te liparh/ te; 1019 Ghloi/ te Ma/rdoi te) or fifth (469 Pelwri/j te Lilu/bh te, 914

0Orqwsi/da te Ma/raqo/n te) feet (the exception, 1074 para/ te r9ei/wn, is influenced by the

pattern with r9o/oj and r9ei=n in the fourth, cf. also 416 i3na r9e/ei). Here too Dionysius has

followed established patterns with both proper nouns (Hes. Th. 218, 905 Klwqw/ te La/xesi/nte; 227 Lh/qhn te Limo/n te; Call. Hymn 4.292 Ou]pi/j te Locw/ te) and epithets (Hes. Th.

320 deinh/n te mega/lhn te; Od . 12.436 makroi/ te mega/loi te, 14.7 = 15.418 kalh/ temega/lh te, cf. 16.158 (dat.)). The only other possible examples are 343 o3 r9a/ (W3) (first

foot), cf. Od . 22.327 and Ap. Rhod. 4.251, and 1100 i0de\ r9w/pessi (fourth foot), cf. Il.

21.559; the final syllable of i0de/ is usually long by position in this sedes in Homer, but cf. also

Il . 6.469 i0de> \ lo/fon, 24.166 i0de> \ nuoi/.

(vi) Other remarks on quantity

For eccentric lengthenings, see 492 dru<ma/, 667 phgeto/n, 703 nebri=daj; for the selection of

a short vowel against the commoner long one, see 83 w0rῠ /etai, 421 a0ntikrῠ /.

OUTER METRIC

(i) Hexameter schemes

The figures in the following table are expressed as percentages.

Periegesis Il ./Od .63

Hymn 464

Ap. Rh. Aratus Nicander 65

62 51 a0pai\ noti/hj; 572 kata\ no/mon; 1090 e0pi\ no/ton; 1147 e0pi\ Gaggh/tida; 624, 852,

1023 para\ r9o/on, 555 peri\ r9o/oj; 429 poti\ r9iph/n, 470 e0pi\ r9iph/n, 674 u9p\o r9iph= |si, cf. 962

u9pai\ r9iph/n; 1057 e0ni\ mega/roisin. Before Dionysius, preposition + r9o/on is almost

invariably in the fourth foot (except Simias fr. 1.5 P./Fränkel); preposition + r9iph/ in second

foot in Homer, but in fourth in Ap. Rhod. 3.970, Call. Hymn 4.25; e0ni\ mega/roisin in Homer

about twice as often in fourth foot as in second, and four times each in Ap. Rhod.; e0ni< \ me/ss-

twice in second foot in Ap. Rhod., once in fourth. Where there is a choice, then, Dionysius

generally opts for the fourth foot.

63 Figures from B. A. van Groningen, La Poésie verbale grecque (Amsterdam, 1953), 34/202,

who gives separate figures for both Homeric poems.

64 From Mineur, 36. I have not calculated figures from Brioso Sánchez (n. below), who gives

an overall figure, rather than one for the specifically hexametrical works. For the Hecale, seeHollis 1990, 17.



65

DDDDD 20.56 19.1/18.6 20.7 22,0 18.04 19.92

SDDDD 15.4 13.9/12 8.7 11.06 11.8 11.24

DSDDD 14.13 14.5/14.9 32.5 19.74 13.1 23.82

SSDDD 9.81 8.1/8.1 6.8 7.7 8.07 7.66DDDSD 6.6 8.5/8.4 8.1 6.42 5.2 9.32

DSDSD 5.41 6.1/6.8 9.3 5.49 4.34 9.39

SDDSD 4.06 6/6.5 4.0 2.98 3.9 5.3

DDSDD 3.3 4.2/4.2 1.2 5.86 6.33 3.26

DDDDS 2.8 1.1/0.8 1.6 2.54 3.73 0.89

SSDSD 2.8 3.7/3.7 2.5 1.09 2.86 3.13

SDDDS 2.54 0.9/0.7 0.6 1.87 3.04 0.7

DSSDD 2.45 2.8/3.6 2.8 4.03 5.03 2.47

DSDDS 2.37 0.8/0.8 0.9 2.28 3.21 0.64

SDSDD 1.86 2.7/2.8 0.3 2.95 3.64 1.4

SSSDD 1.61 1.2/1.4 0 0.7 1.3 0.06

SSDDS 1.27 not given 0 1.06 1.47 0.19

DDSSD 0.93 1.3/1.4 0 0.29 0.87 0.26

DDSDS 0.68 not given 0 0.69 0.69 0

DSSDS 0.51 0.2/0.2 0 0.38 0.69 0

DSSSD 0.42 0.7/0.9 0 0.07 0.26 0.13

SDSSD 0.25 0.8/0.7 0 0.07 0.69 0.13

SDDSS 0.085 not given 0 0.03 0.17 0

SDSDS 0.085 0.1/0.1 0 0.34 0.43 0.13

SSDSS 0.085 not given 0 0 0.09 0

In other words, the Periegesis contains 24 patterns, compared to Homer’s 32 (i.e. all possible

combinations, including DDDSS, DDSSS, DSDSS, DSSSS, SDSSS, SSSDS, SSSSD,

65 The figures in these final three columns are calculated from the table in M. Brioso

Sánchez, ‘Nicandro y los esquemas del hexámetro’, Habis, 5 (1974), 9 – 23, on 14. Ludwich,

321 – 2, provides invaluable data for the Homeric poems (separately and combined), Hesiod,

Empedocles, Apollonius, Nicander’s Theriaca, Dionysius, the first book of Oppian, ps-

Oppian, Gregory of Nazianus, Quintus, Nonnus’ Paraphrasis, and Paul the Silentiary. Brieferremarks in Ilyushechkina 2010, 128.



66

SSSSS, which Dionysius does not employ), Aratus’ 28, Apollonius’ 26, Callimachus’ 21, Nicander’s 20. The patterns Dionysius admits and Callimachus does not are SDSSD (three

instances, 269, 361, 912), SDDSS (one instance, 571), and SSDSS (one instance, 725).

Apollonius also lacks SSDSS, while he admits, and Dionysius does not, SSSSD (3 instances),

SSSDS (four instances), DDDSS (one instance). In the Periegesis we find a tendency wellestablished elsewhere, for consecutive lines (in this case as many as four, 502 – 5, 827 – 30, cf.

47 – 9 + spondeiazon; three at 55 – 7, 136 – 8, 295 – 6 + spondeiazon, 394 – 6, 673 – 5, 685 – 7, 790

(spondeiazon) + 791 – 2, 795 – 7, 824 – 6, 856 – 8, 919 – 21, 967 – 9) to repeat the same pattern,

without its being clear whether a particular effect is intended. Sometimes a pattern reinforces

a parallelism (190 – 1, 233 – 4, 795 – 6, 817 – 18), and holodactylic lines are often found in

connection with the onrush of a river (e.g. 246, 296, 301, 311, 352, 416, 433 – 4, 644, 665,

919 – 20, 1137 – 8, 1146) —but are, in any case, the poem’s single most favoured pattern.

(ii) ‘ Dactylicity’

The tendency, over time, is for the hexameter to become more dactylic; this section asks how

Dionysius compares with his models.

The following table presents the number of dactyls in each verse as a percentage of

the total number of lines in the poem:66

Hom. Hes. Call. H . Ap. Rh. Arat.

5 dactyls 20.56 18.9 17.3 22.3 22.0 18

4 dactyls + 1 spondee 42.22 41.7 40.6 50.0 45.6 40.3

3 dactyls + 2 spondees 30.12 30.6 32.0 24.1 27.7 33.1

2 dactyls + 3 spondees 7.02 8.1 9.1 3.5 4.5 8.1

1 dactyl + 4 spondees 0.08 0.6 0.9 — 0.1 0.5

In other words, Dionysius is slightly fonder than Homer, but slightly less fond than

Apollonius and Callimachus, of holodactylic lines; his figures for lines with four, three, and

two dactyls are significantly closer to Homer’s and Hesiod’s than to the Hellenistic poets’; but his reluctance to admit tetraspondaic lines (a single example in 725) is on a par with his

Hellenistic models. As a percentage of the countable feet, the poem contains 24.77%

spondees; this falls between writers most enamoured of spondees (Homer 26%, Hesiod 27%,

Aratus 26.5%, Theocritus 27.7%) and those with a more dactylic tendency (Apollonius 23%,

66 Figures for comparison are taken from Mineur, 35 (for Homer and Hesiod) and Magnelli

2002, 63 (for the Hellenistic poets); the column for Callimachus gives the figures for his

hexameter Hymns, but Magnelli also provides details for his elegiac poems, for Theocritus,

Alexander of Aetolia, and Euphorion. Further material in Ludwich, 308 – 12 (expressed as rawnumbers rather than percentages), and in Brioso Sánchez (art. cit.), 19.



67

Callimachus 21.8%).67 The average number of dactyls per verse — 3.76 — compares with 3.7

in Homer, 3.63 in Hesiod, 3.67 in Aratus, 3.85 in Apollonius, 3.9 in Callimachus’ fourth Hymn, and 4.1 in the Aitia and Epigrams (Magnelli 2002, 60); here too he shows himself

poised between Homer and the Alexandrians, but closer to Homer.

To refine what has been said so far, the next table gives the percentage of spondees ineach of the first five feet:68

Il ./Od . Hesiod Call. H . Ap. Rh. Aratus

S1 39.76 39.1, 37.9 40.9 26.0 30.2 37.9

S2 40.86 39.8, 42.4 43.2 48.5 43.4 41.0

S3 12.1 14.9, 16.2 17.3 8.4 15.5 20.4

S4 20.64 29.0, 30.2 28.3 19.3 17.3 19.2

S5 10.39 5.1, 4.7 6.5 6.9 8.7 14.3In general, then, we see a line which is more dactylic than Homer’s, but not dramatically so,and less dactylic than that of Callimachus and Apollonius. As in all hexameter poetry,

spondees tend to concentrate in the first two feet, but Dionysius’ percentages for both feet arevery close to those of Homer, Hesiod, and Aratus, and at a further remove from Callimachus

and Apollonius; in particular, the big discrepancy between the first and second feet in

Callimachus and Apollonius is not to be found in the Periegesis. For the third foot, the figure

is poised between Homer and Callimachus, while for the fourth he comes much closer to the

Hellenistic poets. If he is less hospitable to spondees in this position than Homer and Hesiod,

it is not on account of fidelity to Naeke’s law (see below), to which he is in fact indifferent;rather, it seems that he partakes of a general Hellenistic trend.

We come next to spondeiazontes. The poem contains 123 (= 10.39%), a figure which

is marked enough to be Hellenistic, but much lower than in the extremists (Antimachus, 22%;

Eratosthenes, 24%), and lower also than Aratus (14.3%) and Callimachus in the Hecale

(13%).69 As with other hexameter patterns, this one tends to cluster, most strikingly in 450 – 5,

where five out of six line-endings are spondaic; three occur in a row at 908 – 10. In all, 33 out

of 123, or 26.83%, are in adjacent lines or agglomerations (a minimum of 28.2% in

Euphorion, close to Callimachus’ figure in the hexameter Hymns of 26.1% and Aratus’

24.2%, but markedly more than Apollonius’ 15.1%). Only two (571, 725) are unaccompanied67 Figures from E. Magnelli, Alexandri Aetoli: Testimonia et Fragmenta (Florence, 1999), 39;

far more in Ludwich, 302 – 4.

68 I use the figures of Magnelli 2002, 61, which are somewhat different from those of Mineur,

36. He provides further details for Callimachus’ elegiac poems, Theocritus, Alexander ofAetolia, Euphorion, while Ludwich, 327 – 9, provides figures for poets across the range of

hexameter verse from Homer to Paul the Silentiary.

69 M. L. West 1982, 154; Hollis 1990, 17 – 19; Kidd, 35; Magnelli 2002, 64 – 70; Ilyushechkina

2010, 128 – 9. I have used Magnelli’s figure for Aratus, rather than West’s or Kidd’s (see hiscomment on 68).



68

by a fourth-foot dactyl;70 and only twenty do not end with the usual pattern bucolic diaeresis

+ tetrasyllable. Of the exceptions, six have a compound verb of pattern kkqqqq (26, 50, 236,

896, 1071, 1172), and fourteen a trisyllable (66, 100, 196, 215, 285, 322, 327, 450, 455, 499,

774, 816, 905, 940). The resulting proportion of tetrasyllables to trisyllables of 103 : 14, or

7.36 : 1, is markedly higher than in Callimachus (where West cites only two examples) and inApollonius, where the ratio is 29 : 1. It is closer to Theocritus’ 10 : 1, but markedly rarer thanin the Iliad , with 2.4 : 1.71 Of the tetrasyllables, the great majority (about 4/5) have initial

vowels. Although West reports that in Hellenistic poetry in general, tetrasyllabic endings are

often verbs, verbs here (30 + 3 participles) are outnumbered by nouns (66, mostly proper

names, and with 11 instances of 0Amfitri/th alone) by some 2 : 1 — a special feature of a

poem concerned with the identification of peoples and places. 45 of the 123 spondeiazontes,

or 36.59%, have a masculine caesura; as we shall see, this is very little different from the

poem as a whole.

Mineur notes a tendency for spondeiazontes in Callimachus’ fourth Hymn to concludea passage, or at least to be accompanied by a sense-pause (37). In the Periegesis, a sense-

pause, however brief, usually accompanies a spondeiazon, even if only following a

prepositional phrase (64, 327, 450, 455, 541, 575, 1023, 1039, 1146), but spondeiazontes

more often precede a phrase containing a new parallel element, subordinate verb, or main

verb. The absence of any sense-pause is rare (481, 571, 681, 881, 1104). Spondeiazontes

perhaps help to demarcate sections of the poem in 26, 134 (the first acrostich), 169, 280, 678

(Scythian tableau), 1079, 1081, 1165, cf. 706, 881, 896, 1054; for miscellaneous short

segments, see also 50 (Caspian), 194 (Nomad priamel), 197 (Carthage), 227 (course of Nile),

338 (Iberian peninsula), 422 (Isthmus), 725 (Caspian gems), 808 (Mysia), 975 (‘the other

Syria’), 1008 (Babylon), 1085 (Carmania).

INNER METRIC

(i) Caesurae

35.3% of the verses (i.e. 418) contain a masculine caesura, 64.53% (764) a feminine, and two

lines have no third-foot caesura (630, 753).72 The preference for feminine caesura is not quite

as marked as in Apollonius (67%), let alone Callimachus’ Hymns (74%), Theocritus’ epyllia(73%), and Euphorion (77.2%), but more comparable to Nicander (63%).73 Dionysius has

70 M. L. West 1982, 154 and n. 47; Hollis 1990, 18; Magnelli 2002, 69.

71 M. L. West 1982, 154 n. 48.

72 On postponement of the third-foot caesura, M. L. West 1982, 153; Hollis 1990, 19;

Magnelli 2002, 70 – 1 and n. 47. For Aratus, in whom it is commonest (eight instances), Kidd,

33.

73 M. L. West 1982, 153; Magnelli 2002, 70; Ilyushechkina 2010, 130. Mommsen’sresearches (814 –23) on the feminine caesura, in which he noted that Dionysius’ proportion is

about the Alexandrian average, and far lower than in Marcellus of Side, Oppian, Gregory of Nazianzus, and the school of Nonnus, led him to propose its use as a dating criterion.



69

little compunction about eliding de/ (28, 478, 651), te (57, 401, 613, 733, 929, 1047), e1nqa(43), prw=ta (347, 1091), and pot’ (425) across the main caesura. Lines with a masculine

caesura are mostly, but not invariably, accompanied by a further word-break at the

hephthemimeral or bucolic caesura (exceptions: 9, 266, 361, 407, 413, 563, 593, 610, 623,

672, 906, 914, 937, 1177, with which I include the prepositive elements in 73, 633, and thecontinuative in 151, 402, 1074).

There is a bucolic diaeresis in 55.83% of the verses (i.e. 661); since Dionysius is

indifferent to Naeke’s Law (below), if the 35 spondaic fourth feet followed by a word-break

are included, the figure rises to 58.7%. This compares best with Apollonius’ 57%, well aboveHomer’s 47%, above Aratus’ 50%, but short of Callimachus’ 63%, let alone 74% in

Theocritus’ bucolic Idylls and 79% in the lament for Bion.74 In 75.84% of cases a masculine

caesura is combined with a bucolic diaeresis: more often, in other words, than the overall

frequency of the bucolic diaeresis, but not so marked a propensity as with Callimachus,

whose figures in the Hecale are over 90% and 78% (Hollis 1990, 19).There is a strong tendency in Callimachus and in the bucolic poems of Theocritus for

a spondaic third foot to be combined with a bucolic diaeresis, but other poets are significantly

less inclined to this pattern; of 143 instances in the Periegesis of a spondaic third foot, there

are 31 exceptions (21.68%), which is to say that the ‘infringement’ takes place in 2.62% ofthe poem’s verses.75 Given the narrower formulation of this ‘rule’— that spondaic words

should not stand immediately after the masculine caesura unless there is a word-break at the

bucolic diaeresis76 — Dionysius infringes it with lexical words at 109, 122, 153, 269, 312,

330, 384, 400, 496, 517, 928, 930, 948, 958, 993, 1139, with metrical words at 151, 402, and

with marginal cases at 15 (gai/hj with dia\?) and 904 (toi/per prepositive?).

77

(ii) Rules about word-end

(a) Meyer’s First Law— that words beginning in the first foot do not end in the second

with the first short of an uncontracted biceps78 — is violated in 472 h0nemo/essa (in Homer the

epithet occurs at hexameter-end: Dionysius has moved it into a position where it infringes the

law) and 985 to/sson a1neuqen. I exclude 21 Kaspi/hj te and 753 oi3te bo/aj me/n (see Hollis

74 M. L. West 1982, 154; Kidd, 33.

75 M. L. West 1982, 155; Magnelli 2002, 72 – 3, with figures for comparison: 18.4% in

Apollonius, 53.6%(!) in Aratus.

76 Wifstrand, 39; Hollis 1990, 19, 20.

77 For Dionysius’ practice in regard to spondaic words before masculine caesura, see

Wifstrand, 37: despite their differing frequencies of masculine caesurae, a spondaic word

precedes in a similar proportion of lines to that found in Callimachus (20%), higher than in

Apollonius and Homer (10%).

78 M. L. West 1982, 155; Hollis 1990, 19 – 20; Magnelli 2002, 74.



70

on his Hecale fr. 1), but include 5 ou0 me\n pa=sa, 120 ou0 me\n pollo\n, and 835 e1nqa kai\ e1nqa

if me/n and kai/ are continuative.

(b) Giseke’s Law— that words shaped kqy do not end with the second foot79 — is

infringed by the following lexical words: 52 ei[j me\n a0nw/teroj; 509 klu/zet’, e0ph/ratoj;

792 to\n me\n e0de/cato; 916 kai\ Posidh/i+a (again a ‘problem’ created by Dionysius, sincepolemh/i+a e1rga in Homer stands in final position); presumably also with the metrical words

459 h3n r9a/ te Korsi/da, 800 o3j r9a/ te pro\j no/ton (if relatives and pro/j are appositive and

r9a and te continuative), and 828 e1nqa qeh= | pote; and simultaneously with Hilber g’s Law in347, 584, 589, 600, 718, 735, 765, 803, 1081, 1123, 1126, 1128 (all quoted below).

(c) Hilberg’s Law— that there is very seldom word-break after a spondaic second

foot80 — is infringed mostly in lines where a monosyllable ends the second foot (as also in

Callimachus, in whom a second monosyllable is more likely than in Dionysius to precede):

125 e0rxome/nw|: tw/j; 142 steino/tatoj dh/; 347 Turshnoi\ me/n; 584 locote/rh| ga/r; 589

Xrusei/hn toi; 600 dusmene/wn toi; 629 h0pei/roij ei[j; 718 a0ll’ ei1h toi; 735 a0mfote/rwnga/r; 765 Bu/zhre/j toi; 803 Xalkide/ej me/n; 1081 e0ggu/qi ga/r toi; 1123 pantoi=on ga/r;

1126 a1lloqi me\n ga/r; 1128 fra/zeo d’ w3j toi. There are also two examples with a proper

name: 292 kei=qi de\ Keltw=n; 489 a3j pote Ko/lxwn. Excluding lines with kai/, h2 (61, 1120),

and other appositives, this gives a total of 16, or 1.35% of lines affected: considerably higher

than in Callimachus’ Hymns (0.43%), comparable to Aratus (1.13%), and lower than

Apollonius (2.52%).81

(d ) Meyer’s Second Law— that iambic words are avoided before a masculine

caesura82 — is violated by lexical words in 433 a1gwn; 985 e0w/n; 999 nomou/j; 1074 u3dwr;

and by a metrical word in 43 kai\ e1nq’, if kai/ is appositive: five violations, affecting 0.42% of

lines. But Wifstrand, 64 – 6, adds that Callimachus tolerates them when there is a caesura after

the first biceps; that condition is met by all cases in Dionysius except 985, and so if the

percentage is calculated on the same basis as it is for Callimachus (0.32% in the Hymns,

according to Magnelli), the law is violated in a mere 0.08% of lines.

(e) Hermann’s Bridge, forbidding word-break after fourth-foot trochee,83 is not

infringed. The only word-breaks in this position involve enclitics or particles (M. Schneider,

8; Ilyushechkina 2010, 131).

( f ) Naeke’s Law— that word-break should not follow a spondaic fourth foot84

— isinfringed 35 times. True, only Callimachus fully observes this rule, but Dionysius’ figure of

79 M. L. West 1982, 155; Hollis 1990 20; Magnelli 2002, 75.

80 M. L. West 1982, 155; Hollis 1990, 20; Kidd, 33; Magnelli 2002, 75 – 6.

81 Magnelli 2002, 75.

82 M. L. West 1982, 155; Hollis 1990, 20; Magnelli 2002, 74 – 5.

83

M. L. West 1982, 155; Hollis 1990, 20; Magnelli 2002, 76. Aratus violates the bridge eighttimes (so Magnelli), but the discussion in Kidd, 34, takes no account of appositives.



71

2.96% is higher still than Aratus’ 2.61%, the most relaxed of the Hellenistic poets in thisregard, and very considerably higher than Apollonius’ 1.16%—let alone Nicander’s twosolitary infractions in the Theriaca and Alexipharmaca.85 Given that Dionysius’ percentageof spondaic fourth feet is quite close to Callimachus’, while his admission of a diaeresis after

the fourth foot is actually less, it seems to be a simple case of insensitivity to the restriction: itconforms to the pattern noted by Magnelli (2002, 78) that the poets seemingly most

predisposed to the violation (Callimachus and bucolic Theocritus) are in fact those who most

strictly avoid it, while those less predisposed are also more tolerant of it.

( g ) Tiedke –Meyer’s Law— that words shaped kkq or qq are avoided after the

hephthemimeral caesura (therefore ending in the fifth princeps)86 — is violated in 402 ze/furon; 510 mega/lw|; 670 plei=ston; 904 Su/rioi (unless toi/per is appositive): four

violations, affecting 0.34% of lines. In this case, Dionysius lies between Callimachus’ Hymns

(0.21%) and Apollonius (0.53%), but nowhere near Aratus’ 3.73% or ‘epic’ Theocritus’

3.89%.(h) Bulloch’s law— that a medial caesura should in Callimachus be accompanied by a

regular caesura in the third foot, by a bucolic diaeresis, and by punctuation at either or both of

the main caesura or bucolic diaeresis87 — comes into play in 11 lines in the Periegesis

(excluding pre- and post-positives), one of which lacks a bucolic diaeresis (278), and six

more a sense-pause at either of the requisite places (103, 605, 871, 935, 952, 1140); 140, 654,

870, 985 are compliant. Bulloch showed that Callimachus was uniquely fastidious in this

respect, but it is illuminating to measure how far other poets depart from his purism. As his

comparative table shows, Dionysius’ heedfulness of the bucolic diaeresis in such lines is well

within the range of Hellenistic poets (infringements 0 – 12.5%), but the tolerance of lack ofsense-pause goes beyond the upper end of the scale for Hellenistic poets (44.0% in ps.-

Theocritus, 44.4% Moschus), and is more comparable to certain archaic poems, such as the

pseudo-Hesiodic Scutum (52.6%) and the Homeric Hymns to Aphrodite (50%) and Hermes

(57.1%).

(i) Monosyllables at verse-end. The four examples, at 583, 759, 966, and 1179, all

display the rhythm most usual in this connection (kk | qkkq | q).88 I exclude the enclitic

pronouns at 368, 933, 965 and instances with te (9, 32, 304, 464, 469, 875, 914).

84 M. L. West 1982, 154 – 5; Hollis 1982, 20 – 1; Kidd, 33 – 4; Magnelli 2002, 76 – 7;

Ilyushechkina 2010, 130 (claiming 40 infringements).

85 Magnelli 2002, 77; cf. De Stefani and Magnelli, 551.

86 M. L. West 1982, 155; Hollis 1990, 21; Magnelli 2002, 78.

87 A. W. Bulloch, ‘A Callimachean Refinement to the Greek Hexameter’, CQ2 20 (1970),

258 – 68; comparative table on 264; Hollis 1990, 21; Magnelli 2002, 79.

88

M. L. West 1982, 156; Hollis 1990, 21; Magnelli 2002, 79 – 80. On Dionysius, Whitby,107.



72

OTHER

(i) Tetracola

Dionysius cultivates the art of the four-word line.89 Restricting the category to verses

consisting of strictly lexical words, and excluding metrical ones,90 I count 68 in the poem

(5.66%, or one almost every eighteen lines). This is higher than any Hellenistic poet except

for Euphorion whose 9.4% is exceptional; for Nicander the figure is 4.1%, for Aratus 3.7%

(3.9% by Kidd’s figures), 3.4% for Apollonius, and only 1.6% in Callimachus. It sorts better

with other imperial poets whose ratios, according to Bassett, are 1 : 15 (Nonnus), 1 : 16

(Colluthus), 1 : 17 (Triphiodorus), and 1 : 18 (Musaeus). Unsurprisingly, a much higher

proportion of tetracola are spondaic (19, or 28.36%) than in the poem overall; the same was

already true in Homer.

The main focus of Bassett’s work concerned their syntactical relationship to the

sentence of which they are a part. Bassett concentrated on the Homeric poems, in which the

largest single group of tetracola were parenthetical or epexegetical in character, independent

syntactical units the most typical of which, in turn, were based on noun phrases, especially

proper names. Given the importance of names and the highly informational character of the

Periegesis, one might have expected the same to be the case in Dionysius too. We do, indeed,

find this type of verse often used to introduce and thematise a geographical name (e.g. 89,

218, 289, 361, 369, 430, 451, 955, 974), but in terms of syntax what one finds is a majority of

lines (37, or 55.2%)91 containing a main verb, a category Bassett labels ‘narrative’ because ofits enjambement with the wider context, and which, as he demonstrates, gains in popularity

over time at the expense of the ‘epexegetical’ type. Dionysius thus turns out to reflect the

usual post-Homeric trend (57% ‘narrative’ in Nonnus, and indeed 73% Callimachus, 78%Apollonius). The second largest group contains a participial clause (13 examples),92 more

rarely an adjective (99, 245, 1150), or an adjective combined with a participle (68, 89, 200).

Noun phrases tend to fall into groups: a common noun is followed by a genitive proper noun

89 S. E. Bassett, ‘Versus tetracolos’, CPh 14 (1919), 216 – 33; Kidd, 35 – 6; Magnelli 2002, 85 – 7. On Dionysius, Whitby, 107 and n. 81 (counting 62 instances, or 1 in 19); Ilyushechkina

2010, 132.

90 The issue is noted by Magnelli 2002, 86 – 7. One difficulty is that it would expand the field

enormously, well beyond the range of existing comparative studies; indeed, many lines

contain, not just one, but several, appositives, which at some point must compromise the

principle of the tetracolon. Many lines contain more than one preposition and/or conjunction

or conjunctive particle; enclitics, e.g. in 159, 368, 513, 541, 557, 669, 743, 961, 965, further

complicate the picture.

91 40, 59, 132, 203, 206, 209, 218, 259, 291, 293, 361, 397, 430, 451, 456, 475, 551, 576,

590, 655, 665, 689, 722, 755, 842, 853, 873, 955, 974, 1006, 1040, 1042, 1052, 1079, 1110,

1117, 1127.

92

53, 113, 286, 404, 411, 443, 476, 490, 573, 657, 790, 953, 1115. These are epexegetical;203, where a genitive absolute is connected to the following line by an adverb, is not.



73

in 369, 714, 808, 863; a common noun and a proper noun are in apposition in 462, 571, 880,

and 1022, as also in 593 in combination with a dependent genitive. Closest to the old

Homeric pattern describing a relationship is 1022 Ai0h/tao qugatro/j, a0mu/monoj h9rwi5nhj,

although it does not actually name Medea; 462 Ai0o/lou 9Ippota/dao, filocei/nou basilh=oj,

with patronymic and decription of status, also presents a Homeric pattern ( Il . 4.87, 11.372, cf.Od . 12.267, 15.52). 289, unusually, is a prepositional phrase.

Tetracola are demonstrably used for special effect, for example, for virtuoso

geographical description (200, 201, 203, 404, 590, 665),93 ornamental ethnography (286, 293,

571, 573, 689, 755, 853, 1010, 1040, 1042, 1115, 1117, 1127), paradoxography (411, 593,

1150), mythography (206, 291, 462, 476, 490, 655, 657, 790, 808, 873, 1006, 1022), in

recherché periphrases (113, 259), in virtuoso tableaux (443, 576, 714, 842, 953), and in other

purple passages (e.g. 132, the Sporades at the end of the first acrostich; 209, the Nasamones

and their spectacular punishment; 456, metonomasia of Gadeira). In half a dozen cases a

four-word hexameter gives a sense of dignity and surcease (40, 68, 397, 880, 1052, 1079),heightening into a closural device the tendency, from Homer onwards, for tetracola to be

bounded, especially at the end, by sense pauses.

(ii) Verse patterns

It comes as no surprise that the Periegesis contains a number of formal verse-patterns; if we

look further afield than the Golden Line and its variants, which in my view is restrictive, it

becomes apparent that Dionysius is using, or very closely approximating to, many schemes

for the distribution of two nouns with their epithets across a single verse. True Golden Lines

(ab x AB) appear in 246, 383, and 963, while 27, 107, 221, 424, 536, 849, 1094, and 1184

present all but the first element. The variant ab x BA occurs in 1067, with a near-miss (again

with all but the first element) in 12.94 Another formal pattern, aA x bB, is found in 285, 1171,

as well as 380 (with the slight complication of anaphora, so that a is strictly enjambed from

the line before); close approximations occur in 268, 488, 662, and 809 (lacking a); its

matching partner, aA x Bb, does not occur, but 41 lacks only a. Aa x Bb occurs (if x can be a

noun) at 911, cf. 631 (lacking B). If we look further afield, many verses arrange two nouns

and their epithets around another element which is not in central position ( x aABb: 669; a x

bAB: 371; aAb x B: 264; abB x A: 49, 420; aAB x b: 373; AabB x: 352; aAbB x: 131, 626;

AaBb x: 432), or lack any element x ( AaBb: 318, 912; AabB: 13, 458, 462, 521, 537, 819,880, 1002, cf. 458; AaBab: 353; aAbB: 56, 66, 169, 297, 369, 714, 780, 808, 901, 1121, cf.

494, 816; ABab: 407; AbBa: 503, 585; abBA: 1060; AcBc: 1100; aBaC : 194). For tricola in

the Periegesis, see Lightfoot 2008, 29 n. 49. A noun and its epithet frequently book-end the

line, not because the epithet has any special emphasis, but with the artistic effect of self-

containment as an end in itself. This pattern is not marked in Hellenistic poetry per se, though

favoured by Euphorion and to some extent by Nicander, but becomes more fashionable in

93 Perhaps also to add impressiveness to descriptions of the sea (59, 475) or a land surrounded

by the sea (99), a moutainous landscape (245), the rising sun (1110).

94 A more distant variant is Ab x aB, from which a is the only element missing in 354, 824.



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imperial poetry, as well as in Latin from Catullus onwards.95 In Dionysius it is found in 49,

112 – 13, 142, 150, 584 (recalling Arat. 43), 692, 845, 955, 1060, 1067, 1113, 1117, and in

other cases where another epithet intervenes, in asyndeton (54, 144, 326, 476, 755, 791,

1040, 1063) or with connectives (986, 1105).96 Almost always the adjective precedes, except

in 755, 1040, and where the descriptive element is a participle, in 104, 206, 585, 667, 868,and 503, where the noun is anaphoric.97 Another arrangement is for one element (usually the

adjective) to stand at the main caesura, the other (usually the noun) at verse-end.98 I count

100 such lines (= 8.45% of the poem) in the Periegesis,99 more than double the frequency in

Apollonius, comparable to Callimachus’ fourth Hymn (8.05%), but significantly fewer than

in Euphorion (12.5%), let alone the neoterics (18 – 20%). Mostly the epithet precedes.100 The

result may rhyme, and does so 40% of the time;101 more resonance is achieved by the double

rhymes in 29, 587, 590, 624, 938, 1023, 1078, 1163 (-oio); 200, 1032, 1072, 1115 (h|si); 40,

637, 665, 888, 1150 (-oisi). Dionysius would seem to be fonder of the effect than

Callimachus, only two of whose sixteen internal rhymes in the hexameter Hymns involve two

syllables (Magnelli 2002, 88 n. 121).

95 Wifstrand, 133 – 9; Magnelli 2002, 88 – 9; for Dionysius, cf. Whitby, 105 and n. 65.

96 A strong disjunction in 21; in 921 the intervening epithets are predicative.

97 Wifstrand notes that the commonest shapes for adjectives in this position are qqq and

qkkq, and for nouns at line-end kqq. He is writing of Apollonius, but the patterns seems to

hold good for other authors, including Dionysius (qqq: 21, 49, 326, 692, 845, 955, 986,

1105; qkkq: 113, 142, 144, 476, 584, 1067, 1113, 1117; kqq: 21, 49, 112, 150, 326, 476,

845, 986, 1060, 1113, 1117). Colour-terms in 144, 1060, 1105, 1117.

98 Magnelli 2002, 88.

99 Related, but not included, are 132, 462, 536, 852, 880, 1000, 1022, 1137. Vv. 718, 862 are

excluded because of the intervening epithet: there is no hyperbaton.

100 The noun first only in 135, 170, 323, 329, 407, 953, 1039, 1122.

101

Plus -h|si and -aij (v.l. -h|si) at 99, -h|si and -aij (v.l. -h|j) at 824; -h and -me/nh, -oj and-menoj, at 146, 201, 775, -enta and -a in 806?



75

SUMMARY

Dionysius produces a refined effect. He shares trends (restrictions on elision; overall drift to

greater ‘dactylicity’;102 increased use of feminine103 and bucolic caesurae) and certain

mannerisms (the spondeiazon; the tetracolon, especially in its ‘narrative’ form) with

Hellenistic poetry, but eschewing specifically Callimachean mannerisms (Naeke’s Law;spondaic third foot combined with bucolic diaeresis; Bulloch’s law), and in some respects is

poised closer to Homer than some of his Hellenistic models (the number of dactyls and

spondees per line closer to Homer than the most dactyl-prone Alexandrians; similarly for

overall numbers of spondees in first, second, and to some extent third feet). Self-created

violations of Meyer’s First Law and Giseke’s Law are interesting. Where Dionysius invests

his art is less in metrical refinement — though he is of course a highly competent versifier — and more in formal verbal arrangements and patterns within the line. This is clearly related to

his use of the catalogue form, which naturally invites pleasing arrangements of two, three,

and even four elements across a single verse. Perhaps more self-consciously than any of hisHellenistic models, he displays several hexameter schemes, approximates to more, and uses

noun – epithet combinations, not only to bisect lines at caesura and line-end, but also to frame

them, drawing attention to each verse as a unit of virtuoso artistry.

5. A LANGUAGE FOR GEOGRAPHY?

In principle it must be important to ask whether Dionysius uses or creates a technical or

pseudo-technical vocabulary. This entails, but is not limited to, the question of Dionysius’

102 A trend which accelerates in later imperial poets, which Ludwich’s figures permit us tostudy in detail (and in brief, in M. L. West 1982, 178). Dionysius’ 25% of spondees per line

is still comparable with Oppian’s and ps.-Oppian’s 24%, but in Quintus the figure falls to 14 – 18%, and in Nonnus to 15 – 16%. The numbers of spondees per line are not dramatically

different from those of either Oppian or ps.-Oppian (Dionysius has marginally fewer lines

with four dactyls than either poet), and in fact rise in ps.-Manetho (the range for holodactyliclines is only 9 – 19%, while the range for lines with three spondees rises to 8 – 14%); but in

Quintus, and of course Nonnus and his school, the number of holodactylic lines rises, to 36%

in Nonnus’ Paraphrasis, and to as much as 50% in Musaeus (who has fewer than half as

many lines with three dactyls as Dionysius, or 14%). Further comparative figures for lines

with three and four spondees in imperial poets (Quintus, Coluthus, Triphiodorus, Oppian, ps.-

Manetho, as well as Nicander) in J. la Roche, ‘Zur Prosodie und Metrik der späteren Epiker’,WS 22 (1900), 35 – 55, at 39 –43: Dionysius’ 7% is well above all of them except ps.-Manetho,

for whom la Roche gives an overall figure of 9%.

103

Other imperial poets in M. L. West 1982, 177: the proportion reaches 81% in Quintus,82% in Nonnus, 99% in Agathias.



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use of the language of prose.104 If the poem offers ‘soft’ didaxis, how far does it at least try to

conjure the impression of a technical style? To what extent is the poet trying to avoid

obfuscation? Does he show any sign of wishing to avoid circumlocution and approximation?

Does poetic vocabulary serve his purposes, or does he have recourse to the language of prose,

either in the interests of clarity or to give the impression of a technical manual? And what precedents does he follow?

Dionysius prefers a poetic register for his geographical terms. For example, whereas

prose uses qa/lassa or pe/lagoj, Dionysius (who uses the latter only in 59, and not to name

a specific sea) also has a3lmh, a9lo/j (etc.), and po/ntoj.105 Forms which are prosaic, or

neutral, are indeed used, but often there is an attempt to naturalise them by poeticisation, or

through the substitution of poetic synonyms. For example, muxo/j is neutral in register, and

very common, but Dionysius adds a little spice with the heteroclite plural muxa/, and with the

irregular superlative mu/xatoj, both with a pedigree in Hellenistic poetry (above, p. 52).

Again, besides the standard porqmo/j (142) Dionysius uses porqmi/j (80, 344), slightlydefamiliarised with a new suffix. As for substitution, the denizens of Arabia Felix, normally

eu0dai/monej, are o1lbistoi (927), with an irregular superlative first found in Callimachus.

The lesser of the two Syrtes (normally just mikra/) and Little Phrygia (normally mikra/ or

minor ) are both likewise rendered with poetic comparatives, baiote/rh (199, 810). A happy

choice of inflectional form can bring poetic and prosaic, or neutral, forms into harmony. One

of Dionysius’ favourite verbs of extent (of which more later) is the perfect of tei/nein (18

u9perte/tatai; 20 te/tatai; 40, 308, 332, 468, 759, 1037 e0kte/tatai). Herodotus uses it in

geographical contexts; so too Aristophanes, of Euboea stretched out on a map.106 At the same

time,te/tatai

is already Homeric and Hesiodic — usually in contexts suggesting tension,

though occasionally used of spreading or extent.107

Despite the default poetic register —which also permits a good deal of ‘neutral’words, such as a0gkw/n, au0lw/n, i0sqmo/j, loco/j, muxo/j — some words seem to have a prosaic

character, especially in cases of overlap with Strabo.108 The case of katagra/yaimi in 707 is

104 Not widely discussed apropos of other didactic poets: cf. Jacques, ii, p. xcviii and n. 205:

‘Je laisse ici de côté ses emprunts à la prose médicale, notamment à Hippocrate . . . pour ne

m’occuper que du langage poétique’; Crugnola, 136 – 44.

105

In Homer, there was a tendency for a3la and a9lo/j to be used of offshore waters, or thesea seen outwards from the land, and especially with prepositions; and for po/ntoj to be used

of the high seas (D. Gray, ‘Homeric Epithets for Things’, CQ 41 (1947), 109 – 21, at 109 – 13).

Something of this (loose) distinction remains in the Periegesis, with a3la (12 out of 16

occurrences) and a9lo/j (6 out of 13 occurrences) used especially with prepositions (a1gxi,e0ggu/j, e0ggu/qi, u9pei/r, a0pai/) which place it in relation to the land.

106 parate/tatai: Hdt. 2.8.1, 4.38.2, 4.39.1; Ar. Nub. 212.

107 Od . 11.19, Hes. Op. 549. It is used of a spatial extent (though on a much smaller scale) in

Posidipp. 8.4 A. – B. e0kte/tatai; land stretches out with this verb in ps.-Opp. Cyn. 4.337.

108 pp. 30-1; e.g. 89 parauga/zousa; (perhaps) 214 proneneuko/tej; 404 muouri/zonti.



77

particularly interesting because the narrator seems to reflect on his work as if it were a

technical work (perhaps a map drawn up in a scientific spirit). We must distinguish between

different kinds of prose form (e.g. Herodotean epic-Ionic? koinh/?) and reasons for their

presence in Dionysius. Slips, or inadvertent reflections of the contemporary language, are few

and far between; Mommsen made much ado about the prose use of e3wj with genitive(890 n.), but by Dionysius’ standards this is unusual. There is a smattering of geographical

terminology with parallels in Herodotus, Strabo, and other writers: 230, 354, 661, 1094

a0pote/mnetai (cf. 1133 a0potmh/gei), of rivers;109 74 e0kde/xetai; 14, 636 o9ri/zei, 920 (dia\)o9ri/zwn; 253, 729 parrali/hn (with epic spelling).110 The threefold use of a0gke/xutai of

inland waterways (70, 86, 164) cleverly tricks out the common enough prosaic a0naxei=sqai with an Apollonian verb form. But the noun – epithet combination sialw&dea xulo&n in 791 is

medical language, used very precisely. The phrase could reproduce words from lost scientific

didatic poetry, and/or could be an attempt to sound like Nicander (for stylistic pastiche, see p.

99).

The examples in the previous paragraph are reasonably clear. But it is difficult to stay

content with simple labels for very long, for a word’s register often changes over time, or itmay have already crossed over between prose and poetry before it reaches a given author.

Nicander drew on the Hippocratic writers, who themselves had drawn on Homer, and the

Hellenistic poets are omnivorous in their lexical sources. A couple of simple examples: the

pro/xusij of the Assyrian land (772) comes straight from Apollonius (2.964), but Apollonius

himself has this sense of pro/xusij from Herodotus, who uses it of the alluvial soil of the

Nile Delta (2.5.2, 2.12.2). The influence of Callimachus is to be suspected on Dionysius’ useof the verb kate/rxesqai of the Nile, but Callimachus himself looks to have been influenced

by Herodotus, and in general the verb is equally at home in prose and poetry (221 n.).

grammh/ is basically a technical term with various applications, astronomical and

geographical. Dionysius uses it for both a line of latitude (11) and a meridian (313), both of

which can be paralleled from Strabo’s excerpts from Eratosthenes. Elsewhere, however, he

conjures its astronomical sense (236) where, in connection with Egyptian astronomy, it can

hardly be independent of the opening lines of Callimachus’ Coma Berenices. A final example

is pleura//pleuro/n. Dionysius uses this frequently as the mathematical term for the sides of

a geometrical figure, whether an exact or an approximate one, of the sides of a country, and

even of a coastline (where the sea seems to be regarded as a shaped entity in its own right, as

opposed to something which merely throws the land into relief).111 It is basically a prose use.

109 e.g. Hdt. 1.72.3 (active); Polyb. 2.16.7, Arr. An. 5.6.3, Dio 39.49.2 (middle).

110 Adjectival para/lioj (with epic spelling in 380, 799, 827), however, is also in the

tragedians (LSJ I, adding Soph. fr. 502.3 Radt).

111 Geometrical figure: 277, 1130; approximate figure: 242, 468, 887; sides of a country: 346,

727, 891 – 2; coastline: 72, 324, 958 (compare Strab. 2.5.19 o9ri/zetai (sc. the Mediterranean)

d’ e0k me\n tou= deciou= pleurou=, ibid. to\ d’ e9w= |on tou= pela/gouj pleuro/n, 2.5.20 tou/tou

(sc. the Adriatic) de\ th\n me\n e0n decia= | pleura\n h9 0Illuri\j poiei=). Also for the sides of a

mountain in 815 (cf. Strab. 2.1.14 th= | borei/w| pleura= | tou= Tau/rou), accepting M. L. West’s



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The LSJ entry is poor, but the word is used copiously by Strabo, both on his own account,

and in his discussions of Eratosthenes and of Hipparchus’ critiques of Eratosthenes.112 It

passes from prose geography into ps.-Scymn. 267 (of the triangular shape of Sicily). But is

also used by Aratus, once, in a geometrical sense (235, of the constellation Deltoton in the

form of an isosceles triangle). Aratus’ form is pleurh= |si(n), and so are ten out of sixteen ofDionysius’ uses of the word (a further two each of pleuroi=si, pleuro/n, pleurh=j). Should

we therefore say that Dionysius has the word directly from geographical writing? Or that

Aratus is the bottleneck through which it has reached him? Likelier is that he has deliberately

chosen a word which is polytonal — here and elsewhere.

To turn to questions of clarity and precision, let us next consider the adequacy and

adaptability of the poetic lexicon as a medium for scientific didaxis.

A strength of traditional poetic language is that it is good at certain types of

specificity. Already in Homer and Hesiod, landscape features are readily identified by the use

of toponyms and ethnic epithets, and Hellenistic poets go further, turning many nouns whichin early Greek hexameter poetry had usually referred to typical landscape features from

generic into specific items by combining them with proper nouns and epithets. This

heightened specificity vis-à-vis Homer and Hesiod can be seen with a1krh, a3la and a9lo/j,

pe/don, prh/wn, and proxoh/, for all of which Dionysius had precedent in earlier poetry, as

well as with a3lmh and ou]daj, where the development seems to be his own. In both cases,

what was a common noun in earlier authors is now given precision by the addition of an

ethnic adjective or genitive plural proper noun.113

Nor is traditional poetic language necessarily taxed by more technical matters. The

cardinal points are of great importance to Dionysius: he often reviews seas or lands

surrounding a given landscape feature to the north, south, east, and west, and in the case of

Sicily prefers to orient the three corners of the triangle by compass point instead of the land

opposite them, as other sources do (470 – 2 n.).114 Such four-square orientations of landscape

features exactly match the practice of prose geographers such as Polybius, Strabo, Mela, and

Ptolemy,115 but traditional poetic hexameter language gave Dionysius all he needed. It was at

e0xou/shj (1992, 569); if not, another example of a geographical area. It remains only to

account for its use of the banks of a river: 833, 1075.

112

Eratosthenes (via Strab. 2.1.22 – 9, 31, 35), Hipparchus (via Strab. 2.1.27, 2.1.29, 2.1.34)and Polybius (via Strab. 2.4.2) all apply the word to the sides of a geometrical figure.

113 a3lmh with geographical epithet in 76, 92, 380, 608, 729. In general, Dionysius’ words for‘sea’ are far oftener qualified with geographical or otherwise identifying epithets than withornamental ones. a3lmh has an ornamental epithet only in 122 ~ 384; a3la/a9lo/j has

identifying epithets thirteen times, ornamental only in 716, 719 (along with an identifying

one), and 879 (Homeric). ou]daj in 180 = 963, 423, 804.

114 Cf. the fourfold partitions of the ocean (29 – 40); the situs of Italy (99 – 102), Greece (400 – 3), and Arabia (928 – 30).

115 Examples are legion, e.g. Polyb. 2.14.4 – 6; Roman examples in Thomas 1982a, 3.



79

least arguable that Homer already referred to the four cardinal points,116 and he and his

Hellenistic imitators underlie several of Dionysius’ expressions for compass directions.117

Naturally he very often needs to say ‘to the north’, ‘to the south’, and while some of thesesimple expressions are taken from earlier poetry,118 others are created and recycled using the

techniques of formula-creation discussed above.

119

When he needs to, he can inflect duenorth (etc.) by composite expressions (‘north and west’) (437, 684, 695; cf. 92 – 4 n.). There

may be local difficulties about what Dionysius (or any other author) means, and there are

certainly problems with schematism,120 but the expressions for compass points themselves

are clear enough. On a couple of occasions he uses e0p’ or pro\j h0w= to mean, not ‘to theeast’, but ‘to the south’ (243, 332). In this case, he is apparently following the interpretation

of the Homeric formula pro\j h0w= t’ h0e/lio/n te by Crates of Mallos, who used it in support

of his view that Homer had known the four cardinal points, and therefore that h0w= was not

simply a synonym of h0e/lion.121 So once again it is not simply a matter of borrowing or

116 Od . 5.295 – 6 (see S E 295), 9.25 – 6, 10.190 – 2, Il . 12.239 – 40; Strab. 1.2.20, 28, 10.2.12; n.

121 below (Crates).

117 84, 487, 970 pro\j au0ga\j h0eli/oio ~ Od . 2.181, al .; 113 ~ ps.-Theocr. Id . 25.90 – 1; 129

sh=ma d’ e1xei zefu/rou ~ Arat. 247; 429 poti\ r9iph\n zefu/roio, 470 e0pi\ r9. z., 962 u9pai\ r9. z.,645 – 6 r9iph\n | eu1rou kai\ zefu/roio, 674 u9po\ r9iph= |si ~ Ap. Rhod. 2.1229 u9pai\ (3.970 v.l.

u9po\) r9iph=j a0ne/moio, cf. Il . 15.171 = Il . 19.358 u9po\ r9iph=j ai0qrhgene/oj bore/ao, Call.

Hymn 4.25 u9po\ (codd. u9pai\) r9iph=j . . . Strumoni/ou bore/ao; 532 kraipnoi=o . . . bore/ao ~

Od . 5.385; 1014 e0pi\ pnoih\n bore/ao ~ Il . 5.697, Ap. Rhod. 1.652, al .

118

48, 346, 666, 727 e0k bore/ao = Arat. 25, cf. 887. 421, 500 poti\ zo/fon = Il . 12.240, Od .13.241, ps.-Theocr. Id . 25.85. 332, 421 pro\j h0w=, 243 e0p’ h0w= ~ Il . 12.239, Od . 9.26, 13.240,

HHom. Ap. 436 pro\j h0w= t’ h0e/lio/n te. 299, 926, 1034 e0j/e0p’ a0ntoli/hn tetramme/noj (-oi)a1xri(j) < Arat. 632 (implicitly west).

119 North: 471, 721 e0p’ a1rktouj, 271 met’ a1., 1066 u9p’ a1., 130 e0p’ a1rktoij. 137

suro/menoj bore/hnde, 438 e9lkome/nh b., 609 o9rmhqei\j b., 785 e9lko/menai b. Unica: 519 e0p’ a0rktw/ |oio . . . bore/ao; 582, 1134 e0j po/lon (1134 v.l. du/sin) a1rktwn. South: 321, al . pro\jde\ no/ton; 243, 332 e0p’/pro\j h0w= (see below). West: 254, 409 th=j pro\j me\n zefu/roio; 662,

762, 879 e0j du/sin; 231, 634 e0j li/ba. Unica: 29 par’ e0sxatih\n zefu/roio, 122 e0pi\

ze/furon. East: 299, 419 e0j a0ntoli/hn, 698, 888 e0p’ a0ntoli/hn; 222 e0p’ a0. polu\j e3rpwn,

272 e0p’ a0. pa/lin e3rpei; 812, 830 e0p’ a0. teta/nustai; 147 e0p’ a0ntoli/hj muxo/n, 622 e0p’ a0.muxa/; 110 makro\n e0p’ a0ntoli/hn, 865 makro\j e0p’ a0., 926 tutqo\n e0p’ a0., 1034 to/sson e0p’ a0.; 260, 506, 739 met’ a0ntoli/hnde; 295, 919, 976 th=j de\ pro\j a0ntoli/hn, 695 tou= de\ p. a0.bore/hn t’, 856, 1086 tw=n de\ p. a0. Unica: 278 a0ntoli/hn e1pi me/sshn; 931 tetramme/nha0ntoli/hnde.

120 Jacob 1981, 40 – 1.

121 Crates fr. 21 Mette = 52 Broggiato; Mette, 2 – 10. Dionysius does not, however, seem to

use the correlate of this interpretation, that zo/foj meant north: for the difficultiessurrounding poti\ zo/fon in 500, see ad loc.



80

adapting words and phrases from earlier hexameter poetry, but also of awareness of the

interpretative tradition which intervenes — and for the reader it is essential to appreciate this

because the ‘learned’ reading entirely cuts across the naïve or face-value one.

Places are connected paratactically. The poem is full of adverbs of place, prepositions,

and other phrases that mean ‘near’, ‘in front of’, ‘opposite’, and so on. They lead us toconsider not only the sources of Dionysius’ vocabulary, but also how far he was aiming toconvey accurate or precise meaning, and whether the languages of prose or poetry in this

respect are a help or a hindrance.122

In practice, the great majority come from Homer and Hellenistic poetry,123 and

several seem to have been influenced specifically by Apollonius (571 a0ntipe/rhqen; e9cei/hj, a

poetic equivalent for e9ch=j, common in prose itineraries;124 114, 313, 957, 1089

katenanti/a/-on). A couple also show the influence of Aratus (176, 806, 917 h[xi/ per; 493

peraio/qen); his celestial geography is no less important than Apollonius’ terrestrial poem as

a model for spatial description. Several are strongly associated with hexameter poetry, butoccur in prose as well (e1ndoqen, e1nerqe(n), pro/sqe(n), u3perqen); 421 a0ntikru/ seems to

transfer a basically prose usage into something compatible with the epic register.

Although a sense of place is essential to almost all these words, their specifically

geographical application does not always go back to Homer. Sometimes it does,125 but in

many cases it seems to have been Apollonius’ itineraries which apply Homeric adverbs and prepositions of place to geographical proper names. Dionysius, going one stage further still,

turns many of them into formulae, or semi-formulae, by using repeatedly something

Apollonius himself had used only once, or very sparingly: the prime example is e0pi/ (both in

anastrophic combinations, such as tw= | d’ e0pi/, th= | d’ e0pi/, toi=j/toi=si d’ e0pi/, and in non-

anastrophic combinations, such as e0pi\ toi=si, e0pi\ th= |si).126 meta/ is an interesting case.

122 Herodotus’ own use of spatial prepositions is ‘ultimately hard to follow’: Purves, 129.

123 With a Homeric background: a1gxi, a0gxou=, a0gxo/qi; a1nta; a0ntipe/raian (962 n.);

e0ggu/qi; e1ktoqen; e1ndoqi; e9cei/hj; e0fu/perqe; h[xi; katenanti/a/-on (114 n.); pa/roj in a

spatial sense (220 n.); peraio/qen; propa/roiqe; prote/rw and prote/rwse; u9pe/nerqe (as

preposition). From Hellenistic poetry: 804 (e0j) a0ntipe/rhn; 258 h[xi/ te; 580 prote/rwse.

124 e9cei/hj

of place in Od . 5.70 and Hes. Th. 738; with a geographical setting in Ap. Rhod.

2.380, 395, 4.564, 1231, but in many other passages involving juxtapositions, ‘visual order’(Clare, 281 – 2; Klooster, 63).

125 e.g. Il . 2.626 1Hlidoj a1nta, Il . 24.544 – 5 Le/sboj a1nw, Frugi/h kaqu/perqe, Od . 3.170,

172 kaqu/perqe Xi/oio, u9pe/nerqe Xi/oio, Od. 4.355 Ai0gu/ptou pro/paroiqe.

126 Homer has tw= | d’ e0pi/ (426, 437, 784) , th= | d’ e0pi/ (82, 140, 357, 495, 822), toi=si d’ e0pi/,oi[j e1pi (746, 956), and (d’) e0pi\ toi=s(i) (76, 211, 216, 375, 37 8, 787, 805; t’ 427, 731), e0pi\ th= |si (467, 491, 830), e0pi\ de/ sfisi (347, 733), e0pi\ d’ au0tw= | (730 e0pi\ d’ au0toi=j). In Homer,

these phrases usually mean ‘upon this (these)’ or ‘in addition to this (these)’. In Apollonius,

they are applied to geographical itineraries (4.572 th= | d’ e0pi/; 2.396 d’ e0pi\ toi=sin); extending

the Homeric patterns, he also has 2.379 toi=j d’ e0pi/ (195, 288, 686, 746, 768, 858, 1140);



81

Although it is a standard connective in itineraries, the majority of its appearances in

Dionysius are in the anastrophic formula to\n de\ met’ (74, 83, 294, 983, cf. 749 to\n met’),th\n de\ met’ (260, 461, 506, 820), tou\j de\ met’ (368, 739, 772) whose background is in

hexameter catalogues and lists which are not in fact geographical: it is Apollonius, once

again, who applies it to geographical subject-matter, and Dionysius who massively expandsit.127 Finally, a few of the words in question imply something more than just placing one

thing with respect to another: they imply participation by a traveller. prote/rw (Homeric)

and prote/rwse imply forward motion along a trajectory, and on three or four out of five

occasions there is either a second-person verb or mention of a ship.128

Poetical prepositions and adverbs of location need not be vague. On the contrary,

some are notably precise, and Dionysius exploits that precision: 804 (e0j) a0ntipe/rhn, of the

opposite side of a strait of water, and 571 a0ntipe/rhqen, ‘from the mainland’ (opposite anisland); 606 e1ktoqen, of something without, and 507 e1ndoqen, of something lying within, a

headland or a promontory.

But there are also problems. Some words are not very precise, or are multi-

interpretable. u9pe/r and its compounds u3perqe and e0fu/perqe basically mean ‘beyond’, whichin Dionysius in practice very often means looking south.129 But u9pe/r can also refer to other

directions; u3perqen can mean north (30), while on occasion u9pe/r seems to resist the meaning

‘beyond’ altogether.130 Words meaning ‘opposite’ (114 n., 1089) and ‘in front of’ also havesome potential for vagueness. An island may lie ‘in front of’ a point on the coastline (with the

1.932, 2.357 d’ e0pi\ th= | (cf. 467, 491, 830 d’ e0pi\ th= |si). Dionysius extends the patterns further(186, 350, 706 toi=j e1pi; 533 tai=j d’ e0pi/; 428, 877 th= |j d’ e0pi/), 81, 198, 216, 378, 491

e9cei/hj d’ e0pi/), and uses them a great deal more often.

127 Il . 8.261, 17.258, 23.377; Od . 11.260, 266, 305, 572, 601; Hes. Th. 137, 381, fr. 26.31,

35.13 M. – W. In enumerations in Hellenistic poetry: Nic. Ther . 372, 588; Arat. 549; Ap.

Rhod. 2.896, 1009 (an itinerary).

128 With 2nd persons: 580, 588 (plus ship), 923, cf. 606; without: 112 (also Ap. Rhod. 1.391,

592, 964, al .; ps.-Theocr. Id . 25.90; Nicaenetus fr. 1.1P).

129

Eustathius notes this, on 103, 138, 467 (sunh/qwj au0tw= |), 506, 507; cf. Jacob 1981, 41. Itis true that u9pe/r is often used in the course of the itinerary, and that since Dionysius likes

beginning itineraries in the north-west in practice he is very often moving south — but it is by

no means always so (103, 152, 467, 821). Of the use of u9pe/r for ‘south’, Stürenburg, 26,remarks that ‘Immerhin ist sie gegenüber der für den Norden so vereinzelt, daß sie dieGedankenverbindung von “nordlich” und “oben” nicht erheblich stören konnte’; but in

principle, when u9pe/r (and compounds) signify ‘beyond’, ‘on the far side of’ (Radt on Strab.II p. 129,20f.; Bolton, 116 – 17), this may, in practice, mean south (Hdt. 4.174 tou/twn de\ katu/perqe pro\j no/ton a1nemon).

130

North: 30 (u3perqen: see above), 308, (?)731, 1014; east: 970. Other meanings: 325(‘along’?).



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implication that that is where one sets out for it),131 but 423 and 220 put some strain on the

notion of ‘behind’ and ‘before’.132 Of course, misconceptions and errors by Dionysius

himself may be to blame, but that is a matter of human error rather than of the fallibility of

the language he is using; a third source of difficulty is when lines or metrical shapes are

copied which fit their new context less well or less clearly than the old one (987 – 91 n., cf.506 – 7, 606 – 7 nn.).133

I turn, finally, to some characteristics of poetic language and its possible effects in a

didactic or technical poem.

One of the ways in which Hellenistic poets’ fascination with the meanings of wordsexpresses itself is in their exploration of the possible range of a word’s meanings. We find

this with a few of Dionysius’ geographical terms. h1peiroj means basically land, as opposed

to sea, but Dionysius uses it across the range of meanings: continent (8, 59, 211, 218, 280,

621, 629, 1081), specific land or country (77, 95, 287, 407), land in contrast to water (land as

opposed to sea: 170, 1174, 1185; inland, as opposed to on the coast: 266, 736, 876, 904, 973,1068, 1085; cf. 19, continental division by isthmus as opposed to water), and plain as

opposed to mountain (430, 717(?), 736), this latter recalling the similar use by Ap. Rhod.

2.734, 976.134 The uses of proxoh/ also show the Hellenistic characteristic of pushing a

word’s etymology to extend its senses. In Homer on at least a couple of occasions this word

certainly means the outflow or mouth of a river, but basically means simply ‘flowingforward’, and so may also refer to the outpourings from its source, and hence ‘flow’ or‘current’ more generally.135 Dionysius not only exploits the meanings he found in his sources,

but also enriches them as far as etymology will allow: seas now have their own proxoai/ in

the form of tides and indentations in the coastline, and the ocean has proxoai/ in the form ofinlets and gulfs.136 This lexically exploratory approach is that of a Hellenistic poet, not a

131 591 propa/roiqe, 479 and 511 pro/sqe; for this usage see Janni 1984, 108 – 20.

132 As Counillon 1983, 189, notes, in 312 and 1016 (and according to him also 591)

propa/roiqe means ‘beyond’.

133 Perhaps 85 au0ta\r e1nerqen (‘below’) also belongs here, if it is regarded as an unhappyvariation of 30 au0ta\r u3perqen, in the same sedes, and contextually clear.

134 Greaves, 134; Ilyushechkina 2010, 169.

135 Bühler on Mosch. Eur . 31, pp. 79 – 81; Livrea on Ap. Rhod. 4.132 (who registers all

occurrences in Dionysius in the sense ‘flowing waters’); Livrea on Colluthus 104; Braswellon Pind. P . 20 (d); West on Hes. Op. 757.

136 Inpourings of the sea: 127 – 8 (curvature of coastline), 200 (tides), 614 (Libyan sea: vague).

Inpourings of ocean: 722 (in Od . 20.65 e0n proxoh= |j . . . a0yorro/ou 0Wkeanoi=o, the sense is

strange, cf. Rutherford ad loc.; Dionysius means the inlet of the northern ocean into the land).

Note Ap. Rhod. 4.599, where even a lake or swamp has proxoai/. The applications to rivers

are more conventional. Outlet of river: 301 (cf. Ap. Rhod. 4.312, also of Danube Delta),

316(?), 367, 370, 807 (cf. Ap. Rhod. 1.1178, also of Kios); flow, current of a river: 290, 749



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writer of a scientific treatise. It does not, however, obfuscate: each meaning is contextually

entirely appropriate, provided we remember the etymology.

Metaphor is another aspect of poetic language on which clarity might run aground if

the metaphor is unfamiliar enough to cause puzzlement. Some are already familiar (763

xei=loj, 1036 klhi=dej) or at any rate cause no problems (184 glwxi=ni); others, less familiar,seem to have caused ancient readers more difficulty (332 krhpi=da). Dionysius uses a group

of ‘foot’ metaphors: pou/j, pe/za, sfu/ron, i1xnoj. Of these, pou/j for the ‘foot’ of a mountain(168, 338, 814, cf. 1039) appears to be the oldest ( Il . 2.824 and 20.59), and, while still

apparently perceived as metaphorical in Greek (unlike English),137 it poses no problems of

comprehension.138 pe/za can be used in the same way (61, 535, 1162), and there was an

ancient belief that this word was a dialectal form of pou/j;139 but the application to mountains

could also be an aspect of its widespread meaning ‘fringe’, ‘border’, edge’.140 i1xnoj is

applied to mountains (641), but also to the side of a country conceived of a shape with a

bottom edge, or ba/sij, as Eustathius glosses it (on 274, 406). This metaphor seems new — though Callimachus applies i1xnoj to the course of a river, in fr. 646 Pf. Most remarkable is

the metaphorical use of sfuro/n (literally ‘ankle’), of the direction from which a wind blows(557). This word had indeed been used metaphorically in earlier poets, and presumably what

underlies Dionysius is, as in the other poets, the basic sense of ‘furthest part’, ‘far reaches’,fringes, or edges (see Gow on Theocr. Id . 16.77). Still, when applied to a wind the metaphor

does, as Eustathius says, seem ‘daring and fitting for a poet’.

In sum, Dionysius’ resources for describing the parts of his world are basicallyHomeric ones, as refined by the Hellenistic poets. Poetry always handled specificity well, and

can be made to handle it better still. Relational terms, however, are another matter. AlthoughApollonius managed to accommodate them to the purposes of a linear voyage, they are more

severely taxed — even considering the precedent of Aratus — when applied to the surface area

(see Müller ad loc., recognising that the reference is not to the river’s mouth), 848, 1072.

Source of a river: 316(?), 411.

137 e.g. ps.-Plut. De Hom. 2.20 (with Kindstrand ad loc., pp. 133 –4); ∑ b Il . 2.824 b, and

Erbse’s app. crit. ad loc.; S Genev. Il . 2.824; Dexippus, In Aristot. Cat. Comment. 14, CAG

4.2, p. 12.21 (ed. Busse).

138 For the use of pro/podej as a metaphor for foothills in Polybius and Strabo, see Dueck

2005, 39. Callimachus uses pou/j of a river (fr. 384.48 – 9 Pf.). Other body metaphors applied

to mountains include flanks, shins, and brows (Call. Hec. fr. 169 Brilhssou= lago/nessin,

with Hollis ad loc., noting knhmo/j and o0fru=j). Strabo 5.1.11 uses r9i/za.

139 Zenodotus ap. Galen, 19.129 Kühn, et al .

140 It is also applied to mountains by App. Lib. 490; Dr L. A. Holford-Strevens compares

Xen. Hell. 4. 6. 8 ta_ kra&speda tw=n o0rw~n. In a further three passages (504, 931, 1081),

pe/za is used of the coastline; cf. Ap. Rhod. 4.1258 and Hermesianax fr. 7.17 P. (3 L.)

(Greaves, 133). For the basic meaning ‘edge’ (also in 894), see S b Il . 24.272 a.

2

pa=n to\ a1kron pe/za kalei=tai.



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of a huge and complex whole. Demands are placed on the reader’s intelligence to select and

apply the most appropriate of a word’s possible meanings. That same intelligence is flattered

when it appreciates the skill with which poetic idiom has been dovetailed with prose to give

at least an impression of technical writing — with none of its longueurs, and all of the pleasure

and prestige of reading the old (and later) hexameter masters.



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IV. DIONYSIUS AND DIDACTIC POETRY

Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail

Against her beauty? May she mixWith men and prosper! Who shall fix

Her pillars? Let her work prevail.

(Alfred, Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam, cxiv).

THERE are two complementary ways of investigating Dionysius’ relationship to didactic

poetry. The first, which might be called bottom-up, begins with the internal evidence of the poem. It would presumably register and describe allusions, stylistic devices, and other signals

of genre in the text itself. Dionysius has left very obvious tracks: he identifies his main poeticmodels clearly; we are fortunate that they are extant, and can make direct comparisons

between the two. The other, or top-down, method, would consider Dionysius’ place in the

didactic genre as a whole. It might begin with the imposition of an external taxonomy(ancient or modern), and then see how the reality corresponded or failed to correspond to theideal form. It complements the first approach, but presupposes a framework in whichquestions can be asked and comparisons made, and it is no easy task to impose a workabletaxonomy on the mass of material which has survived from antiquity. Any way we choose,we shall presumably end up with a mishmash,1 but we shall probably get there sooner by

starting from the tangled reality rather than from the abstractions of ancient or modernclassifications. For that very reason, and for the sake of clear orientation, I shall begin withsome ‘top-down’ considerations.

First, ancient. It took time for theorists in antiquity to reflect on didactic.2 Plato’s

foundational scheme, with its three poetic modes, ignored it, and on Aristotle’s view, didactic

poetry simply fell out of the picture because it was non-mimetic. This lack of criticalattention had long ceased to be the case by the time Dionysius was writing, but what is notclear is whether he, or any other ancient didactic poet for that matter, took any notice of thetheorists.3 What Volk calls the ‘commonsense’ school saw it is a marginal variety of epic

(what Pöhlmann called ‘ein Grenzfall des Epos’) because it happened to be written in thesame metre. Alternatively, both Plato’s and Aristotle’s schemes could be reoriented so as to

1 ‘We all know that genres are always already mixed in practice, but it is often convenient to

use a sort of langue/parole distinction, in which individual texts will be mixed, but standing behind them will be Platonic forms of unmixed genres that structure the generic play withinthe texts’ (Fowler, 217).

2 Pöhlmann, 815 – 35; A. Dalzell, The Criticism of Didactic Poetry: Essays on Lucretius,Virgil, and Ovid (Toronto, 1996), 19 – 21; Volk, 26 – 34.3

Volk, 33 – 4. Separate from this is the question whether didactic poets had their own notionof a didactic genre, with conventions of its own; see Volk, 35, 60 – 7.



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take account of it. Thus, non-mimetic poetry could be allowed its own, separate category, inwhich didactic formed part of a subgroup (so the Tractatus Coislinianus); or (in an inflectionof Plato’s scheme, new for us with Diomedes in the fifth/sixth century AD, but certainly muchearlier), didactic poetry was one representative of that mode in which ‘the poet himself

speaks without any inset speeches by characters’.

4

For some theorists, especially Latin, butalso the scholiast on the Works and Days, the subject-matter of didactic poetry was notintrinsically literary, so that only the use of metre and other embellishments could be held toraise it into the rank of poetry at all.5

All this is of limited help in the criticism of Dionysius. He can hardly have held withthose, like Lucretius, for whom poetry was a sugar coating, an appetiser for a doctrine theless palatable without it. We can only assume that, for him, poetry was intrinsic to a projectwhose models include the Homeric catalogue, the Argonautica, and Hellenistic didactic. Thetheoretical kinship of didactic with epic is conceivably of interest for one whose borrowings

from epic are so diverse — the special case of the Homeric catalogue; the geographical epic ofApollonius; the use of Odyssean geography, the scholarly tradition which had built up aroundit, and a mythological subtext concerning the wanderings of epic travellers such as Odysseusand Jason. All this could be seen, not as the appropriation of foreign material, but as gentleadoption from something naturally akin. On the other hand, the alignment of didactic poetrywith other types of verse in which the poet speaks in his own person is also a possible, though

by no means necessary, approach to Dionysius’ fondness for sententiae.6 Diomedes, who laysout this taxonomy at some length, explains that ‘exegetical’ poetry includes works of various

species —‘declarative’ (angeltice, illustrated by Theognis), ‘historical’ (e.g. the Hesiodic

Catalogue of Women), as well as didactic (with examples on philosophical, astrological, and

agricultural themes).7 This could be a possible context for the prim little gnomai which are

4 Pöhlmann, 825 – 32; Tractatus Coislinianus, CGF 50 – 3; Diomedes, GL i. 482.17 – 25 Keil, cf.S Hes. ap. Paris. 2763 and 2833, Probus, comm. in Ecl ., praef . 329.10 – 16 Hagen.

5 Pöhlmann, 832 – 5; S Hes. Op., Prolegomena, A b; see also Eustathius’ appreciation, quoted below, p. 100.6 548, 604 – 5, 968 – 9, 1169 (although the background of the last pair is epic, not gnomicverse). See J. Keim, Sprichwörter und paroemiographische Überlieferung bei Strabo

(Tübingen, 1909); D. Dueck, ‘Bird’s Milk in Samos: Strabo’s use of geographical proverbsand proverbial expressions’, SCI 23 (2004), 41 – 56, is specifically on proverbs and tagscontaining local lore.7 Diomedes, GL i. 482.20 – 3 Keil . . . exegeticon est vel enarrativum in quo poeta ipseloquitur sine ullius personae interlocutione, ut se habent tres georgici et prima pars quarti,item Lucreti carmina et cetera his similia . . . 482.31 – 483.3 Keil exegetici vel enarrativi

species sunt tres, angeltice, historice, didascalice. angeltice est qua sententiae scribuntur, utest Theognidos liber, item chriae. historice est qua narrationes et genealogiae conponutur, utest Hesiodu gunaikw=n kata/logoj et similia. didascalice est qua conprehenditur

philosophia Empedoclis et Lucreti, item astrologia, ut phaenomena Aratu et Ciceronis, et georgica Vergili et his similia.



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one of the many ways in which Dionysius varies his poem. They have no obvious precedentin the Homeric Catalogue, Apollonius, or Aratus and Co., but they do represent a kindredform of non-mimetic poetry. But of course, other factors could explain the sententiousness —

for example, if Dionysius aimed at those in a general course of humanistic education, or if he

based his poem on a work like Aratus’ which was concerned to inculcate a ‘correct’ outlookon life.

Ancient theory on genre, then, if it helps at all, bears on formal aspects of the poemand on didactic voice. It might address the receptivity of the Periegesis to epic and gnomicverse, but has nothing to say about so important an influence as hymn. In contrast, themodern approach of Bernd Effe, in his book published in 1977, was less formal, butattempted to hierarchise different aspects of the poem in a way which was also, ultimately,unsatisfactory, but did allow greater sensitivity to its methods and aims.

Effe discerned three ideal types of didactic poem: the ‘factual’ (or sachbezogen),

where the poet intends his subject-matter to be genuinely instructive; the ‘formal’, where poetics are more important (the virtuoso conquest of intractable material, or the imitation of a predecessor); and the ‘transparent’, where the subject-matter is a window through whichteaching about something else is discerned. We cannot get by without considering matters ofinstruction and poetics, though many reviewers were rightly worried by the claim to be ableto rank one element above another; some were also worried about concentrating on authorialintention rather than the more readily analysable narrator. Better, then, to scrutinise each textagainst these (and other) criteria rather than to assign it to an overall category, or to attemptto assign precedence and priority to a given element of a poem, which can only be arbitrary

and subjective.

8

Effe himself places Dionysius overall in the ‘factual’ category, though he recognises

that his poem also leans to the ‘formal’.9 It seems better to reformulate this, without trying toassign priority to the one class or the other; the different aspects of the poem need not beforced into competition with one another, but simply occupy different axes or dimensions.The ‘factual’ dimension is easily identified (despite the problems which the conflative and

cavalier approach might, in practice, pose for pedagogy): in this respect the Periegesis invitescomparison, not only with Aratus (since geography and astronomy were closely related), butwith other didactic poems on plausibly pedagogical subjects, such as Terentianus Maurus’

three works on grammatical and metrical topics. It is, moreover, both intended to instruct andmeant to be seen as instructive,10 indeed is more emphatic about the teacher – pupil

8 Effe 1977; see in particular the criticisms by P. H. Schrijvers, Mnemosyne4, 35 (1982), 400 –

2.

9 Effe 1977, 187 – 94; 2005, 38; Jacob 1981, 57 (‘il est indéniable que la Périégèse appartientau type le plus pur de la poésie didactique’).

10 That is, in Malcolm Heath’s terms it is both finally and formally didactic (253– 5).Although it is hard to reconstruct the Erwartungshorizont of the original Hadrianic

readership, the Byzantines certainly understood the Periegesis as finally didactic, since it wasa popular school text.



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relationship than Aratus himself, as we shall see. But the poem’s ‘formal’ axis can hardly be

ranked behind this in importance; it is occupied with the refurbishment of catalogue poetry,the conquest of dry and barren mnemonic lists through cultivated poikili/a, and with theimitation of the Hellenistic poets, all of which are central to the Periegesis’ aims. As for

Effe’s third category, that of ‘transparent’ didactic, this too is represented by the variousasides about gods and by the theological and moral sententiae which inculcate a world-view(or a series of world-views). In practice it is undesirable, not only to try to impose a hierarchyof importance on these dimensions, but even to attempt to separate them, since the poem’s

contents and its literary texture, the message and the medium, are so inextricably woven. Letus now see what the poem itself can teach us about its genre.

1. OF CATALOGUES AND LISTS

But what doe I their names seeke to reherse,

Which all the world haue with their issue fild?

How can they all in this so narrow verse

Contayned be, and in small compasse hild?

Edmund Spenser, Faerie Queene,

Book IV, canto xi, st. 17, ll. 1 – 4

In itself, a single-book poem cues us to think of Hesiod, Aratus, and Nicander, which alsohappen to be major sources of echoes in the Periegesis. In terms of crude line-count, the 1154lines of Phaenomena come closest to the 1184 genuine lines of the Periegesis, althoughDionysius has made no attempt to imitate the two-part structure of the Phaenomena (or theWorks and Days, its model), with a shorter section appended to the main one. Thegeographical subject-matter obviously makes Dionysius into a terrestrial counterpart ofAratus, while Nicander’s influence has sometimes been downplayed;11 but both figure withequal prominence in Dionysius’ didactic lineage— following on from Nicander himself, whoseems already to have constructed a special place for Aratus in the Theriaca.12 The single-

11 Aratus: Effe 1977, 192 – 4; Schindler, 179 – 80; Hunter 2004a, 226; Khan. Nicander: e.g.Effe 2005, 38 ‘. . . nur daß dieser Dichter [ sc. Dionysius] . . . nicht an Nikander, sonderndezidiert an die beiden Gattungsarchegeten Hesiod und Arat anknüpft’. 12 He places one of his rare extended myths, compounded from elements of Hesiod andAratus, straight after the proem of the Theriaca, and concludes it with a brief Aratean

pastiche. On the myth of the scorpion (Ther . 13 – 20), see Jacques, ii. 79 – 80; on the languageof 19 – 20, Hollis (n. 54 below). On Nicander’s debts to Aratus in general, see Gow –

Scholfield, 7 n. 1; Jacques 1969; Hinds, 139 n. 39; Jacques, ii, pp. cxii f. and n. 240; J. J.

Clauss, ‘Theriaca: Nicander’s Poem of the Earth’, SIFC 4: 2 (2006), 160 – 82, esp. 161 – 2,174 – 6; Magnelli 2006b, 196 – 7.



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book poem steers us away from Empedocles (whose work, however it was divided up, wasseveral times longer 13), and from a trend for multi-book works which begins in the lateHellenistic period (SH 735, Sostratus’ Kunhghtika/, in at least two books), and continueswith the multi-book Latin poems, Oppian, and ps.-Oppian. Despite the very different scale of

Empedocles’ work, and the obviously different character of the philosophical poems by himand by Parmenides,14 there are nevertheless a handful of apparent echoes in Dionysius.15 Does that suggest that in some sense he allowed them into his didactic pantheon? Or do theyno more indicate generic affiliation than, say, the apparent echoes of Empedocles inApollonius?16

One set of clues about the poem’s affiliations comes from the proem and envoi, whichwe might expect to be packed with significant allusions and tone-setting material. This isindeed the case. Dionysius begins by showcasing his favourite technique of combiningallusions to archaic and Hellenistic authors, and the matted correspondences with Apollonius,

Hesiod, and Homer are balanced by interwoven allusion to Hesiod and Callimachus’ fourth Hymn at the end (1181 n.). It must be significant that Dionysius begins with allusions to theopenings of the Theogony and the Argonautica, and ends with a similar double allusion to theend of both works (1181 – 6 n.). Through these references to structurally significant momentsin both poems, he also evokes awareness of their genre: the one, an archaic catalogue poemwhich has an important spatial dimension as well as a temporal one, the other an epic which,like his own work, describes a linear voyage, one which is a good deal concerned withmythological travellers. Moreover, the allusions to the beginning and end of the Argonauticasummon up the ghost of the genre of hymn through the use of the hymnic markersa0rxo/menoj and xai/rete ~ i9la=te.17 Although Dionysius’ proem and envoi are both godless,

with landscape in the place where other didactic poems might feature a deity,18 the allusions

13 For a review of opinion, see Obbink, 53 n. 7.14 We have no indications of the length of Parmenides’ poem, of which some 150 linessurvive. A. H. Coxon, The Fragments of Parmenides (Assen, 1986), 9, suggests that this may

be ‘perhaps less than a quarter’ of the total.

15 Parmenides: 2 a1krita fu=la; 84, 487, 970 pro_j au)ga_j h)eli/oio (but with a Homeric background: cf. p. 79 and n. 117). Empedocles: 233 bio/toio . . . keleu/qouj; 290 e0rhmai/hna0na\ nu/kta; 1004 eu] dedaw=tej.16 Boesch, 4; Hunter on Ap. Rhod. 3.135, with references, and 1015 – 16.17 Schindler, 179; below, 1 – 3 and 1181 – 6 nn.

18 The godless proem seems to be a distinctively Nicandrian choice, although Nicander (likeOppian’s Halieutica) also has a named addressee, whereas the Periegesis has not. Serv. on V.

Aen. 1.8 observes the lack of any necessity for a deity to be invoked when it is not a questionof anything ultra humanam possibilitatem. On other didactic proems, see Stenzel passim (epic and didactic proems with a hymnic character); Koster, 152 – 5; Greaves, 106 – 7; Fakas,

5 – 66. Empedocles might offer another example of godlessness: although David Sedley hasargued that On Nature began with a hymn to Aphrodite (‘The proems of Empedocles and



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to hymn set up, as it were, a series of harmonics beside, above, and below the main, i.e.didactic, ‘note’ of the poem. It is in the proem and envoi that these harmonics are most

pronounced, but they are detectable elsewhere too: certainly for Pythian Apollo (447 n.), possibly also for Dionysus (949 n.), for the ocean (28 n.), and for the Nile (228 n.).

However, insofar as the Periegesis uses formal markers of genre, these are above allto catalogue poetry, especially to the Homeric Catalogue of Ships.19 These have already beenexamined in a separate article.20 Dionysius uses an array of stylistic devices to indicate hisallegiance to the catalogic manner. He imitates, indeed fetishises, the distinctive type ofanaphora that Homer had used for the handsome Nireus in the Catalogue of Ships, and heuses other types of repetition which, if they do not call up the Catalogue specifically, arenevertheless at home there and in contexts which supply information about people and

places. Some are Homeric, but more fixated than in Homer on geographical subject-matter;21 others find their best parallels in Hellenistic and even Latin poetry22 — from which it is clear

Lucretius’, GRBS 30 (1989), 269 – 96), the Katharmoi — if indeed this qualified as a didactic poem, which on Sedley’s reconstruction is doubtful— apparently began with an address to thecitizens of Acragas (31 B. 112 D. – K.); see Obbink, 58, 60 n. 22.

19 For a bibliography on catalogues in ancient literature, see J. F. Gaertner, ‘The Homeric

Catalogues and their Function in Epic Narrative’, Hermes, 129 (2001), 298 – 305, 298 n. 1.20 Lightfoot 2008; to the stylistic devices mentioned there, add the construction of thesuperlative with tw=n a1llwn in 142 –3, and on structuring principles in Dionysius’

catalogues, add Ilyushechkina 2010, 96 – 105, 117 – 18 (interesting remarks on the ‘pyramid

principle’), and 137– 42 on repetitional devices.21 Dionysius’ epanalepses (other than those discussed in the next note) are as follows: 174– 5,379 – 80, 461 – 2, 609 – 10, 868 – 9. There are three precedents in the Catalogue (2.837 – 8, 849 –

50, 870 –1), with a further two examples in the narrator’s voice elsewhere ( Il . 6.396 – 7, 12.95 –

6, Od . 1.22 – 3), but another seven in the voice of a character. Three of Dionysius’ five

examples involve place-names, one a direction; 461 – 2, a personal name, imitates Ap. Rhod.4.764 – 5. The proportion in Homer is dissimilar, where, of a total of thirteen, only three ( Il .2.849 – 50, 6.396 – 7, 21.157 – 8) involve geographical names. The Odyssean example, whichwas famous, concerns the geographical location of the Ethiopians; the rest concern

individuals, especially their genealogy. A place-name figures in approximations of the formin Call. Hymn 5.40 – 1, Ap. Rhod. 4.323 – 4, 4.566 – 8, 4.1759 – 62, but not in 1.87 – 8, 191 – 2,3.861 – 2, 4.263 – 4, 4.764 – 5, 4.827 – 9 (cf. 1.202 – 3).22 Final – initial epanalepsis (where the repeated word is carried over from line-end to the

beginning of the next in identical form) has no exact match in Homer, where the repeatedword is either in a different case, scansion, or not in final position ( Il . 6.395 – 6 0Heti/wnoj |

0Heti/wn; Il . 21.85 – 6 1Altao ge/rontoj | 1Altew; 12.95 – 7 1Asioj h3rwj | 1Asioj). So too inApollonius (1.87 – 8 Eu0ru/tou ui[ej | Eu0ru/tou; 1.191 – 2 Laoko/wn te | Laoko/wn). Exactmatches occur in Theocr. Id . 1.29 – 30 kisso/j, Call. Hymn 4.83 – 4 Nu/mfai and 118 – 19

mei=non (see Lapp, 62), and above all in Roman poetry (Wills, 130 – 73, passim). In fact, two(possibly three) instances in Dionysius are with geographical names (298 – 9, v.l.; 354 – 5; 502 –



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(a point to emphasise) that Dionysius is not simply inertly reproducing Homeric patterns, but bolstering them with later forms and fashions. The poem is not only packed with informativecontent, but also with devices that convey information, emphasise it, and present it in acolourful or even emotive way — and whether they are strictly Homeric or only approximately

so, they are all appropriate to catalogue style as Dionysius (re)conceives it.Catalogues, and ‘parallel entities’ more generally, are of course extremely fashionable

in Hellenistic poetry, and retain their influence in the poetry of the early empire; and there isno limit to the number of ways they can be realised.23 The Hellenistic period, in particular,saw a series of spin-offs from the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women, variously tricked out withimitations of the Hesiodic formula h2 oi3h, as well as other ‘catalogues of women’ (or boys, or

poets, or whatever) related to Hesiod, and to each other, in ways now hard to assess.24 As forthe Catalogue of Ships, it is of course imitated, but seems not to have given rise to formal set-

pieces in the way the Catalogue of Women did.25 Hellenistic poets certainly do pick up on

anaphora and epanalepsis as devices to convey information, especially geographical and prosopographical, but do not seem to associate them with catalogues (Callimachus does not,and Apollonius uses them considerably more often outside his own catalogue of heroes thanwithin it; one wonders how Alexander of Ephesus used the device).26 On the other hand, this

3), but a further four with common nouns (390 – 1, 442 – 3, 695 – 6, 1092 – 3); one last example,with a whole phrase (633 – 4) is also a popular pattern in Roman poetry, but already paralleled

by Il . 20.371 – 2, 22.127 – 8, 23.641 – 2. In Dionysius all examples but one of repeated parts ofspeech other than proper nouns belong to this type (the exception is 1059 – 61 xru/sea |xru/sea | xrusw= |, which imitates Call. Hymn 4.260 – 3 xru/sea | xrusw= | | xru/seion | xrusw= |).23 Hutchinson, 74 –7 (‘parallel entities’ comes from him).

24 Possibly Antimachus’ Lyde and Philitas’ (putative) Bittis; Nicaenetus’ Catalogue ofWomen (fr. 2 P.); Hermesianax’s Leontion (frr. 1 – 8 P., 1 –5 L.); Phanocles’ 1Erwtej h2 Kaloi/ (frr. 1 –6 P.); Alexander of Aetolia’s 0Apo/llwn (fr. 3 Magnelli); Sosicrates/Sostratus’ 0Hoi=oi(SH 732); A. Cameron, Callimachus and his Critics (Princeton, 1995), 381 – 4; H. Asquith,‘From Genealogy to “Catalogue”: The Hellenistic Adaptation of the Hesiodic CatalogueForm’, in R. L. Hunter (ed.), The Hesiodic Catalogue of Women (Cambridge, 2005), 266 – 86.

25 On Apollonius’ imitation of the Catalogue of Ships, see Delage, 38– 49; Carspecken, 38 –

58; Vian, i. 4 – 10; Hunter 1993, 126 – 7; A. Hurst, ‘Géographes et poètes: le cas d’Apollonios

de Rhodes’, in G. Argoud and J.-Y. Guillaumin (eds.), Sciences exactes et sciencesappliquées à Alexandrie (Sainte-Étienne, 1998), 279 – 88, at 282. Most importantly, althoughit does not follow Homer’s itinerary exactly, it does follow an itinerary, unlike Pindar’s

catalogue in P . 4.124 – 7, 171 – 83, 189 – 91. Homer’s catalogue already contained a few

references to the heroes’ ancestry ( Il . 2.512 – 15, 657 – 60, 740 – 2), but Apollonius lays moreemphasis on genealogy (54 – 6, 142 – 4, 146 – 50, 180 – 1, 203, and especially 134 – 8, where nofewer than eight generations are reviewed) as well as on other items of characterisation.26 For Hellenistic poets, see Lapp, 54 – 70, esp. 62 – 3 (Callimachus); Wills, 127 – 30; Hunter

2003, 354 – 6 (Apollonius and Callimachus); for Virgil and his Greek predecessors, especiallyTheocritus, R. Gimm, De Vergilii stilo bucolico (Leipzig, 1910), 79 – 99. Hunter stresses the

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very effort — the interest in markers of genre, the sense of precision and formal nicety — alignsDionysius with Phanocles, Hermesianax, and the other Hesiodic resurrectionists, rather thanwith the different (looser, less formalist) sorts of parallel structure found in Callimachus,Apollonius, Aratus, or Nicander.

The poem has other debts to catalogue poetry which my 2008 article did not discuss.One is the four appearances of the Muses. The first three occasions call upon them to directthe poet in itineraries round the Mediterranean (62 – 3), the islands (447 – 8), and Asia (651).Only the Muses’ last appearance diverges from the pattern, when their inspiration bears him

up in his account of the Caspian, which he has never visited (715 – 17). They are not drawnfrom Hellenistic didactic: altogether absent from Nicander, they appear only once at the endof Aratus’ proem (and in SH 83, one of the alternative proems). Rather, they are cleardescendants of Homeric and Hesiodic Muses, and what they do — supply the impulse to linearorder, and inspire the poet — is an adapted, heightened form of what they do in early Greek

hexameter poetry. On one account, it is the provision of information in orderly form that is atthe very heart of their role; later on, in Homer, they were adapted to narrative, but catalogueis where they really belong.27 But whatever Dionysius’ view of the matter, his Muses are

closest to those at the beginning of the Catalogue of Ships and at transitional moments inHesiodic catalogue poetry,28 and although many of the paraphernalia of addresses to theMuse are absent (p. 107), Dionysius retains what he needs. First, they have a structural role(p. 107, n. 87); second, they are connected with sequence and order (the first two precedinglarge-scale catalogues, the third an entire continent); third, they tell him what he would nototherwise know. The verb forms e0ne/poite (62) and e1nnepe (447) lightly evoke archaicconventions of Muse-address.29

Much of the poem consists of lists of names, embellished to a greater or lesser degree.Lists are the format adopted by a vast amount of ancient geography, from the schoolexercises featuring geographical names, through to periploi which list places in itinerary

possibly emotive effect of such repetitions, which in Callimachus (only line-initial anaphora,not epanalepsis) always and in Apollonius sometimes occur in character-text. Neither do therepetitions in Theocr. Id . 1.29 – 30, 1.120 – 1, 7.57 – 9, 13.43 – 4, belong to a catalogue or list.27 W. W. Minton, ‘Homer’s Invocations of the Muses: Traditional Patterns’, TAPA 91 (1960),292 – 309, at 293 and n. 3; id. ‘Invocation and Catalogue in Hesiod and Homer’, TAPA 93(1962), 188 – 212. For Minton, the Muses ‘characteristically supply[ing] the information in theform of a catalogue or ordered enumeration’ (1962, 188; his italics), and this is recalled by

the frequent motif of ‘the first ’ (person, thing, or occasion) in the question and answer

between poet and Muse, even when the context is not a catalogue but a narrative. See alsoJacob 1981, 47 – 9, 1985, 94 – 5; Minchin, 90 – 1, 171; Purves, 36 – 7.28 Il . 2.484 – 93; Hes. Th. 966, 1022 = fr. 1.2 M. – W.

29 In Homer and Hesiod, this verb may be used to pose a question to the Muse which leadsdirectly into the following narrative (e.g. Hes. Th. 114 – 15, fr. 1.14 – 15 M. – W.). Dionysius

uses the verb, though not to pose questions. He also drops the post-Homeric use of cleticaddress (Empedocles, 31 B. 3.3 – 5, 131 D. – K.; Simonides fr. 11.20 – 5 W.; Obbink, 58 – 70).



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order, and to virtuosic geographical lists in Hellenistic poetry.30 The concerns of the presentdiscussion are not formal; the Periegesis’ remodelling of verse-patterns from the Catalogueof Ships can readily be followed up in my Ramus article. Rather, the focus is on the characterof Dionysius’ lists and how, where, and to what effect he uses them. The scope is also wider.

In order to avoid prescriptiveness, no definition of a ‘list’ is offered here. There is acontinuum along which plain sequences of names, via little embellishments and illustrativedetails, merge into more discursive structures; Dionysius offers examples of all these kinds ofwriting. Like Aratus, who also adapts the basic catalogue genre to his own purposes,Dionysius seeks variety: lists of names fashioned on formal principles (like the lineconsisting of paired noun – epithet formulae, or the expanded tricolon) are only one stylisticchoice among looser structures in which bare lists of names are adorned with other kinds ofinformation (mythical, ethnographical, geographical) or expanded into ecphrases. Aratushimself is notably sparing in his lists of names.31

A lexicon like that of Stephanus of Byzantium uses alphabetical order; in the manyschool exercises which offer potted, memorisable lists of ‘celebrated instances of x’, loose principles of order may discerned, or at other times none at all.32 A periplous or periegesisadopts itinerary order. While a map would represent places in some semblance of their spatialrelationship to one another, the textual equivalent must list them one after the other. In

practice there are various ways in which Dionysius’ catalogue is pulled out of sequence: bythe existence of peoples who have no fixed position;33 by the artistic decision to deviate (e.g.reversed direction in 910 – 20); and by the equally deliberate decision to use the catalogue, notto string items together according to their actual geographical order, nor even to hierarchise,

but to sample — as will become clear in the following discussion.

Claims to comprehensiveness or otherwise in didactic texts, both poetry and prose,have been put on the agenda recently by Richard Hunter.34 Speaking primarily of Hesiod andAratus, he suggests that ‘“didactic poetry” does not have to be comprehensive to be

“didactic”’, that ‘it gives us examples, exemplary signs, from which we will be able to take

our starting- point’. This is in contrast to the prose handbook, which ‘seeks to offer us a

complete téchne’, and often uses segmentation and a rhetoric of completeness to give at least

30 Jacob 1991a, 38 – 9; for more on geographical lists reflecting various levels of literaryattainment, pp. 184-5.31 Of Pleiades (262 – 3) and zodiacal signs (545 – 9); a catalogue of birds in 1021 – 7: Fakas, 78,83 – 4. The bird catalogue exemplifies the virtuosic list, non-comprehensive, but rich enoughto show off the narrator’s expertise (cf. also fish in Opp. Hal . 1.97 – 101, 103 – 6, 108 – 10, 111 –

13, etc.; Marcellus of Side, LXIII.8 – 40 Heitsch). Dionysius does not use this type of list.32 Jacob 1981, 42 – 50 (esp. 42 – 6); for school texts, see Legras; for lists of Mediterraneanislands, see Prontera 1984a, 228 – 9 n. 84.

33 cf. S 186 to\n de\ kata/logon pepoi/htai ou0 kata\ th\n ta/cin th=j grafh=j: noma/dej ga/rei0si.34 Hunter 1995, §3; Fantuzzi and Hunter, 234.



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an impression of comprehensive coverage. But while it is perfectly reasonable to argue thatfor Aratus a detailed description of the stars themselves is of secondary importance to the

principle behind them (that Zeus gave them to us as signs), it is unclear that for theHellenistic poets in general the pars pro toto approach — the use of examples from which the

whole can be inferred — is any more characteristic than claims to completeness. Certainly thegeographical iambic poems of ps.-Scymnus and Dionysius son of Calliphon both havecompletist pretensions (ps.-Scymn. 73 – 4; Dionysius 17), though perhaps that is because theircharacter is more akin to prose in the first place (the humbler metre, the use of an epistolary

preface). It is rather that completeness and countervailing strategies ( pars pro toto, and whatmight be called a pose of deliberate sketchiness) are both available for exploitation. Nicander,in particular, begins a number of sections with claims to completeness, and ends others with asketchy list which is in no way an exhaustive treatment of the topic in question.35 Thequestion addressed here is how Dionysius deals with the issue: whether he flirts withcompleteness or flaunts incompleteness, how he relates to sources and models that take either

stance, and how lists and catalogues figure in this connection.

A series of items may be finite or infinite. If the former, and the items are listedexhaustively, the list is closed. Otherwise, the list is open. Geography lends itself mostly toopen lists (there is no limit on mountains, rivers, or cities), though there are also a few closedseries (the four divisions of the ocean arranged by cardinal point, 29 – 40; the four inlets of theocean, 43 – 57), and this is particularly conducive to the style of compendia, of memory-literature which reels off easily recalled lists of winds, continents, or regions of the earth.36 Dionysius has both kinds of list, and may use the same listing-devices for both purposes.‘There are many of x’ (the pollo/j motif) introduces methodical reviews as well as

selections and samples.37 Tricola are equally flexible. On the one hand there are closed lists,

35 The section on snakes ends with a sketchy list of non-venomous creatures (488 – 92); thenext, on herbs and simples, begins with a completeness claim (493 qro/na pa/nta . . . 495pa/nta diampere/wj kai\ a0phlege/j). A section on sea-creatures, opening with acompleteness claim, in fact sketches in only three items (822 – 36) — all the more striking

because throughout this part of the poem the narrator is insisting on his extensive knowledge(805, 811, 822). The section on remedies for other venomous animals also begins with acompleteness claim (837 oi[sin e0gw\ ta\ e3kasta diei/somai a1rkia nou/swn).

36 Jacob 1981, 43; e.g. Hyginus, Fab. 276.5 Cyclades insulae sunt novem; Ampelius, Lib. Mem. 5.1 [ De ventis] . . . sunt autem generales quattuor ; 6.1 Orbis terrarum qui sub caelo estquattuor regionibus incolitur ; 6.2 Orbis terrarum quem nos colimus in tres partes dividitur,totidemque nomina; 7.1 Mare quo cingimur universum vocatur Oceanum. Hoc quattuorregionibus inrumpit in terras.37 Methodical: 28; 247 = 902, 345. Samples: 723, 866, 874, 1071; cf. ps.-Scymn. 624 – 6(many cities in Macedonia, but the e0pifane/statai as follows), F7a sub fin. (many islands inthe Ister, including Peuce). In Hes. Th. 363, a select list of Oceanid nymphs is followed by

the admission that there are many more (three thousand, to be precise); in Ap. Rhod. 1.1039 – 40, the pollo/j motif opens a list of those slain along with Cyzicus.



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very much in mnemonic style, of the three seas surrounding Italy (100), or the three capes ofSicily (469), or the three oceanic gulfs in Asia (632). On the other, the poet can also use thelist to give a pars pro toto impression of a place far too complicated and detailed to representin any but the most extensive specialist tract. This is his approach for Asia Minor, where he

follows the coastline region-by-region, evoking each by a few choice details: usually a riveror two (or three), perhaps a city or two (or three). These passages often use tricolon style,sometimes dyads or tetrads (Pamphylian cities, 855; Pisidian cities, 859 – 60; Cilician rivers,867 – 8; Cilician cities, 875). It does not matter whether these dashings-in of detail are initinerary-order or not; if they are, it is probably accidental, for the most important thing is togive an impression. It is interesting in this connection to note Strabo’s verdict on the Homeric

Catalogue, that Homer does not mention cities in order, ‘for that was not necessary’, but d oesdeal systematically with peoples and regions.38 So while Dionysius uses closed, mnemoniclists, he may equally well adopt a pars pro toto approach — itself perhaps influenced by areading of Homer as unsystematic at the level of detail within larger structures.

In general, we can spot two countervailing tendencies in Dionysius. The first is togive an impression of careful system.39 The orderly itineraries themselves contribute greatlyto this. So does the care paid to the construction of the work itself, the pains taken over thelength of the various sections, and the parallels of structure across them.40 Another aspect ofthis control is the careful segmentation of the work. The poem is thickly punctuated with

38

1.2.20; Danek, 67, noting that linear order prevails for regions, but not usually forindividual places within a region.39 Yet he does not take what might have seemed an obvious opportunity in a geographical

poem to pun on kosmos as both ‘order’ and ‘world’ (Hunter 1995, §2); the word occurs only

as a v.l. in 1160, of Dionysus’ dances. 40 Effe 1977, 190 – 2; Jacob 1981, 36 – 7; Selter 2011, 166 (on Avienius). Effe (followed byIlyushechkina 2010, 116 – 17) notes that sections of the poem are approximately matched inlength (the Mediterranean 112 lines ~ Libya plus Egypt 96 lines; Europe 177 lines ~ theislands 173 lines). Asia (620 – 1165) takes up more or less the second half of the poem.

Prontera 1984a, 226 – 7 and 230 – 1 (Tav. 2) illustrates a tendency in geographical writers tomake the relative sizes of continents correspond to the relative length of text used to describethem, whether by equating Europe with Libya and Asia combined, or Asia with Europe andLibya combined. (In practice a precise word-count does not necessarily emerge from a crudetally of book numbers, and the argument becomes circular if the relative size of continents is

presumed from the number of books devoted to them.) In any case, this works onlyapproximately for Dionysius, whose Asia (545 lines) is considerably larger than Libya andEurope taken together (273 lines), whereas in ‘reality’, according to Dionysius, it is smaller

(627). Jacob argues that a place is expanded or contracted according to its human geography

and the number and importance of its human settlements. But it remains surprising that thedescription of Europe should be only a third as long as the description of Asia.



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sequences of two, three, and four items, all duly inventoried.41 Dionysius is particularly fondof the catalogic use of prw=ton (etc.) to introduce a new sequence.42 This is alreadyforeshadowed in the Theogony; very close to the beginning of his poem Dionysius echoesHesiod’s formula to introduce Chaos, the very first item in the catalogue proper (45 h1toi me\n

prw/tiston ~ Th. 116 h1toi me\n prw/tista).

43

The Theogony even has a couple of series ofordinals: Dionysius does not go as far as this, though he does enumerate the first and secondgulfs of the ocean (45 – 7) and calls the Cophes third of the Indian rivers (1140).44 Thisconcern for the imposition of order emerges more strikingly in comparison with Aratus and

Nicander, who have only a single instance each of ‘firstness’ to order a sequence.45 A better

comparison is with Lucretius’ constant use of primum and principio along with other markersof sequence (deinde, praeterea, postremo), although that can hardly be a direct influence.Does it reflect, or is it intended to suggest, the growing concern for markers of sequence in

prose writing?46

41 doio/j: 112 – 19; 420 – 2. disso/j: 95 – 8, 400 – 3, 928 – 30. trisso/j: 8 – 9, 99 – 102, 242 – 5, 331 –

3, 630 – 3. trixqa/: 1066 – 8. pi/surej: 44 – 55, 887 – 93, 1130 – 4. Compare ps.-Scymn. 490 – 500(three seas to which Boeotia has access), F 15b (three races of the Sakai); Dionysius son ofCalliphon, 114 – 17 (three Greek tribes of Crete). Reviews of borders by cardinal pointnaturally lend themselves to this kind of enumeration.

42 45 (first of four oceanic gulfs), 69 (first of the seas within the Mediterranean), 347 (first ofthe peoples within Italy), 525 (first of the islands on the Asiatic side of the Aegean), 728 (first

of the peoples round the Caspian), 765 (first of the peoples on the south coast of the BlackSea), 803 (first of the peoples of Asia Minor starting at the Hellespont), 954 (first of theArabian tribes), 1069 (first of the Persian peoples); compare Dionysius son of Calliphon, 135(Ceos the first island in the Cyclades).43 W. H. Race, ‘How Greek Poems Begin’ YClS 29 (1992), 13 – 38, at 23. Race points out thatHesiod reserves the superlative prw/tistoj for the most momentous beginnings. Dionysiususes it again in 69 and 176, both of the entry-point of the Mediterranean at the Pillars ofHeracles, where his itineraries (pp. 19-20) have their starting-point.

44 Th. 309 – 13 prw=ton . . . deu/teron au]tij . . . to\ tri/ton; 886 – 921 prw/thn . . . deu/teron

. . . e0cau=tij . . . loisqota/ thn. By the time of Ovid’s Ars Amatoria, D. P. Fowler, ‘From

Epos to Cosmos: Lucretius, Ovid, and the Poetics of Segmentation’, in D. Innes, H. Hine, andC. B. R. Pelling (eds.), Ethics and Rhetoric: Classical Essays for Donald Russell on hisSeventy-fifth birthday (Oxford, 1995), 3 – 18, at 8, regards principio and proximus as‘generically normal’, but tertius as ‘parodically hyperdidactic’.

45 Arat. 778 ske/pteo de prw=ton; Nic. Ther . 500 prw/thn me/n (substantiating the claim tocomprehensiveness in 493 – 5, on which see p. 94, n. 35), cf. also Al . 256 prw=ton . . . mete/peita.

46

E. Rawson, ‘The introduction of logical organisation in Roman prose literature’, PBSR 46(1978), 12 – 34 = Roman Culture and Society (Oxford, 1991), 324 – 51.



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This impression of orderly control pulls against the other tendency, which is to driftoff into sketchiness.47 Indeed, there is a rather Nicandrian moment when Dionysius, matchinghis predecessor’s anticlimactic treatment of sea-creatures, promises in his Persian syllabus totreat rivers (1055, 1071) and then delivers only two (1073). Sometimes a section will be

apparently closed, only to be reopened with the admission that there is more, and there is a particular tendency to end with an impressionistic gesture, or an admission of descriptivedefeat; there are simply too many to name.48 It might be called the a0peire/sioj topos. Theclosed sequence of four oceanic gulfs once concluded, Dionysius opens it again: ‘there are countless others’ (57 a1lloi de/ t’ a0peire/sioi gega/asin). Libya and its peoples having beensurveyed in an orderly progress, we learn that ‘many others inhabit this country’ (265 a1lloide\ plei=stoi th/nde xqo/na naieta/ousin), and after Dionysius has completed the circuit ofthe ocean with its islands he again admits that ‘there are countless others’ (613 e3terai de/ t’ a0peire/siai gega/asin).49 Having taken the tribes of Arabia (954 – 60) in an orderly itinerarywe learn that there are ‘many more as well, for it is extremely large’ (961 a1lla de/ toi kai\ plei=sta: peripro\ ga/r e0sti megi/sth), and the poem as a whole concludes with theadmission that there are countless more peoples whom it is beyond mortal power to name(1166 – 9). In four out of these five passages (Libya being the exception) the toposimmediately follows, and undercuts the conclusiveness of, the sign-off formula ‘so many are

. . ..’.50 A stronger form of this same tendency is when the narrator himself breaks off usingthe plea of aporia, again generally at the end of sections.51

47 For Nicander, see p. 94. Compare also Manil. 4.630 – 41, beginning with the claim that athousand islands lie in the Mediterranean; the largest are then named, the smaller ones

sampled, and the passage ends with a reference to the innumeri . . . scopuli which rise fromthe sea. Eustathius on 265, cf. 554, 612, 638 (Hunter 2004a, 225), notes Dionysius’ frequent

employment of a ‘broad- brush’ style (o3ti paxumerw=j o9 Dionu/sioj perihgei=sqaio9mologei=); he suggests, bizarrely, that it contributes to safh/neia.

48 For Dionysius’ habitual use of the hy perbole of vastness and innumerability, see Jacob1981, 41, 49 – 50 and n. 182 (on 89). He notes that the paraphrases and translations ofDionysius all retain this feature or even, in the case of Avienius, heighten it. A differenteffect in Marcellus of Side, LXIII.6 Heitsch, where a0pei/ritoj at the beginning of acatalogue displays the narrator’s impressive mastery of his subject.

49 The effect in these last two cases is complex. The extensive catalogue which has precededis followed by a miniature one, a threefold enumeration of where these ‘many’ or ‘countless’

others are to be found (266 – 8, 614 – 15). These enumerations are in themselves closed lists(oceanic coast, interior, and Mediterranean coast; the three continents), and the second isfollowed by the polar pair ‘inhabited– uninhabited’. Open-endedness is thus played offagainst closure.

50 to/ssoj and related forms are conclusive at 320, 330, 383, 679, 761, 797, but followed bythe a0peire/sioj topos at 56, 612, 960, 1166.

51 pp. 109-10; cf. Plin. NH 6.50 multitudo populorum innumera (Scythians), 6.58 gentes eiurbesque innumerae, si quis omnes persequi velit (India). A different kind of aporia which



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Dionysius thus plays off the comprehensiveness that is expected of a manual with thenon-comprehensiveness that is all that can be expected from a 1200-line poem, from a meremortal, and from a catalogue which derives from the very partial effort in the Catalogue ofShips. Catalogues are in principle no less multiform than lists. All three of Aratus, Nicander,

and Dionysius have elements of catalogue-as-list, and catalogue as a looser, more discursivekind of structure. On the one hand, all use the listing-device to\n (th\n) de\ met’, Homeric inorigin (p. 81): it is a simple way of saying that one thing comes after something else. On theother, they all use the combination of particles nai\ mh\n kai/ which signals the introduction ofa new item to a themed discussion, particularly to make an additional point at the end.52 Aratus has it once, Nicander repeatedly, and Dionysius three times (91, 1011, 1125), with a

particularly strong sense of closure in the last two cases. Catalogues in this sense not only list but also review, and by arranging items under thematic headings (‘these are the remarkable

things in Arabia’) they avoid the tedium of having no end in sight.

Of Dionysius’ many lists, some may reproduce the effect of a similar list in a source(e.g. 304 – 15, tribes north of the Danube); others are the result of manipulation. The tricolonof Persian tribes (1069) condenses Strab. 15.3.3; the imposed segmentation seems to makethem match the territories just discussed. The Arabian tribes of 955 – 9 correspond to Strab.16.4.2; the first three apparently reproduce an unembellished list (Nabatai/wn te kai\ Xaulotai/wn kai\ 0Agrai/wn), while the tricolon of proper names in 959 is the result ofcompressing the four tribal names at the end of that paragraph, restricting information on theextent of their territories, and omitting the names of their capitals. The account of the BlackSea (761 – 98) condenses a source which is already compressed. Phineus’ speech to theArgonauts (Ap. Rhod. 2.311 – 407) begins with a disclaimer of completeness which is borne

out by the greater plenitude of the succeeding narrative, but the 23 lines which it takes to get

causes other geographers to curtail their exposition is the difficulty of rendering some tribalnames into Greek and Latin (see Silberman on Mela 3.15; Radt on Strab. III p. 155,28 – 30;Desanges, 78 – 9, on Plin. NH 5.1 populorum . . . linguis; Doody, 69 – 74). It may be, then, thatDionysius’ sources had already excluded some awkward names, and he does further violence

to others intractable to the hexameter (p. 188); but what we find is a willingness to sample theexotic rather than an embarrassed silence about it. (Contra Doody’s politicised reading, Pliny

more than matches Dionysius for the detail he offers on African and Asian tribal names, and

there is ‘an explosion of peoples’ in book 6, which in some cases ‘even overwhelm the powerto catalogue’: Evans 2005a, 52.)

52 At the end of a discussion in Arat. 450; Nic. Ther . 51, 76, 520, and 145, if the Seps istaken, as the scholia on l. 156a advocate, as the last item in the opening generalities (8 – 156),rather than the opening item in the discussion of serpents (157 ff.). Introductory nai\ mh\n kai/ in Ther . 921; Opp. Hal . 3.482, 5.392; in the middle of a discussion at Ther . 896, AP 4.1.47,Opp. Hal . 1.404 (strictly, penultimate item), 1.686; for the second of two examples in AP12.63.3. nai\ mh/n alone introduces a new item in a catalogue in ps.-Hes. fr. 372.5 M. – W. =Euthydemus, SH 455.5, five times in the Theriaca and four times in the Halieutica. Its first

extant occurrence is in Empedocles, 31 B. 76.2 D. – K.: see Martin – Primavesi on their fr. b4(Fusikw=n a /, 328), p. 259.



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from the Chalybes to the Byzeres (374 – 96) are compressed by Dionysius into just four (765 –

8, omitting only the Saspeires and island of Ares), with two names in the first, a quasi-tricolon in the third, and one each in the third and fourth. But the catalogue is also diversifiedand expanded by the epyllion of Sinope (775 – 9) and the mineralogy of the Thermodon (780 –

2), and expansion and embellishment can also be seen in the review of Libyan tribes vis-à-visStrab. 2.5.33 (174 – 219 n.) and in the Mediterranean islands vis-à-vis Strab. 2.5.19 – 21 (447 –

619 n.).

In sum, Dionysius has behaved as a perfectly trained pupil of the Hellenistic masters,from whom he has learned to recreate the effect of a genre by formal means, but to avoid theimpression of formalism through variation and poikili/a. The list becomes just one of arange of styles at the poet’s disposal.

But no catalogue was ever a mere matter of listing. Many little asides and flourishesdiversify the Catalogue of Ships, such as the myths of Erechtheus, 547 – 51, Thamyris, 594 –

600, Tlepolemus, 657 – 67, Protesilaus, 698 – 702, and Philoctetes, 721 – 5; the paradoxon of therivers Titaresios and Peneios, whose waters meet but do not mingle, 751 – 5; the coiffure andequipment of the Abantes, 542 – 4; the origin of silver in Alybe, 857.53 In Apollonius’ hands,

these digressions and diversions become a means of characterising his Argonauts. InDionysius’, they meet and mingle with the diversity which geographical writing naturallyinvites (p. 7), so that coastal itineraries are interspersed with chorography, ethnography,mythography (set-pieces on Sinope and Medea; colonisation myths; explicit and implicitallusions to Odysseus, the Argonauts, and other mythological travellers), gemmography,hymn, and, as we have seen, occasional moments of sententiousness which recall gnomic

poetry. In other words, while the Catalogue provides Dionysius with an overall genre, or perhaps organisational scheme, with a distinctive set of formal markers, one of itscharacteristics is to invite diversity of subject-matter, and genre and texture within it.

Not only does Dionysius cultivate poikili/a of subject-matter. Style combines withvariation in texture, so that there are moments when Dionysius seems to want to sound likeanother poet.54 He uses Homer, obviously, for Troy (above), Callimachus for the rivers ofArcadia (415 – 17), not to mention outdoing the master at 827 – 9, with perhaps a Nicandrianmoment at 791 (n. ad loc.). Throughout, he cultivates purple patches on gods and festivals,and has a particular interest in choral song and dance.55 While all these passages are

conspicuous for their dense allusiveness, especially the paired springtime tableaux in Delos

53 Carspecken, 50 – 1.54 Hollis 1998, 181 n. 32 ‘Hellenistic and Roman poets sometimes write brief passages in the

style of their colleagues’, citing Nic. Ther . 19 – 20 (Aratus), Ap. Rhod. 3.1002 – 4 (Aratus),1.1065 – 6 (bucolic), 1505 – 31 (Nicander?).55 Apollo at Delphi (441 – 6) and his Delian spring festivals (527 – 9); choral dances for

Dionysus in the Caucasus (700 – 5), Lydia (839 – 45), and beside the Ganges (1153 – 60); cf.Counillon 2001b, 109 n. 1.



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and Lydia, the choice of subject must be influenced by Callimachus’ liking for the same

theme.56

In all this, Dionysius may well have been aware of the value which ancient rhetoricaltheory assigned to the pare/kbasij, or digression,57 but he is unlikely to have agreed with

any appraisal of didactic poetry according to which it was only the embellishments and purple patches which raised it into the category of poetry.58 He had ample warrant in his poetic models for the treatment of geography itself, and for amplification and embellishment,not as something tacked on, but as integral. Nevertheless, the poikili/a of the work wascertainly seen as a virtue by later critics — as in the following appreciation by Eustathius:

. . . 1Esti de\ ou{ kai\ e0ndia&qeta lalei=, o4 dh_ poiei=n dusxere\j e0n perihgh&sei. Parenspei/reide/ pou kai\ basilika_ eu)fuw~j e0gkw&mia. Kai\ gnwmologikh| ~ de\ filosofi/a| spani/wj me\n,dia_ th_n th~j perihgh&sewj a)na&gkhn, eu(ri/sketai d' ou}n o3mwj xrw&menoj, kai\ o3lwj dia_ pa&ntwn h3kei kalw~n, pro_j me/tron te a| 1dwn kai\ diale/ktoij poikillo&menoj, kai\ mu&qw| xrh~sqai summe/trwj ou) katoknw~n, kai\ plasma&twn xrw&menoj piqano&thti, o3ph teparei/kei e0mplatuno&menoj kai\ e0kfra&sesin, e0piple/kwn de/ ge kai\ i9stori/aj . . .59

He sometimes delivers himself of ideas which are difficult to include in a periegesis. Heintersperses royal encomia in a graceful way, and can be found using philosophicalsentiments — infrequently, because of the constraints of the periegesis, but use them henonetheless does; and in general he runs through the whole gamut of graces, fitting his

material to metre and varying it with dialect forms, not hesitating to use myth in anappropriate way, availing himself of plausible fictions, even broadening out into ecphraseswhere appropriate, also interweaving historical references . . .

One way of describing the genre of the Periegesis, then, is as an outwardly expandedcatalogue, packed both with ‘facts’ and with diversions, informative and entertaining in equal

measure.

56

Reinsch-Werner 1976, 360; Acosta-Hughes and Stephens, 112 – 16; circular dances in Hymn 3.170 – 82, 241 – 7, 4.300 – 1, 312 – 13.

57 Lausberg, §§340 –2; esp. Quint. 4.3.12, according to whom digressions may contain ‘praise

of men and places, the description of regions, and the record of historical or evenmythological happenings’, and 10.1.49, where Homer is regarded as a master of the

digressus.58 p. 86, n. 5; a view which continues to be applied to Nicander (Jacques, ii, pp. lxviii – lxix).59 GGM ii. 213.35 – 214.8 (quoted by Pöhlmann, 833). See also Eustathius on 1039 (GGM ii.

394.12 – 14) suxna_ paraple/kwn th| ~ perihgh&sei ta_ e0c i9storiw~n, plh_n e0n e0pitomh| ~ kai\ e0pitroxa&dhn . . .



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2. DIDACTIC

For what says Lokman, ‘If the child would walk, the nurse must lead him; if the ignorantwould under stand, the wise must instruct.’

(Sir Walter Scott, The Talisman, ch. 23.)

Katharina Volk laid down four ‘positive characteristics of didactic poetry’— that is, poetrywhich is didactic in the most essential sense, as opposed to more loosely ‘in the didactic

mode’.60 Two are concerned with the didactic thrust of the work: it should have an explicitdidactic intent,61 and there should be a ‘teacher–student constellation’, according to which the

didaxis is directed in a ‘little intra-textual drama’ to a student or students by the authoritative

narrative voice.62 The other two are concerned with poetics and poetic consciousness: the

narrator should be self-consciously a poet, reflecting on his poetic activity and on his work’s

status as poetry,63 and he should observe a convention which is also more widely found inancient poetry, the fiction that the work is in the very process of composition (‘having sung

of x, I shall now tell you y’). She calls this ‘poetic simultaneity’.64

60 Volk, 34 – 43. Ilyushechkina proposes a different, and only partially overlapping, set of

characteristics (2010, 106 – 7): (1) the presentation of scientific data and theory in epic form;(2) fictive dialogue with addressee and/or Muses; (3) brevity and connectedness; (4) the

presence of excursuses; (5) didactic as well as poetic motives on the part of the author, i.e. both to instruct and to entertain.61 This blurs Heath’s distinction between ‘final’ and ‘formal’ didactic ( p. 88, n. 10; a workcould be intended to instruct without explicitly saying so, and its didactic claims could bedisingenuous), though the f ormal rather than final sense seems to be implied (36: ‘a didactic

poem either states clearly, or gives other strong indications, that it is first and foremostsupposed to reach whatever subject or skill it happens to be treating’).

62 Effectively noted already by Serv. Prooem. in V. Georg. (p. 129.9 – 12 Thilo) et hi librididascalici sunt, unde necesse est, ut ad aliquem scribantur; nam praeceptum et doctoris etdiscipuli personam requirit: unde ad Maecenatem scribit, sicut Hesiodus ad Persen,

Lucretius ad Memmium.63 Though Pöhlmann, 847 – 8, regards the falling-away of the Muse in Nicander as indicativeof a trend in later didactic poetry.

64 Cf. what Christopher Carey, A Commentary on Five Odes of Pindar (New York, 1981), 5,calls the ‘oral subterfuge’ in lyric, by which the poet ‘deliberately creates and sustains the

impression of informal, extempore composition’ in order to manipulate his materialaccording to his own requirements.



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The response has varied from the enthusiastic to the lukewarm. For some, it clears theground and focuses on the essentials.65 For others, it throws the baby out with the

bathwater.66 Those sympathetic to Kenney’s feeling that ‘poetry in the didactic mode’ is a

more helpful concept than didactic defined by these four restrictive criteria (which exclude

works like Parmenides’ ‘On Nature’, Ovid’s Fasti, and Horace’s Ars Poetica) could shift theemphasis so that the texts so isolated became a subset of a larger class more interesting invirtue of its richness. Or they could emphasise the absence of a theory of the genre inantiquity as a possible factor in the very different accents and inflections within differentworks. ps.-Oppian, for example, in the Cynegetica (a work which falls out of Volk’s remit)

has a very high poetic consciousness and much poetic simultaneity — in other words, heamply meets Volk’s criteria (iii) and (iv)— and uses so many epic locutions when hediscusses poetics that it is reasonable to infer that he thought of himself as writing a speciesof epic poetry. On the other hand, both he and Oppian, poet of the Halieutica, have little ifany concern for explicit didaxis; in both cases the dedicatees are Roman emperors, so that the

poets comport themselves, not as teachers towards a pupil, but as courtiers pointing out totheir royal masters the natural wealth their empire contains. The obviously informativecontent of both poems is not presented in the ‘little intra-textual drama’ of instruction which

Volk’s scheme requires. And yet intuitively it seems odd to relegate Oppian and ps-Oppian tothe penumbra of works that are ‘in the didactic mode’ rather than truly didactic.

Nonetheless, Volk’s four -point approach remains stimulating for the study ofDionysius because it helps to bring into focus the chief points of similarity and differencewith his precedessors.

Volk is rightly surprised by Aratus’ backwardness about some of the elementsintrinsic to didactic — not only her view of didactic (whose criteria he meets, but only just) but also elements essential on any definition.67 Above all, she argues, both narrator andaddressee are undercharacterised,68 one consequence of which is that the didactic intent of the

Phaenomena is not spelled out; the narrator says very little about the process and progress ofhis instruction (little poetic simultaneity), and after the reference to the Muses at the end ofthe proem69 exhibits no poetic self-consciousness, no awareness that he conceives of thework as poetry. Hunter, too, notes that ‘Aratus does not emulate the Hesiodic importance

attached to the autobiography of the poet as an authorising mode’, suggesting that ‘this wouldill suit the Stoicising stress on the centrality of the fixed order of nature in which noindividual is particularly important.’70 Nicander redresses the balance in some respects, with

65 J. O’Hara, CJ 99 (2004), 456, finds the four ‘central features’ the ‘attractive centralargument’ of the book; see also G. Campbell, JRS 94 (2004), 209 – 10.66 E. J. Kenney, BMCR 2003.01.26.

67 Volk, 56 – 7.68 On Aratus’ narrator see Fakas, 91 – 4; Semanoff.69 Fakas, 58 – 64.70 Hunter 1995, §3 ‘Authority and Truth’.



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named addressees in both poems and more overt didacticism, yet similarly low self-consciousness as a poet.71 (This general picture must be right, though Volk may haveundervalued the degree of poetic self-consciousness in both Aratus and Nicander by failing totake into account the presence of acrostichs — which ipso facto depend on the use of poetry,

and constitute a very self-conscious manipulation of its possibilities.)Save that he reverts to an anonymous Aratean addressee — perhaps because he wants

to avoid any sense of specificity of occasion72 — Dionysius reinstates the elements sounderrepresented in these models. Didacticism is now very explicit, and both participants inthe ‘didactic drama’ are more prominent. The narrator’s personality is far more developedthan in Aratus, with biographical or pseudo-biographical details derived from Hesiod (hisinexperience of distant countries), and a buoyant tone influenced by Nicander’s rhetoric of

poetic ‘ease’ (cf. p p. 108-9) and vision of the prestige which will accrue to his pupil (171 –

3 n.). Even a selection of particles which in Homer were confined to direct speech, and which

now spill over into the ‘live’ voice of the narrator (sometimes with Apollonian precedent),heighten the effect of liveliness and engagement.73 The addressee, meanwhile, is both a pupilwho is pursuing the didaxis on a theoretical level and also projected into the text as anarmchair traveller. The narrator is extremely aware of himself as a poet, with three substantialacrostichs (and a number of more controversial ones) and four references to the Muses,climaxing in a passage where their no/oj altogether rescues him from Hesiodic inexperienceand instead bears him aloft in a visionary rapture.74 And the last of Volk’s criteria is fulfilled

by extensive use of poetic simultaneity, which has the great advantage of imposing structureon his poem, itinerary, and universe all at once (170 nu=n de/ toi h0pei/rou muqh/somai ei]doja9pa/shj; 556, 799 e0cene/poimi; 881 r9hi+di/wj d’ a1n toi loipo\n po/ron au0dh/saimi; 894

i3comai h1dh, | a0rca/menoj Suri/hqen, o3qen li/pon; 933 kai\ th=j toi qe/siaj muqh/somai).75

It is striking that all these items, underplayed or all but ignored in the Hellenistic poets, are simultaneously restored to prominence. One could simply explain it in piecemealfashion. Didacticism might simply follow from the decision to write a poem on a subject

71 Volk, 57. Poetic self-consciousness comes to light principally in the envois of both poems:he calls himself ‘Homeric’ at the end of the Theriaca (957) and u9mnopo/loio at the end of the

Alexipharmaca (629).

72

Cf. Counillon 1983, 18 – 19 (well noting also that the sense of shared experience in the Phaenomena is missing in the Periegesis when the addressee goes on a round-the-worldvoyage but the narrator stays at home).

73 de/ toi (159 n.); h] ga/r (182 n.); h] ken (276 n.); h] ta/xa (885 n.); perhaps also nu=n ge me/n (650 – 1 n.).74 The two features are related. The two showpiece acrostichs (112 – 34, 517 – 32) occur atcorresponding points in major catalogue sequences — reviews of the Mediterranean (62 – 169)and its islands (447 – 554) —which have been introduced by the first two of the poem’s four

Muse-invocations (62 – 3, 447 – 9).75 See also Jacob 1981, 38; id. 1982, 227.



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which the Romans considered to be of practical utility: after all, other geographical writers, both poetic and prose, aspire to be instructive. Re-emphasis on the personality of the narratoremphasises the claims of instructiveness, heightens authority (the narrator advertises his goodsense (1054), veracity (895 – 6), and the transmissibility of knowledge (171 – 3, 884 – 6)), and

casts the teaching in a personable, obliging tone (270). The presence of the Muses is born ofthe heightened importance attached to Hesiod and catalogue poetry, and poetic simultaneitynot only follows from the narrator’s desire to present himself as an oral bard, but is also

helpful in ordering a poem that calls out for clear structure. But if it were felt that piecemealexplanations failed to explain why all these elements should come together all at once, onemight wonder whether Dionysius is consciously or unconsciously reverting to a classicalnorm, especially given that such reversion was fashionable at the time he was writing; or(though the lack of clear correlation between Volk’s criteria and subject-matter renders it

problematic) whether there was a tendency for geographical poems to adhere to them. As weshall see, the iambic didactic poems do — though in some places only just.

The Narrator

What might we expect of a geographical narrator anyway? Sometimes the association between a narrator’s character and the requirements of a given body of subject-matter are plain enough. In works of philosophy and natural science like the De Rerum Natura and the Aetna he needs to establish and defend theoretical positions against potentially hostilecriticism; he is adamant, insistent, even hectoring, and his addressee a worthwhile convert,

but in danger of backsliding. The medical narrator is often more of a technocrat. Nicander is

confident of the ease with which he can furnish cures and the prestige he can transmit to hisaddressee; the other extant medical writers would benefit from closer attention, but in severalwe find a comparably upbeat tone and pride in their ability to convey helpful technology tothe non-expert.76 The philosophico-theological vision of the Phaenomena summons up a

persona of calm authority and impersonality, remote from the contingency of biographicaldetail. But the loss of comparanda like the hexameter poems of Alexander of Ephesus hasfrustrated the comparison of Dionysius with his closest relatives in terms of genre. We dohave Apollonius’ rendition of a periplous in the mouth of the seer Phineus, as well as theextant iambic geographical poems, both of which are equipped with epistolary prefaces full

of illuminating detail about the aspirations of the author/narrator (even if they cannot beassumed to stand four-square with the conventions of hexameter poetry), as well as the wholerange of extant prose geography.

If we compare Dionysius with the extant iambic poems and with Mela (as a work ofcomparable length and compass, a handy digest of the whole oi0koume/nh), while each narratorand addressee has a character of his own, two main axes of difference appear.

76 e.g. Eudemus, SH 412A 15 – 16 (confident promise to the addressee); Aglaias of

Byzantium, SH 18.1 – 2, 4, 7 – 8 (both pride and helpfulness); Andromachus the Elder, LXII 29,cf. 75 – 6, Heitsch, promising ease to his addressee (the emperor Nero).



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First, the narrator in all three of the comparanda pays far more explicit attention tosources and recorded tradition; Dionysius acknowledges no authority other than the Muses.

ps.-Scymnus lists at length the writers he has used, expressly to bolster the academiccredibility of his work (110 – 11), and continues to cite sources in the course of his exposition,

as, much more sparingly, does Mela.

77

Not only do they make more extensive use thanDionysius of the relata refero device (‘as they say’, ‘as the story goes’), but they also use itto different effect. Where in Dionysius it suggests a non-committal attitude to the mythswhich continue to resonate in the real, visitable landscape (p. 173), ps.-Scymnus uses it aboveall for traditions about early settlement and colonisation,78 and on a couple of occasions,where it is combined with a specific source-citation (543 – 8, 559 – 65), it becomes clear thatthe device is a pointer to dependence on an authority, whether specified or not. Writers whocite sources are also prepared to assess them. Differences of opinion are noted, the quality ofsources evaluated, and critical positions taken.79 Where no one view is preferable to another,or where the causes of a phenomenon remain hidden, Mela will sometimes offer up multiple

explanations in the style of natural philosophy.80 This technique is found in didactic writerssuch as Lucretius and Manilius, but is wholly absent from Dionysius. Natural science is nothis interest; where controversy is concerned, he prefers to amalgamate and harmonise.

Second, once the geographical itinerary begins in the three comparanda, a second- person remains almost completely out of sight. After the epistolary prefaces of the iambic poets, he drops completely from view. In Mela, though there is no addressee in the prefaratory material, there are just three references to a second person, including a singleinstance of the ‘you might think’ topos, so important in Dionysius (p. 113). But most of thetime all three writers, when they envisage a destination for their information at all, conjure up

third-person travellers in the fashion of a periplous (especially datives of interest, e.g.ka/myanti th\n a1kran); they do not, as does Dionysius, segue this notional traveller into thework’s addressee.81

77 Ps.-Scymnus: Marcotte 2002, 19 – 20; Hunter 2004a, 229, and 2006, 132 – 3. According toBerthelot, 19 – 20, it is in imitation of ps.-Scymnus that Avienius prefaces his Ora Maritima (33 – 50) with his own list of sources; a different view in G. F. Unger, Der Periplus des

Avienus (Philologus Suppl. IV,2) (Göttingen, 1884), 200 – 6. Mela: Brodersen 1994b, 5 – 6;Batty 2000, 71 – 2. Dionysius son of Calliphon presented his work as a distillation of longer

works u9po\ tw=n palaiw=n suggrafe/wn ei0rhme/na (9).78 157 – 8, 229, 234 – 5, 249, 311 – 12, 317, 325, 328 – 9, 389 – 90, 436, 456 – 7, 462 – 3, 526 – 34,571 – 7, 584, 616 – 17, 638 – 9, 660, 676 – 7, 681 – 92, 712.79 Differences of opinion: Dionysius son of Calliphon, 35 – 8; ps.-Scymn. 462 – 3; Mela 1.83,1.92, 2.100, 3.70, 3.89; remarks on the quality of sources: Mela, 3.49, 3.56; critical comment:

ps.-Scymn. F 25.11 – 13; Mela 2.31, 3.66.

80 1.21, 1.53, 3.2, 3.22 (though here the explanations are not in competition).81 Mela has just one instance of the second-person traveller (2.89 si litora legas), though 2.78

credas, 3.40 quamquam intuearis, also imply the presence of a viewer. As Dr L. A. Holford-Strevens notes, the subjunctives indicate the ideal, rather than the real, second person.



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All this helps to bring Dionysius’ ‘didactic drama’ into closer focus. The bard is aconvention of hexameter poetry, and Dionysius needs only his Muses to inspire and to guidehim; the iambic poets, with their allegiance to, and criticism of, written authorities,correspond more to the practice of prose writers. ps.-Scymnus (certainly) and Dionysius son

of Calliphon (possibly) speak of i9stori/a, and ps.-Scymnus carefully discriminates theregions where he himself has travelled;82 Dionysius positively advertises his inexperience.Above all, though, is the simple fact that the hexameter tradition makes extensive use of asecond-person addressee, with whom the narrator interacts, to remind, to encourage, and tostimulate. This is indeed a little drama of education, involving the exploration andcommunication of knowledge.

The ‘didactic drama’, which is Katharina Volk’s phrase, can also be couched in terms

of Don’s Fowler’s idea of a didactic plot.83 It is akin to narrative in that it has a sense of progress and forward momentum, as the speaker and addressee pursue a path through through

the text, and as the learner proceeds from ignorance to knowledge. Dionysius has reworkedthe old conceit of poem-as-journey.84 Precisely where the metaphor might be literalised, it ismade clear that this is armchair voyaging, the untravelled leading the untravelled. Yet the

progress of the poem is assimilated to the progress of a journey,85 one that lends itself to an

82 i9stori/a: ps.-Scymn. 43 – 4, 111 to\n i9storiko\n lo/gon, 132 i3stwr te gegonw/j;Dionysius son of Calliphon, 4 nuni\ pepo/rhka [nu=n i9sto/rhka conj. Meineke] th\n a3pasan

9Ella/da. Condemning Meineke’s emendation as ‘outrancier’, Marcotte prefers Scaliger and

Casaubon’s pepo/rika. Travel: ps.-Scymn. 128 – 36.

83

Fowler; cf. Selter 2011, 156 – 7. The idea of the movement from ignorance to knowledge,the most basic form of the didactic plot, is central to Emily Kneebone’s analysis of Oppian’s

Halieutica, where reader, addressee, and fishy subject-matter are all involved in the processof learning (E. Kneebone, ‘To&ss’ e0da&hn: The Poetics of K nowledge in Oppian’s

« Halieutica »’, Ramus 37/1 – 2 (2008), 32 – 59).84 Fowler, 208 – 11; Volk, 20 – 3, 40; Vox, 167 – 8 and n. 68; Selter 2011, 160. For moreinstances in didactic poetry, see Volk, 50, on Parmenides’ chariot metaphor; 52, on

Empedocles’ eu0h/nion a3rma, 31 B. 3.5 D. – K.; 66, on Pythagoras in Ov. Met . 15.176 – 7 (withBömer ad loc. on the metaphor of sailing), 453 – 4 (a team of horses).

85 As is that of the Argonautica (Thalmann, 30). For the assimilation of the trajectory of the poem to the trajectory of the journey, see 894 i3comai; 895 o3qen li/pon, 1184 e0pe/dramon(discussed above). The subject-matter invites the frequent use of the nouns ke/leuqoj, o9do/j,po/roj, oi]moj, all of which are capable of being drawn into the ‘path of song’ metaphor (O.

Becker, 7 – 39; Nünlist, 228 – 76), and which may appear in that association here, especiallyke/leuqoj in 62, 884; po/roj in 448 (object of e1nnepe, Mou=sa), 1185 (object of e0pe/dramon).For ways in which the Odysseus myth may be implied by a didactic plot, see Fowler, 216 – 17,and it is as an Odyssean figure that Eustathius interprets Dionysius (GGM ii. 205.24 – 6 kai\ pollw=n a0nqrw/pwn i0dw\n a1stea, kai\ no/on gnou\j o0fqalmw= | kai\ didaskali/a| Mousw=n;

cf. Jacob 1985, 94). Faring onwards on a journey that equips him with wisdom, he is atraveller in the spirit — like Maximus of Tyre’s reinterpretation of the Odysseus figure ( Dial.



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obvious but satisfying teleology, for it ends with a multi-layered allusion to the closure of a poem, a journey, and perhaps also the completion of a narrative summary (1184 n.). For thenarrator not only concludes his journey, alluding to Apollonius’ use of the same conceit to

conclude both the Argo’s voyage and his own poetic account of it, but also, by his choice of

verb, possibly signifies that he has treated the main headings of it, in summary form.The travel theme is enhanced by the use of the Muses, who are worked into the

didactic plot in the sense that their role is accommodated to geography,86 and theirappearances carefully sequenced.87 They seem to represent the impetus for linear progress,88 so their first appearance coincides with the inception of the itinerary when they are asked totell the narrator of the skolia\j . . . keleu/qouj of the Mediterranean, and to proceedstoixhdo/n from the Pillars of Heracles (62 – 3). Next (447), the ‘Muse of Zeus’ is invoked to

tell of the i9ero\n po/ron of the islands. Their third appearance is at the beginning of the periegesis of northern Asia, where they are asked to ‘direct the poet’s step straight’ (651

i0qu/ntaton i1xnoj a1goien), and finally (715), the only time where they are not asked to leadoff an itinerary (though, like their first and second appearances, in connection with water)their inspiration bears up the narrator in account of the Caspian, though he has never beenthere.

Certain characteristics expected from narrative Muses are absent here. They do notsupply information in reply to questions, and are not associated with the familiar themes of

XXVI. 1a; Jacob 1985, 102 – 3). In a further similarity with Maximus, Dionysius’ Muses

represent Greek paideia (p. 108), just as Maximus interprets Calliope as Homer’s name for

philosophy ( Dial . I. 2a). All in all, the dialogue with the Argonautica seems more sustainedthan with the Odyssey, for all that the narrator threads his way past some Odyssean sights.There is no literal homecoming in a poem that comes to an end in India, and the didacticnarrative (as opposed to journey) is concluded with an allusion to the Argonautica;nevertheless, 716 seems to represent a pointed engagement with the wandering theme in theOdyssey, and see also 709 – 10 n. on travelling in ‘black ships’. 86 Parallels for the assimilation of Muses to the subject-matter of a didactic poem are notobvious. The Muses of Apollonius’ geographical epic are still story-telling Muses, howeverunconventional (1.22, 3.1, 4.2, cf. 4.984 – 5, 4.1381). Closest is Arat. 16 – 18, where they are

asked tekmh/rate pa=san a0oidh/n, which Kidd (n. on 18) renders ‘show by a sign’: the verb is

common in the rest of the poem (though in the middle rather than the active), of menobserving and interpreting signs. Muses are assimilated to Dionysian subject-matter inPhilodamus of Scarpheia, Paean in Dionysum, v. 58 – 62, Nonn. D. 13.46, 25.1.87 Structural Muses in Dionysius: Coccaro Andreou, 131; for the Muses as a structural devicein both lyric (Bacchylides) and didactic (Empedocles), Trépanier, 58. Lucretius mentionsMuses often, and uses them in the proems of the first and fourth books, but not in internaldivisions within books. A Muse or Muses in Opp. Hal . 4.6 (proem) and ps.-Opp. Cyn. 3.461(an internal division). For Empedocles’ Muse mid-poem, see Obbink, 64.88 Jacob 1981, 47, 48; id. 1982, 233 – 4; id. 1985, 93 – 5.



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memory and fame ( Il . 2.486, 492). They are geographical figures, and are sequenced in sucha way that their relationship with the narrator becomes more intense: on the first twooccasions they tell him something (e0n(n)e/pein), on the third they guide him, and in the endthey bear him aloft and enable him to survey whole landscapes. In their fourth and last

appearance, two separate Hesiodic themes are brought together: their inspiration overridesthe narrator’s lack of practical experience.89 But Hesiod had not made the Muses supply thewant of practical knowledge about ships; much less did they transport him on a spiritual

journey (715 – 17 n.) which recalls the experience of visionaries such as Aristeas ofProconnesus,90 or, more distantly, the various philosophical and/or eschatological traditionsof the ‘flight of the soul’. The visionary moment comes at the climax of the didactic ‘plot’

involving the Muses, and it is precisely here that, as Eustathius (and Richard Hunter) wereright to see, they reveal themselves as metaphors, not for inspiration, but for humanknowledge.91 So, one strand of the plot or drama consists in an increasingly alluring

presentation of the power of learning. There are other strands.

89 It is unclear whether Dionysius knew the tradition that Aratus and Nicander were bothamateurs in their chosen subjects (Cic. de Or . 1.69; see also Vit. Arat. I, pp. 8.25 – 9.1 Martin,and Vit. IV, p. 20.13 – 15 Martin). See Jacques 2006, 20 – 1 (for whom this tradition eventuallygave rise to a pernicious modern myth). The Aratean narrator admits incapacity in the

particular matter of the planets (Semanoff, 312 – 14).90 Jacob 1981, 28 – 9, 1985, 101 – 2, 107, and 1990, 26; Hunter 2004a, 228. Note in particularthe similarity between the content of Dionysius’ poem and that of the visions of Aristeas, as

described by Maximus of Tyre, Dial . X. 2f – 3c and XXXVIII. 3c – g. For the idea of journeysin the spirit (geographical, philosophical, and eschatological), see also Bolton, 146 – 65;Burkert, 147 – 50; on shamans, Meuli, esp. 153 – 64; E. R. Dodds, The Greeks and the

Irrational (Berkeley, 1951), 140 – 2; on Hermotimus, A. Sco bie, ‘Some Folktales in Graeco-Roman and Far Eastern Sources’, Philologus, 121 (1977), 1 – 23, at 12 – 13. Curiously, in the6th c., Cassiodorus promised his pupils in the Italian monastery of Vivarium that the readingof Ptolemy would have the same effect on them ( Inst. Divin. Litt. 1 xxv.2 eoque fiat ut unoloco positi, sicut monachos decet, animo percurratis quod aliquorum peregrinatio plurimolabore collegit ).

91 Eustathius on 707 “a0lla/ me”, fhsi\, “Mousw=n fe/rei no/oj”, toute/stin ai9 e0k tw=nmaqh/sewn gnw/seij; he has been aided in this realisation by the appearance in 707 of the

prose verb katagra/yaimi, whose force is still felt when the narrator resumes the sxh=ma ofthe Caspian in 718 – 25. In other words, the assimilation of the poem to a work of prosegeography or technical cartography reveals the grandiose claim for the power of the Musesfor the metaphor it really is. See Coccaro Andreou, 130 – 1; Hunter 2004a, 228; Amato 2002,11 – 15 = 2005a, 94 – 101; Ilyushechkina 2010, 114; for the Muses as figures of speech inAratus, Fakas, 63 –4; for the Muses’ development into deities of erudition and

personifications of paideia, P. Murray, ‘The Muses and their Arts’, in P. Murray and P.

Wilson (eds.), Music and the Muses: The Culture of Mousike in the Classical Athenian City

(Oxford, 2004), 365 – 89; A. Morrison, ‘Callimachus’ Muses’, in B. Acosta-Hughes, L.Lehnus, and S. Stephens (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Callimachus (Leiden, 2011), 329 – 48, at



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The confidence of the travel narrative is buoyed up the narrator’s rhetoric of ‘ease’,

which is generally at home in hymns, prayers, and discourses about the gods, but comesimmediately from Nicander.92 Nicander flaunts the ‘ease’ with which he can communicatehis message at the beginning of both the Theriaca and Alexipharmaca, which lack hymnal

proems or any sign of deference to a deity — whose place is now filled by the narrator.

93

Dionysius, too, has a godless proem, but the ‘ease’ motif is reserved for later on. Like theappeal to the Muses, with which it partly overlaps (the third ‘ease’ motif links with the final

appearance of the Muses), it has a structural function.94 Twice it occurs with verbs of speech(345 a0goreu/sw, 881 au0dh/saimi), as in Nicander; once with a verb whose overt textuality

brings out the scholarly nature of the enterprise (707 katagra/yaimi); on the remainingoccasion (280 kixh/seai) it communicates itself to the addressee. This, too, originates with

Nicander.95 In the proem of the Theriaca the narrator’s ‘ease’ leads straight into a promise of

the regard in which the aspiring healer will be held (1 – 7). This is now split across twomanifestos containing pledges to his pupil, (i) promising prestige from the transmission of his

knowledge (171 –3), and (ii) running together narratorial ease into his pupil’s ability toremember and transmit knowledge to others (881 – 6).

Of course there are differences. Those who regard Nicander’s didactic as purelyformal and artificial might contrast his hopelessly arcane, and partly defective, information,with Dionysius’ didactically friendly tract. On the other hand, Nicander finds a place in acircle of specialists whose other members share certain mannerisms without prejudice to how

practical or impractical their therapies were intended to be. He was paraphrased and

342 – 3. ‘Education’ (Hunter) is a better gloss for what the Muses represent than ‘l’intelligence

humaine’ (Jacob 1990, 25, cf. 1985, 106: ‘il noos delle Muse è una metafora e sottolinea ilruolo preeminente dell’intelletto umano che nella vulgata filosofica dell’epoca “guida”

l’anima nelle sue peregrinazioni estatiche, nella sua ricerca del divino e dell’intelligibile’). They stand for learning, replacing the authorities so assiduously listed by Mela and theiambic poets. In Opp. Hal . 1.680, mousopo/lwn e1rgwn are school lessons.

92 See Janko on Il . 13.90 and 16.688 – 90; Od . 10.305 – 6; Hes. Op. 5 – 7, Th. 90 (with West adloc.), 438, 442 – 3; Empedocles, 31 B. 129.5 D. – K. (in praise of Pythagoras); Call. Hymn 2.50;

Nic. Ther . 1, Al . 4 – 5 (see Fakas, 63 n. 190; Hunter 2004a, 224; Magnelli 2006b, 196 – 7;Jacques, iii. lxxv); V. Georg . 1.40, 121 – 2; Jacob 1982, 227 – 8.93 Pöhlmann, 847 – 8; Koster, 153; Fakas, 63 n. 190.

94 280, resuming what has just been said about the shape of Europe, and immediately beforethe detailed itinerary; 345, introducing the review of Italy; 707, introducing the Caspian; 881,introducing southern Asia. 280 and 345 use the future indicative, which allows not a shadowof doubt about the narrator’s ability: not even Nicander goes as far as this. 95 Ther . 234, 842, Al . 91, 272, 333, 386; offset by the easy actions of grim animals or poisons:

Ther . 454, 768, Al . 315. For Semanoff, 309 –12, ‘ease’ is also implied in the Phaenomena, bythe narrator’s confidence in his pupil’s abilities; but the motif is not used explicitly.



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excerpted, and knowledge of his remedies shows up in later medical compilations96 — incontrast to the Periegesis, which promises prestige for theoretical rather than practicalknowledge, won from a narrator who self-confessedly has no first-hand expertise either. Bethat as it may, Dionysius’ treatment of the ‘ease’ motif is more sophisticated than Nicander’s

because he plays it off against the topoi of inexpressibility and aporia (‘too many to name’). We have noted his penchant for concluding catalogues and lists in a minor key, with anacknowledgement of all that he has not managed to include. The aporia topos simply makesthis more explicit: at the end of the islands, ‘it is not easy for me to give the names of all of

them’ (619); at the end of the physical geography of Asia, ‘who could name all [the rivers

that pour from the Taurus range]?’ (646– 9); and at the end of the poem itself, in what Hunterdescribes as an ‘extraordinary poetic move’, the speaker admits that there are ‘countless’

other peoples he has not named, and that ‘only the gods can do everything with ease’ (1168–

9).

A literary history can be traced for all this. The plea of incapacity goes back to earlyGreek hexameter poetry,97 where it may function as a focusing device (‘I cannot talk about x or y or z, but I am going to talk about a’)98 or —more akin to Dionysius’ usage— as an

Abbruchsformel (‘but why continue? I could never express it all’).99 All three instances in

Dionysius have a background in Homer or Hesiod, and the last one, with its contrast betweenhuman capacity and divine, also finds a parallel in Ibycus, who, following the Iliadic model,

96 On Nicander and iological literature, Jacques, ii, pp. xlix – lxv, and 2006; on his influence,Jacques ii, pp. lxi – lxv, 2006, 28 – 30.97

E. J. Bakker, Poetry in Speech: Orality and Homeric Discourse (Ithaca, 1997), 54 – 5; E. R.Curtius, European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages, tr. W. R. Trask (Princeton, 1973),159 – 60; A. Ford, Homer: The Poetry of the Past (Ithaca, 1992), 73 – 7; I. de Jong, A

Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey (Cambridge, 2001), 102 – 3 (cf. 227: by theaporia motif she means the ‘who first, who last’ motif); W. Kühlmann, ‘Katalog undErzählung: Studien zu Konstanz und Wandel einer literarischen Form in der antiken Epik’

(diss. Freiburg, 1973), 112 – 13 with 178 n. 63; W. Race, The Classical Priamel from Homerto Boethius (Leiden, 1982), 33 – 5.98 Il . 2.484 – 93; Od . 4.240 – 1, 7.241 – 2, 11.517 – 18; Ap. Rhod. 2.311 – 16 (related; cf. Hunter

1995, §3); Arat. 460; Ennius 469 Skutsch (perhaps); V. Georg . 2.42, Aen. 3.377 – 80; Sil. Ital.4.525 – 6; Val. Flacc. 6.36 – 41.

99 An important model was clearly the catalogue of rivers and nymphs in Hes. Th. 337 – 70:after eight lines of river-names and a dozen lines for nymphs, the poet states that in all thereare three thousand of each, and that it is hard for a mortal man to name them all. West on 369cites other examples of the ‘difficulty’ motif, to which add Od . 11.328 – 30; V. Aen. 6.625 – 7;Ov. AA 1.435 – 6 (Ap. Rhod. 2.390 – 1 is related); a geographical example in the poem ofDionysius son of Calliphon, 124 – 5 a1llai t’ ei0si\n e0n | Krh/th| po/leij, a3j e0stin e0rgw=dejfra/sai. Virgil’s statement of aporia at the end of a catalogue of vines (Georg . 2.89 – 108) is

borrowed by Avienius, who intercalates a major statement of incapacity after the section onislands (803 – 16), while he fails to render the climactic one in 1168 – 9 (Selter 2011, 166 – 7).



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uses it precisely in connection with a catalogue.100 Sketchy conclusions to lists are, as wehave seen, Nicandrian. What is distinctive about Dionysius is the strength of the opposition

between completeness and incompleteness, between confidence and collapse; and the art andsystem with which the two stances are bound together. The opposition is absent from Aratus,

who is also describing a natural whole, but claims neither comprehensiveness nor its opposite(a single gesture at incompleteness occurs in 1036 – 7, towards the end of a list of signs ofstormy weather); and absent, too, from Nicander, who does pose at sketchiness from time totime, but is not describing a natural whole. In Dionysius, ‘ease’ typically begins sections,

aporia ends them, and ends the whole. Don Fowler had spoken of the path from ignorance toknowledge (the addressee’s), but Dionysius creates a drama of knowledge (the narrator’s). By playing off ease against difficulty and ultimately hopelessness, his version is moresatisfyingly complex.

Addressees and Spectators The pupil is anonymous, but certain characteristics are implied for him by his willingness toreceive instruction and, at least negatively, by the cheerful and encouraging tone in which heis addressed (he is not in danger of backsliding or recalcitrant). He is a stay-at home; nor isany specific occasion envisaged for his instruction.101

There are two kinds of addressee, the notional pupil and the traveller. They performdifferent functions. The notional pupil is conjured up at transitional moments, at stress-pointsin the poem’s structure.102 The traveller has no structural purpose. He turns up here and there,especially when the poet needs to give the poem some forward momentum: if he has to covera lot of ground between a and b, he may envisage the addressee, or an unidentified third-

person traveller, speeding over the intervening distance in a boat.103 Verisimilitude is not a

100 In Il . 2.484 – 93 the contrast is more complicated: the poet learns the names of the Greekleaders from the Muses, and would not be able to tell of the plhqu/j who came to Troywithout their help (but in practice does not attempt the latter anyway).101 Erren, 126 –34, demonstrated the incorrectness of the assumption that Aratus’ narrator and

addressee are together contemplating the night sky at the moment the instruction is delivered.

Laying especial stress on the tense of the imperatives (only one of which, addressing theMuses in 18, is aorist), he showed that the narrator speaks to the addressee in general terms,of any occasion the latter was able to view the night sky. The same is true of the Periegesis,where no journey is underway, nor any fictionalised journey envisaged, nor even a lesson in aclassroom where teacher and pupil together pore over a map. The poem’s single imperative

form is present (fra/zeo, cf. p. 112).

102 The two main manifestos (171 – 3; 881 – 6, 889); the two if-clauses (270, 1053); allinstances of fra/zeo (p. 112).

103 (i) By boat. Second persons: 481 – 2 (from the Libyan coast into the Adriatic); 581 (from

the island off the Loire estuary to Thule); 588 (from Thule to the Golden Island); 719 – 20(you could not cross the Caspian in a boat in three months). Other references to ships: 155



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concern, because the traveller shows up at least as often, if not more often, in remote, evensemi-mythical, climes, precisely because this is where the narrator needs to cover mostground. For two kinds of addressee, we can again compare Nicander’s Theriaca, whichaddresses both a theoretician (a doctor) and someone embroiled in the subject-matter (a

country-dweller at immediate risk of snake-bite). The difference is that Nicander conflatesthe two kinds of person to whom his discourse is directed, so that there is no formaldistinction between the man who prepares the remedy and the one who consumes it.104 InDionysius, the theoretical and practical aspects of the communication are kept distinct.

Communications from the narrator to addressee fall into several broad classes whichcan to some extent be generalised to other didactic authors.

Instruction is the most obvious, using imperatives, imperatival infinitives, or, more politely, the optative; this type of address consists of requests and orders. This kind ofaddress in Dionysius is scarcer than in Hesiod’s practical and ethical didaxis, the technical

instruction of Nicander and other medical writers, or even Empedocles’ constant exhortationsto pay attention and keep up with his teaching;105 for the only command issued by Dionysiusis fra/zeo (to ‘conceive’ or ‘form a mental image’).106 In other words, the only activity

positively required of the addressee is intellectual. Ultimately, the importance of this word indidaxis comes from Hesiod’s instructions to Perses to ponder wise and practice advice,107 butthe immediate model is Nicander, from whom Dionysius derives the structural function of thecommand to ‘consider’ or ‘pay heed’.108 The half dozen instances of fra/zeo in the

(three days to cross the Black Sea in a o9lka/j); 492 (from the Liburnides past the Ceraunian

mountains to the Ambracian islands, nhi\ qeou/sh|), cf. 603 (ships frequently swallowed up inthe Erythraean Sea). (ii) On foot. Second persons: 923 (travelling southwards from Syria into Nabataea); 1016 (from Armenia eastwards into Media). Third persons: 985 – 6 (between theEuphrates and Tigris).104 The proem addresses Hermesianax the doctor (1 – 7), but beginning in 21 – 34 the advice isaddressed to someone who will be sleeping outdoors. A doctor is obviously the object ofinstructions to prepare and administer ingredients (e.g. Ther . 573, 877 e0mpi/saio, frome0mpipi/skw, ‘give to drink’), but in the sections on remedies physician and victim aresometimes conflated (e.g. 534 – 40, 689 – 99, 700 – 13, 912 – 13) or addressed one after the other

in successive remedies (915 – 20 + 921 – 33). In the Alexipharmaca there is a clearer formaldistinction between doctor and victim (Jacques, iii, pp. lxxvi f.).

105 31 B. 3.9 a0ll’ a1g’ a1qrei pa/sh| pala/mh|; 17.14 a0ll’ a1ge mu/qwn klu=qi; 21.1 a0ll’ a1ge. . . de/rkeu; 62.1 nu=n d’ a1g’ . . . tw=nde klu/’.106 Jacob 1981, 57 (noting that these orders become more insistent in Blemmydes’

paraphrase); id. 1982, 229.

107 Op. 367, 403 – 4, 687 – 8 fra/zesqai; cf. also Op. 248 katafra/zesqe, to the kings, and fr.310.1 – 2 M. – W., where the Muses make a man polufrade/onta.

108 In whom it introduces new species of snake, herbs, and preparations (Ther . 157, 438, 541,589, 656, 759 fra/zeo, Al . 376 fra/zoio; 541 perifra/zeo, 715 perifra/zoio; Al . 74



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Periegesis all open a fresh paragraph of the discussion (130, 331, 762, 894, 1080, 1128),while the verb and its derivatives are also developed into further patterns, when the narrator

pledges clarity (1054 eu0frade/wj . . . au0dh/saimi), intelligibility (171 eu1fraston o0pwph/n),and prestige that will follow from the correct understanding of his lessons (884 ei0 ga/r moi

sa/fa th/nde katafra/ssaio ke/leuqon).

109

The recurrences of the verb are not coincidental;on the contrary, they participate in the ‘didactic’ drama, for the peroration of the poem denies

clarity of understanding to humans (1168 ou0k a1n tij a0rifrade/wj a0goreu=sai) and reservesit for Zeus (1179 tw\j ga\r me/gaj e0fra/sato Zeu/j).

A second category is exhortation and encouragement. This is concentrated in twomanifestos to the addressee, in the first of which he is promised respect and esteem from thenon-expert (171 – 3), and in the second knowledgeability if he does not neglect the teaching(884 – 6). From the vision Hesiod gives Perses of the rewards of hard work, via Aratus’

assurances of the practical utility of his subject, and Nicander’s (hardly ingenuous) promises

to Hermesianax of the esteem in which he will be held by rustics for his specialist knowledge,the approved behaviour has now slid along a scale from practical to the purely academic.110

The last category could simply be described as neutral involvement (‘if you do x’,

‘when you do x’, more remotely ‘if you were to do/go to x, you would see/find’, etc.). This —

especially the potential optative ‘you might see’— proves to be Dionysius’ speciality, and it is

worth reflecting on how this form burgeons in comparison with Nicander (who barely usesit), let alone Hesiod (who uses it not at all). Five are verbs of motion (‘you might reach’),

again without correlation to the plausibility of the journey;111 fifteen are verbs of vision(thirteen positive, two negative),112 with one further example of ‘you might hear’ (833– 4);

and four others are with miscellaneous verbs.113

Their distribution is certainly significant.For, by drawing an addressee into the landscape, the second person potential is a powerfulmeans of evoking its associations for a reader. Dionysius’ geography works through the

evocation of literary and cultural associations, and it is no coincidence that the second person potentials cluster round the places rich in cultural memory and literary history. Consider: theyare associated with temples and cults (257, temple of Sarapis; 371, temple of Lacinian Hera;

e0pifra/zeu). Aratus uses many words from the same group, for his world depends on theintelligibility of the heavens and recognisability of signs (stars: 40, 76, 374, 608; seasonal andweather-signs: 745, 1061 – 2, 1149). Counillon 1983, 19, compares Aratus’ ske/pteo.

109 There is a miniature dualism of knowledge and ignorance: the Phoenicians e0fra/ssantonavigational astronomy (909), and the enemies of Dionysus defied him a0fradi/h|si (1158).

110 Hes. Op. 306 – 10, cf. 826 – 7; Arat. 463 – 4, 761 – 4; Nic. Ther . 4 – 7.

111 581 perh/saij; 592 i3koio; 608 – 9 pera/seiaj, ei0safi/koio; 719 – 20 perh/seiaj.

112 156 a2n . . . i1doij; 209 a0qrh/seiaj; 256 – 7 ou0k a2n . . . i1doio; 319 a0qrh/seaij; 371 i1doio;390 i1doij; 478 a2n i1doij; 666 – 7 a2n . . . a0qrh/seiaj; 670 – 1 ken . . . i1doio; 813 a2n i1doio; 826e0si/doio; 851 a2n a0qrh/seiaj; 923 a2n i1doij; 990 – 1 ou0k a2n . . . i1doio; 1075 a2n . . . i1doij. For666 – 7 and other instances, see Ilyushechkina 2010, 223 – 4.

113 280 kixh/seai; 780 – 1 a2n . . . te/mnoij; 839 o0no/sseai.



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608, journey to Icarus with altars of Tauropolos; 826, Ephesus, with Artemis temple; 839,Bacchants of Lydia; 851, Aphrodite’s cult at Aspendos), and settings of historical andmythical events (209, Nasamones; 390, tomb of Cadmus and Harmonia; and 813, where themention of the more westerly of the two Phrygias leads directly into the flourish for Troy).

They are also associated with notable features of the landscape (592, the island of Taprobane,with its elephants and location under Cancer; 991, the Tigris with its unparalleled swiftness).Precious stones in their natural state fleck the landscape with brilliant dashes of colour (319,780 – 1, 1075; p. 153). Other examples occur with tropes of travel writing: there will be noliteral witness to the semi-legendary Thule (581), or to the Scythians around the Tanais (667,671), but every cultured Graeco-Roman knew of Pytheas’ travelogue and Herodotus’

ethnography, and perhaps there is a similar explanation for the presence of the motif at the beginning of the description of Arabia Felix (923), by now another staple of literaryevocations of the fascinating east. And the tableau of singing swans on the Pactolus (834)evokes the earlier descriptions of Callimachus and Apollonius of that same landscape.114

These optatives draw the addressee into appreciation of the spectacle which the poemoffers. The device goes back to Homer, who uses it to encourage the audience to visualise ascene the more clearly by projecting an anonymous second- (sometimes third-) person viewerinto it.115 The Homeric narrator manipulates this participant in precisely the same ways asDionysius, by making him ‘listen, see for himself and even . . . “visit” the actual battlefield’ (de Jong 1987, 60), but also uses him to project reactions such as fear, pity, and awe onto theaudience, whereas Dionysius’ addressee just looks on in (presumable) delight at the

spectacle. Aratus is also much given to the use of the second person optative (which he wouldappear to have added to Eudoxus’ prose text),116 with which he invites the addressee to

identify stars and constellations and to make inferences from weather-signs. Like Dionysius

114 Of those that remain, 156 invites the addressee to consider an analogy rather thancontemplate the actual Pontus, and 279 – 80 concludes a geometrical description of Europe;478 evokes the western Syrtis, and 719 – 20 tries and fails to convert the unimaginablevastness of the Caspian into measurable place, by failing to specify how long it would take aship to sail across it.

115 See de Jong 1987, 54 – 8, 60, 98: she gives five instances in narrative, two in direct speech.

The second person optative is positive only in Il . 3.220 (the only instance not set on the battlefield) and 15.697.

116 Arat. 74 – 5 kefalh= | ge me\n a1krh| | ske/pteo pa\r kefalh\n 0Ofiou/xeon ~ Eudoxus ap.Hipparchus 1.2.7 (F 19 Lasserre) plhsi/on d’ e0sti\ th=j tou/tou kefalh=j h9 tou = 0Ofiou/xoukefalh/; Arat. 96 a0mfote/roisi de\ possi\n u3po ske/ptoio Bow/tew ~ Eudoxus ap.Hipparchus 1.2.5 (F 25 Lasserre) u9po\ de\ tou\j po/daj h9 Parqe/noj e0sti/n. See Kidd, 16: ‘As

far as we can judge from the fragments, Eudoxus gives a purely objective description of whatis there, whereas A. describes the stars and their movement entirely from the point of view ofthe observer.’ Of course, if Martin is correct (p. 28 n. 3) that ‘Eudoxus’ as quoted by

Hipparchus is secondary to the Phaenomena, then this is evidence only of what the paraphrast left out.



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he specialises in verbs of seeing, though in many cases they also have a structural function,which does not seem to be the case in the Periegesis.117

The high profile of the internal spectator advertises what is already quite obvious, theintensely visual character of the Periegesis. Rhetorical theory reflected at length on enargeia,

vividness, that quality which brings a scene before the mind’s eye as if the eyes themselvescould see it.118 One word that dominates these discussions is o1yij.119 Ancient theorists ofmemory also made the point that sight was the most penetrating of the senses; if we wish toremember something, we must enhance its visual qualities, or convert it into something thatcan be seen.120 Links between the rhetorical discussions of the production of enargeia and the

Periegesis’ techniques are possible but remain speculative — the very frequent use ofcomparisons,121 the almost ecphrastic quality of some of the tableau descriptions, perhaps theuse of repetitional devices,122 and above all the use of the anonymous second-person

117

Recognition of stars and constellations: 142 ou0k a2n . . . e1ti tekmh/raio (Voss: codd.e0pitekmh/raio, e0pi\ tekmh/raio); 229 a1n . . . e0pitekmh/raio; observing their rising andsettings: 573, 710 ken i1doio; making inferences from signs: 802 ke . . . tekmh/raio. In anemotive account of a storm: 288 – 9 ou1te ken . . . peirh/neiaj. Rounding off the descriptionof the northern and southern constellations: 451 ke qhh/saio; and to open the description ofthe five planets: 456 ou0k a2n . . . e0pitekmh/raio. The section on signs from the moon is ringedoff by 782 and 818 ke pu/qoio, and 1154 ken . . . tekmh/raio brings the whole poem to an end.Other optatives which lack a1n/ken (76, 96, 1038, 1129) could be construed as cupitive (politerequests) or potential (Erren, 130 n. 1, and for potentials 131), just as some of Dionysius’

potentials lack a particle (209, 319; manuscripts are divided at 371, 390, 826). Nicander, incontrast, makes little use of the device; see only Ther . 234 (with the ‘ease’ motif).

118 Lausberg, §§810 – 19; H. Homeyer, Lukian: Wie man Geschichte schreiben soll (Munich,1965), 268 –9; G. Zanker, ‘Enargeia in the Ancient Criticism of Poetry’, RhM 2 124 (1981),297 –311; C. Calame, ‘Quand dire c’est faire voir: l’évidence dans la rhétorique antique’,

Études de lettres, sér. 4, 14/4 (1991), 3 – 22; H.-F. Mueller, ‘Images of Excellence: VisualRhetoric and Political Behavior’, in I. Gallo and B. Scardigli (eds.), Teoria e prassi politicanelle opere di Plutarco (Naples, 1995) 287 – 300, at 288 – 9; M. Leigh, Lucan: Spectacle and

Engagement (Oxford, 1997), 10 – 15, with bibliography in 10 n. 5; Webb 1997a, 117 – 20;

Fantuzzi and Hunter, 443; Selter 2010, 118. On the closely related notion of phantasia, see J.Elsner, Art and the Roman Viewer (Cambridge, 1995), 26 – 8; Webb 2009, 107 – 30.

119 Examples in Zanker (n. above), 298: Hermogenes, ii. 16.11 – 12 Sp., Anon. Seguerian. i.369.14 – 15, 371.10 – 12 Sp.; cf. also Dion. Hal. Lys. 7 (o9ra=n), S bT Il . 6.467, S bT 16.294a.

120 Cic. de Or . 2.357; see Leeman – Pinkster – Wisse ad loc.; see also Purves, 217 – 18, forAristotle on fanta/smata or mental images.

121 The Homeric scholia find e0na/rgeia in similes, whether in individual details or in thesimile as a whole (S T Il . 12.278 – 86b, S T Il . 13.475; S bT 15.381 – 4; S bT Il . 16.7 – 10; S

bT Il . 23.692 – 4; S Genev. Il . 2.144).122 Ps.-Demetr. Peri\ e9rmhnei/aj, 211 – 12 (iii. p. 308.7 – 16 Sp.): h9 dilogi/a e0na/rgeian poiei=.

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spectator,123 for precisely this is recognised by ps.-Longinus in a chapter reflecting on theconversion of a0koh/ into o1yij. Citing, first, a Homeric battlefield-description ( Il . 15.697 – 8),next Aratus’ evocation of a winter storm at sea (287), and then a passage from Herodotus

which, although it contains future indicatives rather than optatives, is nevertheless a good

example of the use of the motif in geography (2.29.2 – 6), he asks:

o(ra| ~j, w} e9tai=re, w(j paralabw&n sou th_n yuxh_n dia_ tw~n to&pwn a1gei th_n a)koh_n o1yinpoiw~n; pa&nta de\ ta_ toiau~ta pro_j au)ta_ a)pereido&mena ta_ pro&swpa e0p' au)tw~ni3sthsi to_n a)kroath_n tw~n e0nergoume/nwn . . . e0mpaqe/stero&n te au)to_n a3ma kai\ prosektikw&teron kai\ a)gw~noj e1mplewn a)potele/seij, tai=j ei0j e9auto_n prosfwnh&sesine0cegeiro&menon (de Subl . 26.2 – 3).124

Do you observe, my friend, how he leads you in imagination through the region and makesyou see what you hear? All such cases of direct personal address place the hearer on the very

scene of action . . . You will make your hearer more excited and more attentive, and full ofactive participation, if you keep him on the alert by words addressed to himself (transl. RhysRoberts).

Ancient theory recognised the very close link between enargeia and ekphrasis,125 and theirfrequent use of the ‘you might think’ topos contributes to both the Periegesis and

Phaenomena,126 although neither is a formal ekphrasis, an ecphrastic quality.

But insofar as a periplous or periegesis describes a journey with forward momentum

through time as well as space, it also bears some similarity to narrative — a narrative which iscontinually slowed down or paused for description ‘when a “lived-in” space or a “place” is

reached’.127 As in narrative itself, it is easier in theory than in practice to distinguish between

the forward movement, or geographical ‘narrative’, and pauses or descriptions, for the

naming of a place inevitably calls forth evocation of some sort, however brief. Some of theseevocations barely retard the journey (epithets, appositional phrases, syntactically subordinateasides); quite different are the extensive chorographies and ethnographies which evoke

123 341 – 2 n. Many lines are echoed which, in the original, had an internal focaliser (e.g. 4,

430, 555 and Od . 10.195; 109 and Ap. Rhod. 4.1257 – 8; 977 n.).124 Dubel, 259 – 62. She notes that Herodotus uses the vivid second-person address preciselyfor that part of the Nile’s course which he himself has not seen.125 Zanker (n. 118), 298; Dubel, 252 – 4. Similar definitions of ekphrasis in terms of enargeia in Hermogenes, ii. 16.12 – 13 Sp., Aphthonius, ii. 46.15 – 16 Sp. (36.21 – 2 Rabe), Theon, ii. p.118.7 – 8 Sp., Nicolaus, iii. 491.26 – 7 Sp.

126 M. Semanoff, ‘Astronomical Ecphrasis’, in C. Cusset (ed.), Musa docta: recherches sur la poésie scientifique dans l’Antiquité (Saint-Etienne, 2006), 157 – 77 (though he does notdiscuss Aratus’ use of the second person). 127 Clarke 1999, 37.



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permanent physical realities or the settled habits of a population, and the tableaux (such asthe springtime scenes in Delos and Lydia128) which have a non-informative, but decorative,character. These pauses need not take place in literally ‘lived-in’ spaces, for the tableau of thefrozen Tanais (668 – 78) is of a place in which beasts die and which humans shun. Rather, it is

‘lived-in’ in the sense that the wilds of Scythia have a long history in the imaginations ofclassical writers.

In her studies of enargeia, Ruth Webb has explored how ancient rhetors sought toconjure up mental images in their audience — either memories of what they had personallyexperienced, or mental images that were vivid because they were plausible or typical, andthat were believed to evoke a standard response.129 There is a slippage between mentalimages produced by real visual impressions and those produced by words;130 a writer likeDionysius, whose stock in trade is literary topoi, uses words to evoke impressions created byearlier words, although theory converts them into the visual medium and deals with them as

things seen. It is a second-order vision, in which the addressee, though a stay-at-home, is promised clear mental vision of continents and countries which the poet has not seen either(171, 1053).131 The theorists tend to see vividness as a means of arousing emotion, especially

pity, indignation, or fear, but for Dionysius the desired response is presumably neither pitynor indignation, but rather calm intellectual pleasure in the contemplation of a varied andmostly beautiful world. Nonetheless, similar means are applicable, and Dionysius goes abouthis task, not by conjuring circumstantial detail, but by evoking cultural expectation in theform of topoi. In this context the appeal to the Muses is an appeal to literary tradition; itmakes autopsy and first-hand experience irrelevant.

The ancient handbooks called Progymnasmata not only recognised literal descriptionsof place (islands, harbours, cities, meadows, even desert) as a special category ofecphrasis,132 but also used periegesis as a metaphor in their very definitions of it.133 The

128 527 – 9; 833 – 5. On treatments of the seasons, especially spring, in ancient authors, see M.Fuhrmann, ‘Die Vier Jahreszeiten bei den Griechen und Römern’, in Die Vier Jahreszeitenim 18. Jahrhundert (Heidelberg, 1986), 9 – 17; as he notes, the authors of the Progymnasmata (n. 125) recognise descriptions of the seasons as a category of ecphrasis (e0kfra/seij xro/nwn or kairw=n).

129 Webb 1997a, 1997b, 2009, esp. 87 – 106; cf. Selter 2010, 125.

130 Vasaly, 90 – 9.

131 Cf. 513, 1152 qhhto/j; p. 125 n. 163 on verbs of appearance. On ‘vision’ words in Mela,

see Brodersen 1995, 88.

132 Hermogenes, ii. 16.18 – 19 Sp.; Aphthonius, ii. 46.23 Sp. (37.7 Rabe), with a sampleecphrasis of the Alexandrian acropolis; Theon, ii. 118.18 – 20 Sp.; Nicolaus, iii. 492.1 – 2 Sp.;Lausberg §819; Vasaly, 19 – 20.

133 Texts cited in n. 125. Theon’s version begins e1kfrasi/j e0sti lo/goj perihghmatiko/j;

the others follow closely, except that Nicolaus substitutes a0fhghmatiko/j; Dubel, 254 – 64;Webb 2009, 52, 54 – 5, 75.



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Periegesis is a literal leading-around which also employs the rhetorical means to achieveenargeia envisaged by the theorists of description. It does so by little glimpses of loci amoeni, and bijou evocations of topics recognised by rhetorical theory (springtime, meadows,cities); by the formal device of an anonymous second person who looks on with emotional

and/or intellectual engagement; and even by the ecphrastic opener e1sti de/ tij, which,through its sheer familiarity in geographical and other contexts, induces the sense thatnarrator is about to linger over a significant and culturally familiar scene.134

Authors and Narrators

Christian Jacob has drawn attention to the concealment of the author’s (as opposed to the

narrator’s) identity.135 At first glance — and in practice, for about the first 1750 years of the

poem’s existence— the text permits very little inference about the person who actually wroteit. That changed with the discovery of the acrostichs naming him and Hadrian.136 Eustathiushad already drawn his own conclusions about the somewhat unusual prior placement of Libyaamong all the continents,137 but the discovery that the poet was an Alexandrian then

permitted the realisation that that city has been situated precisely on the main lines of latitudeand longitude (17 – 18 n.). At the same time the narrator is somewhat more revealing abouthimself — as a roving eye, if not as a traveller; someone whose political allegiance is to Rome(355 e0mw=n me/gan oi]kon a0na/ktwn). There are two interesting transferences here. First, a linethat Callimachus had applied to the Carneia at Cyrene ( Hymn 2.93) has been transferred tothe Serapeum at Alexandria (256 – 7): this borrows both from an Alexandrian poet to make a

point about Alexandria, and from an Alexandrian poet’s tribute to his homeland in a tribute to

Dionysius’ own native city. On the other hand, the oi]kon a0na/ktwn in the Callimachean

134 541, 987, 1152; cf. also e1sti de/ toi, 372 and 606. For geographical e1sti de/ tij see Livreaon Ap. Rhod. 4.282; Latin examples of est locus in Lausberg §819 (p. 366). Homericdescriptions of places introduced with this motif (Janko on Il . 13.32) eventually connect backto the narrative with relative pronoun, e1nqa, or o3qi; Dionysius uses the same means toreconnect with the geographical itinerary in 988 h[j, 1164 e1nqa (where the length of thedigression is paralleled by e.g. Od . 13.96 – 113); in 545, kei=qi connects instead with a myth.

135 Jacob 1981, 30 – 1; 1982, 223 – 6.

136 By Leue. For the acrostich in 112 – 34, spelling out DIONUSIOU TWN ENTOSFAROU, the best overall parallel is with the iambic geographical poem of Dionysius son ofCalliphon (1 – 23 DIONUSIOU TOU KALLIFWNTOS). In other cases of self-naming, thegenitive depends syntactically on another noun (Theogn. 22 – 3, e1ph; Hdt. 1.1.1, i9stori/h); wecannot tell what, if anything, governed the genitive acrostich CLE 271 IVLII FAVSTINI M- (also Hadrianic). The use of ethnicon instead of patronymic is easily paralleled inhistoriography (as well as in Theognis, loc. cit.): Hecataeus, FGrH 1 F 1, Hdt. 1.1.1, Thuc.1.1.1, App. Praef. 62. On self-naming formulae, see J. Marincola, Authority and Tradition in

Ancient Historiography (Cambridge, 1997), 271 – 5.137 Eustathius on 7 (GGM ii. 219.1 – 7, cf. 215.6 – 7).



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original for l. 355 had referred to the Ptolemies in Alexandria138 — but Dionysius hastransferred the phrase to Rome. Religious identification has been shifted to Alexandria, but

political affiliation to the imperial capital.

This is not much, though it is more than Aratus —one of Dionysius’ main models—

reveals about himself. It did not have to be this way. In theory, the author/narrator could haveidentified himself at Alexandria, just as Mela and Strabo both do at the appropriate point intheir itineraries.139 But such a declaration would have fallen foul of his otherwise invariable

practice of never associating descriptions of cities with human individuals (as opposed togods); not even a ‘my city’ escapes him at this point.140 Alternatively, he could haveidentified himself in a sphragis at the beginning or end of the poem, like his model Nicander.From Nicander Dionysius learned the technique of the name-acrostich, but Nicandercombines this with a lively narratorial presence and with self-identification in the sphragis ofthe Theriaca (957, cf. Al . 629, without name-acrostich). The result is that the tension between

revelation and concealment has no precedent in the earlier poet. Moreover, Nicander has nodivided loyalties between a place of birth and a political centre: he self-identifies as a Clarianin both poems (author and narrator come together — a technique not found in Dionysius).

It is curious to pursue the similarities with Strabo for a little way. Strabo, too, revealshis presence in his work in different ways and on different levels, both overt and implicit.141 On the one hand, he speaks explicitly about his background in Pontus; he also refers overtlyto events of Roman history, while his whole world-picture has been informed by Romanclaims to universalism.142 On the other hand, his cultural roots in intellectual circles in AsiaMinor are betrayed (rather than declared) by the phrase kaq’ h9ma= =j, which he uses especially

for writers, rhetoricians, philosophers, and poets who are his peers.

143

This is both similar anddissimilar to Dionysius. With Dionysius a distinction between author and (fictive) narratorial persona imposes itself at once; no such distinction imposes itself with Strabo, with whommore importance attaches to the difference between explicit and implicit self-disclosure.Dionysius conceals the explicit references to himself and his city; Strabo’s references to

138 Fr. 112.8 H. (215 M.), cf. also fr. 228.9 Pf. a9mete/ra] basi/leia frou/da, where, ifPfeiffer’s supplement is right, Callimachus is among the collectivity who bewail ‘our’

sovereign; for Appian, still, the Lagidae are ‘my kings’ ( Praef . 39 toi=j e0moi=j basileu=si).139 Mela 2.96 . . . atque unde nos sumus Tingentera; Strab. 12.3.15

th=j h9mete/raj patri/doj,

12.3.38 h9 h9mete/ra xw/ra h9 tw=n 0Amase/wn, polu\ pasw=n plei/sth kai\ a0ri/sth, 12.3.39 h9 d’ h9mete/ra po/lij kei=tai . . ., e0n th= | h9mete/ra| xw/ra|. 140 Call. Hymn 2.65, picked up by ps.-Opp. Cyn. 2.127 (as noted by Hollis 1994, 155).141 Clarke 1997.142 Clarke 1999, especially 294 – 336.

143 Clarke 1997, 108: ‘It is striking that over two-thirds of the occurrences of the phrase arefound in Book 12 – 15, dealing with Asia Minor, particularly the Hellenized coast. It is even

more striking that of these, two-thirds are in connection with the intellectual activity of thearea, rather than with political events.’



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homeland, biography, and family connections are overt. However, where they standcomparison is that local and Roman identities are simultaneously present in both texts. InStrabo, the author/narrator’s frankness about his personal history, and his awareness of the

overwhelming fact of Roman power, coexist with his felt affiliation with the intellectuals of

Asia Minor. In the Periegesis, not only does the author’s acrostich exist alongside thenarrator’s enthusiasm for Rome, but the presentation of Rome itself— a catalogic flourish,with the emphasis on royalty and wealth — contrasts with his presentation of other culturalcentres, and especially with Alexandria itself, with its richness (by Dionysius’ standards) of

descriptive detail. Rome may have wealth, but it has no temples, no holiness; contrast theAlexandr ian temple of ‘Sinopitan Zeus’, furnished with gold and a sense of holiness that

exceeds all other temples; contrast too Rome’s barrenness of mythology with the way

Alexandria’s landmarks are steeped in learned Greek mythological tradition. It is not despite, but because of, the constraints of the catalogue form and the extreme selectivity imposed onthe narrator that different attitudes are readily implied by the way he chooses to illustrate and

describe his material.

3. BIRD’S-EYE VISION

Travel is mental travel. I had always suspected this.

(Saul Bellow, Henderson the Rain King , ch. 12.)

If enargeia is indissociable from o1yij, we must now ask how the world is viewed in the

Periegesis.

The narrator implies the perspective of someone capable of overlooking vast spaces.He is sufficiently distanced from his subject to be able to sweep from one very largelandscape feature to another, whether we are to imagine him looking down from a height orcontemplating a map. For instance, Dodona is ‘opposite’ the Thracian mountain Haemus

(429 a1nta) only from a very wide-angled perspective, and, looking eastwards from Persia,the eastern end of the continent can only be said to be ‘close’ (1081 e0ggu/qi) from the point ofview of someone standing, say, on the moon — or looking at a map. The narrator’s gaze over

this map is free-ranging. Only very rarely is there a sense that he is looking from theMediterranean outwards, that his regard is anchored in familiar classical territory.144 For themost part his eye seems free to wander, and orientation, where it is implied, is with regard tothe direction of travel rather than from some fixed and stable viewpoint (whether within theclassical world or from some elevated ‘god’s-eye view’). The scale, and indeed type, of themap varies. Sometimes it takes in entire continents, but it may also zoom in on details,whether natural features such as rivers, lakes, and promontories, or man-made artefacts (atemple on a promontory; a piece of colourful silk). It is by turns synoptic and particularistic.

144 For possible exceptions, see 52, 897 nn.



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This bird’s-eye vision is not unique or new in a geographical poem.145 Aristeas’ flight

in the spirit as far as the Issedones in the far north is described in the same terms;146 it is ashame that the fragments are not extensive enough to show how the focalisation worked in

practice. Combining geography with cosmology, Eratosthenes in his Hermes, and perhaps

also Varro of Atax in his Chorographia, showed the god Hermes contemplating the earthfrom a point at which the whole cosmos was visible; the latter work covered not only zonetheory, but contained a more cartographical description of the known world’s surface

‘stretched out’ (exporrecta) between the ocean and Mediterranean.147 There are severalmoments in the Argonautica where characters within the poem have visions from a height orin the imagination, though perhaps the most interesting from Dionysius’ point of view arethose occasions where the focus is that of the main narrator, or that of an internal narratordescribing a map.148 But nothing compares with the scale of the Periegesis, or with thevariability of its perspective. The latter must be connected with the fact that the poem evokesa number of traditions of geographical writing, each with its own way of looking at a subject.

At its most austere, the approach is geometrical, deriving ultimately fromEratosthenes (p. 14). Dionysius only occasionally reflects this approach (references tomeridians and lines of latitude in 11, 18, 313, cf. 504 – 5); when he does, the language is of

145 Ilyushechkina 2010, 55 – 6; Eustathius, GGM ii. 210.11, speaks of the poet pterw| ~ lo&goukou~foj ai0ro&menoj. For the view from a high place as one of five possible imaginativemodes for a Roman seeking to conceptualise the landscape, see N. Purcell, ‘The Creation of

Provincial Landscape: The Roman Impact on Ciasalpine Gaul’, in T. Blagg and M. Millett

(eds.), The Early Roman Empire in the West (Oxford, 1990), 7 – 29, at 9 – 10. Building on this,

T. Murphy, Pliny The Elder’s Natural History (Oxford, 2004), 131 –3, suggests that Pliny’s

Natural History uses the ‘view from on high’ in triumphalist vein; but it is not char acteristicof his geographical descriptions (except insofar as it is implied by e.g. shape comparisonssuch as at 3.43). Passages where the narrator is more emotionally engaged with his materialare perhaps likelier to imply an observer’s viewpoint (3.60 protenduntur , consurgunt ,

sternuntur ), though not necessarily from an elevation.

146 Maxim. Tyr. Dial . X. 2f h9 de\ yuxh/, e0kdu=sa tou= sw/matoj, e0plana=to e0n tw= | ai0qe/ri,o1rniqoj di/khn.

147

Frr. 111, 113 Hollis = frr. 15 – 16 Courtney (exporrecta is fr. 113.2/fr. 16.2). Courtneytakes the subject of vidit in the first fragment to be Apollo, but see Hollis 2007, 184 – 5, for thesuggestion that the subject is Hermes, as in Eratosthenes fr. 16 P. Indeed, Ilyushechkina2010, 41 –3, suggests that the ‘Hermes’ referred to in the second acrostich represents the

poet’s self -identification with the winged god who acts as a guide, and in taking flight looksdown on the earth from on high (cf. Eustathius, GGM ii. 210.18 – 36).148 Ap. Rhod. 1.1112 – 16 (the view from the top of Dindymum), 2.541 –6 (a traveller’s

imagination of the landscape), 2.972 – 84 (an overview of the course of the Thermodon),3.160 –6 (Eros’ descent to earth from Olympus), 3.309–13 (Aeetes’ journey to Tyrrhenia on

the chariot of the sun), 4.282 –93 (Sesostris’ map); cf. Elliger, 314– 16 (Dindymum);Thalmann, 3 – 6, Klooster, 65 – 6, 69 – 70.



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straight lines (11 loco\n e0pi\ grammh= |si, 313 o0rqo\n e0pi\ grammh= |) and their extension (18sh=ma d’ u9perte/tatai, cf. Strabo’s use of dih/kei throughout 2.5.36, 38 – 9 ~ Eratosthenes IIIA, 18 – 21 Berger), and there is no internal spectator. What are we looking at when we areasked to contemplate a world marked (however approximately) with grid-lines? It is

suggestive that when Strabo expounds his view of the geometry of the sphere, with the greatcircles and lines of latitude and longitude marked in, and the place of the oi0koume/nh on thesurface of the world as a whole, he envisages the construction of a large terrestrial globe, likeone produced by Crates, or at least the representation of the world on a plane surface.149 So, ifonly very occasionally, Dionysius evokes Hellenistic mathematical geography, for whichglobes and large-scale maps were an appropriate form of visualisation.

Such maps were doubtless schematic, examples of the world cartography whichPtolemy distinguished from regional cartography (p. 18). If we were to give them acartographical context, this is also what we should envisage for Dionysius’ repeated

comparisons of countries and continents to geometrical and non-geometrical figures,

150

inorder to give a simple, readily graspable overview. Geometrical schematism is used at the beginning of continents (p. 25 n. 100), while ‘homely’ comparisons are used for the world

itself, for continents (Libya), and for the situs of regions below the level of continent (Spain,the Peloponnese). Both kinds of comparison present a simplified overview before a morechorographic, detailed, representational approach becomes appropriate. As Strabo explains,

pantaxou~ de\ a)nti\ tou~ gewmetrikw~j to_ a(plw~j kai\ o(losxerw~j i9kano&n. me/geqoj me\nou}n i9kano&n e0stin, a2n to_ me/giston ei1ph|j mh~koj kai\ pla&toj . . . sxh~ma d', a2n tw~n

gewmetrikw~n tini\ sxhma&twn ei0ka&sh|j, w(j th_n Sikeli/an trigw&nw|, h2 tw~n a1llwngnwri/mwn tini\ sxhma&twn, oi[on th_n 0Ibhri/an bu&rsh|, th_n Pelopo&nnhson plata&nou fu&llw|: o3sw| d' a2n mei=zon h| } to_ temno&menon, tosw| ~de kai\ o(losxereste/raj pre/poi a2npoiei=sqai ta_j toma&j.151

In every case, in lieu of a geometrical definition, a simple and roughly outlined definition issufficient. So, as regards a country’s size, it is sufficient if you state its greatest length and

breadth . . . and as regards shape, if you liken a country to one of the geometrical figures(Sicily, for example, to a triangle), or to one of the other well-known figures (for instance,

149 Strab. 2.5.10 [= partly Eratosthenes III A, 25 Berger]. For Crates’ map (fr. 6 Mette = F

134 Broggiato), see Schlachter, 54 – 5; Aujac 1981, 6 – 7 and 1987, 163 – 4; O. A. W. Dilke,Greek and Roman Maps (London, 1985), 64 – 5, and further bibliography cited by Broggiato;for terrestrial globes in antiquity, Schlachter, 54 – 7; Aujac 1987, 171; B. Zimmermann, BNP s.v. Cartography, II. Globe; Radt on Strab. II p. 116,23.150 p. 25 and n. 100; 181 – 3 (Libya as a leopard-skin) is not a shape-comparison, but illustratesthe pattern of the surface as seen from above.151 2.1.30. On Strabo’s own liking for diagrammatisation, see van Paassen, 6.



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Iberia to an oxhide, the Peloponnesus to a leaf of a plane-tree). And the greater the territoryyou cut into sections, the more rough may be the sections you make. (Transl. H. L. Jones.)

Strabo and Ptolemy both speak in similar terms, though Ptolemy speaks expressly in terms of

cartography and Strabo does not. For Strabo, simple shape-comparisons are applied to naturalwholes, or to natural parts of a whole, like limbs in an articulated body,152 and the bigger thearea involved the more approximate the comparison; Ptolemy also uses the image of humananatomy to explain the difference between world cartography (which can be compared to theimage of a head) and regional cartography (like the image of an ear or an eye). In any case,these comparisons are approximate, which, given the constraints on the ancient ability toconceptualise wide areas, is all they can be; and they imply a synoptic regard, the ability tolook down on a design and take it all in at once.

The Periegesis uses many verbs of extent. Some are specifically poetic, while othershave a background in both poetry and prose.153 They nevertheless contrast with, say, theoutlook of Strabo’s hypotyposis, which is more inclined to say that one thing connects withanother, or is bounded by it; Strabo does not imply the perspective of one who overlooks itfrom a height or on a scale from which the whole can be taken it at a glance. The perspectivemay be influenced by, and certainly lends itself to borrowing from, Aratus, whose narratordirects the gaze of the addressee to something spread out at large in front of him:154 the verbsparape/ptatai,155 (e0k)teta/nustai,156 parts of e3lkesqai,157 and a0natre/xei158 imply the full

152 Jacob 1991a, 116.

153 a0nape/ptatai (109, 186), of geographical extent also in Ap. Rhod. 4.1258, but alsofound in prose; Livrea ad loc. cites Xen. Oec. 9.4, Plut. Fab. 6.2. te/tatai (20) of spatialextent in Hes. Op. 549, and in geography in Strab. 2.5.29; e0kte/tatai (40, 308, 332, 468,759) of spatial extent in Posidipp. 8.4, 11.5, 115.4 A. – B. (of a harbour), and in geography inStrab. 2.4.7, 6.4.1, 7.1.4, 10.5.15, cf. 16.2.42 (parekte/tatai); Ptol. 6.2.6, 6.15.3.

154 Greaves, 138. This feature is not absent from ‘Eudoxus’, whether Aratus’ source or a later

prose redaction (p. 28 n.3): cf. Hipparch. 1.2.3, 1.4.3 parate/tatai.155 98, 146, 339, 820, 1107; the only earlier occurrence of this form is in Arat. 312

parape/ptatai 1Ornij (with an indication of direction by compass-point, as in 1107); cf.Greaves, 138 – 9. The simplex pe/ptatai (523, 540) is used of extent (the upper air spread outover Olympus) in Od . 6.45.

156 75, 91, 772, 812, 830. Arat. 202 uses this form (as well as 284 ta/nutai) of a constellationspread out in the sky, but cf. already Od . 9.116 (of an island spread out outside a harbour); avoyage extends in space and time in Ap. Rhod. 4.1583. The perfect participle tetanusme/noj (174, 225, 302, 311, 379, generally with a compass-point orientation or an indication ofdirection) seems to be a specialisation of Dionysius; later recurrences in Triphiod. 143,

Nonnus ( passim), AP 16.266.3, lack the geographical setting.

157 Of sea-water: 76, 103, 199 e3lketai; 119, 722 e9lko/menoj; 422 e9lkome/nh. Of the ocean:1163 e3lketai. Of rivers: 785 e9lko/menai, 988 e3lketai. Of land: 438, 972, 1065 e9lkome/nh,



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range of perspectives implied by Aratus’ narrator, describing things simply spread out, or

being subjected to traction, or in an active state of motion. Although this time it is harder to pinpoint specific influences, Dionysius’ penchant for describing the courses of rivers from

the mountains to the sea (p. 146), which he indulges to the point of formalism, may be

connected with the same feature in Apollonius — above all, with the set-piece accounts of theThermodon (2.972 – 84, from which Dionysius certainly borrows in 228) and the Ister (4.282 –

93). The latter is described both ecphrastically (4.282 e1sti de/ tij) and as it purportedlyappears on an ancient, inscribed map:159 the wide-angled view and the mode of visual

presentation both accord with Dionysius’ tastes.

In his introduction to the poem, Eustathius elaborates on the idea of an aerial journey.160 Borne aloft on the wings of his poem, the poet takes in the world in a bird’s-eyeview, like Zeus’ geodesic eagles, like Daedalus guiding his pupil Icarus (this time with a

happy ending), or like Hermes with his rod. The whole performance gains stature and

momentum until the heavens fall within its com pass, like Homer’s Eris walking with her feeton the ground but her head in the sky. This reading is obviously influenced by the notion ofrapture by the Muses in 715 – 17; also by Eustathius’ own wide reading, which would have

acquainted him some of the traditions (philosophical, magical, mystical) in which visionsfrom high-up vantage points played a role. Dionysius does indeed imply an elevated

1148 e9lkome/nhn; 1086 e3lketai. Also of geometrical figures being drawn in one direction oranother: 244, 622 e9lko/menon. This sense of e3lkesqai appears rare. The verb is used of waterin motion by Lyc. Al . 702, where rivers e3lkontai throughout Italy (M. Schneider, 38), butone suspects that Dionysius has been equally, if not more, influenced by Aratus’ frequent use

of e3lkesqai of constellations: passive in 20 e3lkontai; 342, 348, 443, 727 e3lketai; 628e0fe/lketai; middle in 695 e0fe/lketai, 708 e0fe/lkontai; active in 604 e3lkwn, 708 e3lkei.Dionysius uses it mostly with expressions of direction, usually cardinal points, whereasAratus uses it for movement across the horizon (443, 628, 727), or in variations of the conceitthat the constellations are being drawn across the sky (695, by Night itself; 604, 708, byanother constellation). But occasionally both authors use the verb without implying

directionality or inclination towards (Dionysius 76, 1163, and perhaps Arat. 20, with Kidd adloc.).

158 809, v.l. e0pitre/xei; see n.

159 Janni 1984, 35 and n. 43; Williams, 123 – 4; Meyer 2008, 282 n. 84; Clare, 126 – 31;Thalmann, 6 – 7, 43. While it contains routes for travellers (4.280 – 1 o9doi\ . . .e0pinissome/noisin), it also depicts the course of the river. In other words, it seems to combinetwo different modes: the linear list of stopping-places and the two-dimensional representationof a portion of the earth’s surface, more in the style of what Meyer calls ‘speculative

“scientific” geography’. 160 GGM ii. 210.9 – 211.3. See Jacob 1981, 26 – 32 (and passim), 1983, 1985; Leo, 154 – 5.



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perspective.161 But one can go too far. There is no sharp distinction between an aerial and aterrestrial point of view in the poem;162 rather, Dionysius adopts the point of view that suitshim.

The shape comparisons imply a static point of view. A moving one need not be

implied by verbs of extent: the viewer could be flying over the outspread landscape on the back of an eagle, but could also be surveying it on a map, and when Aratus’ narrator uses the

same verbs he is not in motion. But motion begins to be implied by the hodologic principle,for itineraries where one place succeeds another; and it obviously underlies 765 – 96, which istaken fr om Phineus’ review of what is in store for the Argonauts as they coast along the

southern shore of the Pontus. In that light, it is interesting that Dionysius so systematicallyomits headlands and promontories, though a periplous naturally focuses on landmarks whichwill be obvious to mariners: the point of view is still in motion, but with the omission ofcoastal features, and additional information about the courses of rivers, the perspective is no

longer from the sea looking landwards, but a more general review of the landscape.Motion is also implied by verbs of appearance, of coming-into-view — whether from a

terrestrial perspective, as the sailor sweeps round the toe of Italy and Cape Zephyrium comesinto view (364 parafai/netai), or enters the Adriatic and sees Illyria on his right (96faei/netai); or from an apparently aerial one, as (say) the gaze sweeps northwards fromThessaly and Macedonia and strikes the snowy peaks of Thracian Haemus (428fai/nontai).163 The perspective of a terrestrial traveller is implied still more strongly (whencethe untenability of a sharp distinction between aerial and terrestrial viewpoints) by datives ofinterest, a fixture of the terrestrial itinerary.164 Yet the care Dionysius has taken to focalise his

161 Note also that 4 and 430 a0pei/ritoj e0stefa/nwtai echo Od . 10.195, where the speaker isdescribing the view from a height; as in the Odyssean original, 4 and 555 e0stefa/nwtai concern an island or islands.162 Contra Jacob 1981, 27, who claims that the aerial view ‘s’oppose radicalement au point de

vue terrestre et limité du voyageur ou du navigateur, tel qu’il est mis en scène dans les

itinéraires terrestres et les périples’. By combining the view from above with that of thesurface traveller, Dionysius in fact employs perspectives which, in Purves’s analysis, arealready implied by both Homeric poems (32 – 5, and 66 – 70): in the Iliad the view from aboveis associated above all with gods (e.g. Il . 13.3 – 6), though only partial and incompletelyrealised, while the Odyssey ‘accentuates the concept of the path’.

163 fai/nesqai/faei/nesqai: 36, 96, 259, 361, 428, 449, 451, 493, 512, 849, 977.a0nafai/nesqai: 295, 488, 536. parafai/nesqai: 364, 963. Mountains and islands are

particularly often the subject. Compare Ap. Rhod. 1.112 – 16, where wide prospectsembracing mountains, rivers, coastlines, towns, and plains open up to the Argonauts as theyascend mount Dindymum (proufai/net’ i0de/sqai: fai/neto d’); V. Aen. 3.275 aperitur , ofthe appearance of a temple on a promontory as the Trojans approach by ship. Verbs of extentmight also be included here, especially when accompanied by expressions meaning ‘next to’

or ‘after’, as if that prospect is newly opening up (e.g. 109, 146, 308, 430, 468, 820, 1107). 164 95 – 8, 492 – 3, 539 – 40, 549 – 50.



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account emerges from comparison with certain prose periploi whose authors, though they paymuch closer attention to what a mariner might actually see, and though they undertakemanageable (as opposed to gappy or fantastic) journeys, nevertheless do not address thetraveller, let alone imagine the listed landmarks presenting themselves to his gaze.165 This

kind of itinerary, and the viewpoints associated with it, are more prevalent in the first half ofthe poem and in Greek Asia Minor — areas familiar enough to reviewed by periplous; lessfamiliar territory is more often treated by chorographic survey (Persia, Parthia, Media, India).Perhaps that is why verbs of coming into view are not absent, but considerably less

prominent, in the second half of the poem.

The narrator’s periegetical vision where his inspiration bears him aloft (715– 17) hasits place, a glamorous moment at the climax of the ‘narrative’ or ‘drama’ of the poet and the

Muses. But Dionysius designs its proper place in the poem for each mode of visualisation heemploys. He may be a geometer or a visionary, or may shift the focus onto the traveller who

winds in and out of a sinuous coastline. Its eclecticism makes it hard to see how the poemcould really be a rendering into words of a map. Like everything else in this text, it is acomposite, a hybrid not representable on any map that antiquity could have conceived of.166 A text can combine delineation of the part with a sketch of the whole, whereas, if we returnto Ptolemy’s distinction between world and regional chorography, a world map could not,

and was not intended to, represent shapes, outlines, and tiny details all at the same time.Perhaps the unmappability of the Periegesis is the more paradoxical because the enargeia effect is so strong. Indeed, quite apart from practical problems, such as the fact thatDionysius does not seem to have decided which way his world is oriented,167 the enargeia which the poet lavishes on his subject takes the place of mere two-dimensional

representation.168

Landscape in Motion

165 For example, ps.-Scylax prefers the third-person dative of interest (e.g. 63, 68.5, 69) tosecond-person; he standardly registers sights with e0sti/, ei0si/n, or e1xontai. However, second

persons (e.g. 273, 280 – 1 pleu/seij; imperatives, e.g. 16 et al. kata/gou, 37, 46, 146

para/plee, 117, 281 ple/e) are fairly common in the Stadiasmus Maris Magni, and for verbsof appearance note 30 parapleu/saj w9j stadi/ouj l/ o1yei paremfai/nousan a1kranu9yhlh\n kai\ mega/lhn; 117 ei]ta e0kfanh/setai/ soi . . . Nea/polij; 273 o3qen o9ra=tai to\ Sku/llaion.

166 Though maps intended to illustrate it were later produced: Jacob 1981, 61 – 2; Aujac 1987,171 – 3.

167 South is the direction generally indicated by u9pe/r (p. 81), but u9po/ (alternating with u9pe/r)means south at 398.

168

cf. Hypotyp. Geogr . 5 w9j du/nasqai r9a= |sta/ tina . . . th\n o3lhn oi0koume/nhn mhde\nei0ko/noj dehqe/nta tw= | nw= | periaqrh=sai.



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Dionysius describes an unchanging scene with fixed features. Yet he describes it using alanguage appropriate to things in motion, even animate. Water froths, boils, roars, andseethes; coastlines meander; islands dance. In practice we are reading from a page, but it is asif we are looking upon a landscape in a heightened state, full of sound and movement. The

strategy justifies itself, but it is helped by various considerations.First is the traditional hexameter language for running water, which endows it with a

kind of inner force or dynamism. Dionysius will have been quite unaware of the long Indo-European history of this idea,169 but he has made full use of its Homeric and later,Apollonian, legacy. In traditional hexameter poetry, a notional distinction is made betweenwater in motion and still water (rainwater, drinking water, water for washing and libating);the former has the potential for personification, the latter has not. It is this force in movingwater (and other natural forces) that is described by the epithet i9ero/j (p. 136 and 298 – 9 n.).The Iliad , moreover, is drawn to descriptions of water in an unusually heightened state: the

waters of Scamander in a ferment,

170

the swollen rivers and streams stirred up by the winds in battlefield similes. The word u3dwr is reserved for motionless water;171 water in motion iscalled by names like r9o/oj, r9e/eqra, potamo/j, and so on. These are often the subject ofwords like ‘pour’, ‘cast forth’, of which u3dwr is the object. But this system, already lookingvulnerable in the Odyssey, has broken down altogether in Apollonius and Dionysius, both ofwhom uninhibitedly make u3dwr the subject of verbs, envisaging it as active and in motion.For them, all water is dynamic.172

Second (perhaps), there is a tradition of lively, dynamic language, used especially forcontact between the sea and land. Desanges speaks of ‘un vocabulaire mouvementé et

rhétorique’, which is attested in Roman geographers such as Mela, Pliny, and Varro, as theydescribe how the sea shapes the coastline of the Mediterranean and the other oceanic gulfs.173

169 M. Durante, Sulla Preistoria della tradizione poetica greca, ii. (Rome, 1976), 142 – 4; M. L. West, Indo-European Poetry and Myth (Oxford, 2007), 274 – 9, especially 275.

170 Cf. Elliger, 54, 72 – 3.171 See W. Schulze, Kleine Schriften (Göttingen, 1934, 21966), 194 – 5: Indo-European used aneuter form where water was conceived as purely material, soulless substance. I am grateful

to Dr L. A. Holford-Strevens for this reference.172 u3dwr the verbal subject in Ap. Rhod. 1.1235, 1.1327, 2.322, 2.791, 3.343, 3.530, 4.628 – 9,4.955, 4.1265 – 6, 4.1446, and in Dionysius at 81, 166, 311 – 12, 796, 838, 866 (besides thetraditional construction, with u3dwr as direct object, at 626, 774, 1074).

173 e.g. Varro ap. Solin. 27,3 – 4; Mela, e.g. 1.6 . . . terras aperit et intrat . . .. abigit vastecedentia litora (sc. the Mediterranean); 1.7 se artat . . . expandit . . . pressit . . . effudit ; 1.10diu sicut illud (sc. the sea) incedit , ita sua litora porrigit (sc. Asia); dein fit venienti obviam;and the rhetorical description of the Syrtes in 1.35; Plin. NH 3.3 qua inrumpens oceanus, 3.5(see Zehnacker ad loc., with further examples of the ‘lutte perpétuelle entre la terre et la mer’,

and Evans 2005b, 110 – 11, 112 – 14, 117); Rutilius Namatianus, De Reditu Suo 2.23 – 4 inlatum variis damnosa anfractibus intrat | Tyrrheni rabies Hadriacique sali, 30 frangit ; Mart.



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It is also found in particularly dramatic form in Manilius’ short survey of the Mediterranean

coastline: the sea irrupts into the land, drives the shoreline backwards, wages war on the land,even colonises it.174 This kind of language is not attested in the otherwise comparable reviewsof the Mediterranean by Strabo and ps.-Aristotle, but given the strong possibility that Varro

used Greek sources it is entirely possible that it figured in the Greek geographical traditiontoo. This, too, may have had an influence on Dionysius, although the hexametric poetictradition has had a greater overall impact. His water lexicon at every point implies volatilityand volubility, but not the conflict and irruption which we find in the Latin sources (andwhich would perhaps have been incongruous in a beautiful world not otherwise characterised

by aggression).

Third, last, and indubitable, is the importance of Hellenistic didactic poets. Nicanderis an obvious model, with his animate, serpentine subject-matter; Dionysius acknowledgeshis debt in a flamboyant simile embedded in an acrostich of a Nicandrean type, but also in

herpetological imagery throughout the poem. Equally important is the way Aratus conjuresmotion out of a vast but static canvas of the natural world: constellations, although fixed intheir relative positions, move and chase one another.

Verbs of motion are ubiquitous. Dionysius uses them for sequence;175 for extent andreaching in a certain direction; and for the poetic conceit that the landscape itself is inmotion.176 They tend to be extensions of earlier poetic usages. As we have seen, some verbsof extent show the influence of Aratus, with his tableaux of vast figures fixed on a moving

backdrop, and sometimes in active motion themselves (a0natre/xein; e3lkesqai). Othersderive from river vocabulary: in a couple of instances Dionysius seems to be extending words

Capell. 6.623 hinc defluxere per diversos sinus subsidentesque campos tot maria, tot fragoreset quantum per diversa aequora tumescit undarum (‘Through the strait poured a deluge of

crashing waters swollen by different seas, engulfing the various bays and subsiding plains’,

transl. Stahl, Johnson, and Burge). On one view, such passages bear the hallmark of Varro(Desanges, 15 – 16); on another, this is a generic feature of Roman rhetorical geography (K.G. Sallmann, Die Geographie des älteren Plinius in ihrem Verhältnis zu Varro (Berlin,1971), 120 –1 and esp. 162: ‘die Küste macht vorspringende oder rückführende

“Bewegungen”, das Meer “bricht ein” oder “weicht zurück” usw.’). See also Janni 1984, 16 – 17, with further examples from Ammianus, Avienius, and Orosius; Santini, 953; and Th.Becker 1900, 1901, for a collection of metaphors (dead and, presumably, still perceptible)attributing movement to landscape features in German, Latin, and Greek.

174 e.g. 4.600 litoraque in Syrtes revocat sinuata vadosas, 602 laeva freti caedunt Hispanasaequora gentes, 615 – 16 hinc penitus . . . fretum . . . truditur invitum , 625 ingentique sinu

fugientis aequora terras, 639 – 40 intrantis . . . Oceani, 642 – 3 pontus sibi . . . reclusit | faucibus abruptis orbem, and extensive examples at 642 – 5, 650 – 3.

175 436 e3spetai (not of literal motion, but of following in a list).

176 See 518 n., where the islands of the Aegean r9w/onq’, as if in a (choral) dance.



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which have been applied to rivers in earlier sources to solid ground (i0e/nai;177 o9deu/ein178).That leaves e3rpein, of which Dionysius is fond, using it of rivers, seas, and dry land.179 While there are scattered parallels for the application of this verb to inanimate subjects, themost important influences on Dionysius are, first, Callimachus, who uses this verb of the

river Hipparis, and, second, the verb’s obvious association with snakes.

180

(In practice,Dionysius often combines it with a cardinal point, like e3lkesqai: in both cases this seems to be his own stylisation.) Stars, snakes, and waterways: these are Dionysius’ three favourite

images, and the major sources of motion in his landscape.

Not only do they inject dynamism and vivacity; they move in sinuous, windingcourses.181 With snakes and rivers this needs no demonstration, and in Aratus’ account of the

heavens the circuitous wanderings of the heavenly bodies are emphasised by the repeated useof verbs such as e9li/ssesqai, dineu/esqai, ei9lei=sqai, and stre/fesqai. Curvaceousness, bornof all these sources of imagery, is the salient characteristic of Dionysius’ landscape182 —

especially of its rivers, but also of its coastlines and gulfs, and by extension its mountain-ranges.183 He puts enormous emphasis on the sinuosity of the southern coastline of AsiaMinor. The Bay of Issus curves back on itself, like a u3splhc (121), then it belches its twisted

177 52 (the Persian Gulf), 431 (the Aetolian plain), 800 (the coastline of Asia Minor): rivers‘go’ in Hes. fr. 70.23 M. – W., Strab. 4.6.5, and Dionysius 979, 1089; so does a star in Il .22.317 (though not in Aratus).178 Of rivers: 410, 795, 831, 982, Call. fr. 384.31 Pf; of the coastline of Asia Minor: 800; ofthe Taurus range: 642.179

Rivers: 222, 496; seas: 93, 147; coastline: 123; dry land: 23, 174, 272, 897.180 Call. fr. 43.42 H. (50 M.) i3n’ 3Ipparij a0gku/loj e3rpei (cf. 123), and perhaps fr. 699 Pf.amnis, ut ait Callimachus, in flumina serpit per Laconum fines, cf. Pfeiffer ad loc.; Nic. Ther .159, 481 e3rpei, 297 die/rpei, 717 e3rpwn, of the motion of snakes or spiders. For inanimatesubjects, see LSJ 2b.

181 e9li/ssesqai is a favourite verb, 21 times in all, of which 11 involve rivers, and themajority waterways or coastlines. There are of course antecedents (Hes. Th. 791, fr. 70.23M. – W.; Eur. IT 7; Ap. Rhod. 2.368, 3.1277; Call. Hymn 4.13, 105, and perhaps Hecale fr.116.1 Hollis e9likw/taton u3dwr, although the meaning is disputed); nevertheless, the use of

the verb swells to enormous proportions in the Periegesis.182 Jacob 1982, 233 – 4, well notes the contrast between the language of sinuosity (‘la

métaphore du serpent prédomine’) and the linear images used for the Muses and their

guidance of the poet (63 stoixhdo/n, 651 i0qu/ntaton i1xnoj). Nonetheless, the opposition breaks down after a while: the Muses’ path may be linear, but it may also twist and turn with

the landscape (62 skolia\j e0ne/poite keleu/qouj); on the other hand, the landscape itself,once in a while, may present itself in a straight line (514 a0peiresi/wn sti/xa nh/swn).

183 The Taurus range is a0gku/loj (640), an epithet otherwise shared with the southern coast

of Asia Minor (123); it is named differently in each curve (648 strofa/liggi), a word alsoused of the Black Sea coast (162) and the motions of the heavens (584, 594).



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waters westwards (122 strepth\n . . . a3lmhn), and finally it is compared to a dragon (123 – 5).But Dionysius imputes sinuosity even to coastlines and waterways which are not sinuous atall:184 the Gulf of Aqaba coils between Syria and Arabia (925 ei9lei=tai), and the itineraryalong the Adriatic coast is a drama of bends and curvature (383 – 97 n.).

Dionysius’ use of imagery from snakes and stars is in many ways parallel. Each groupreceives a formal simile, but Dionysius also alludes to contexts where the imagery is moreexplicit than in the Periegesis itself, or (weaker still) uses vocabulary which suggests, or iscompatible with, the imagery in question. The two most important snake-passages are thedragon simile (123 – 5) and the planned climax of the Greek itinerary at Delphi (441 – 3). Butsnakes are also implied for other waterways. There is an echo of Nicander’s King of the

Snakes for the long, narrow neck of the Caspian (47 n.), perhaps distantly for the Ladon,which ‘stretches out its waters at length’ (417 n.). Eustathius also reads snake imagery intoDionysius’ many uses of the verb su/resqai; this is hard to corroborate, but plausible.185

It is a similar story with star imagery where, aside from the express comparison ofislands to stars, Dionysius uses vocabulary which suggests, or is compatible with, stellarsubject-matter. It is not that such words have an exclusive association with stars, for thenastronomical metaphor would be readily demonstrable, but that he uses vocabulary which iscapable of this inflection, and has been so inflected in his poetic models. Examples includethe ‘conspicuous’ placement of the islands (556 n. peri/shmon); the ‘whirl’ of the northern

coastline of the Black Sea, and of the curvatures of the Taurus range (161 – 2 n., 594, 648strofa/ligc); the ‘circumambient’ Plotai and curvaceous Caspian (465 – 6n., 718a0mfie/liktoj); perhaps even the ‘girdling’ of land by water, or (apparently) of a mountain by

a swathe of country (4, 430, 555 n. e0stefa/nwtai). While snakes are used to impartsuppleness and motion, especially for waterways, language suggestive of stars and stellar

184 Although ancient conceptions of coastline may be highly defective, and gulfs and baysradically underestimated or overestimated (Janni 1984, 140 – 7).185 Of rivers: 16 (Eustathius ad loc. notes the metaphor), 433, 660, 796, 1077, 1139. Of seasand straits: 46, 137, 380, 475. The verb is not used of serpents by Nicander, but the image isnot difficult if it refers to things being dragged along the floor (e.g. AP 9.310.4 = Garland 1040, of a mouse’s full stomach). For later authors, see Ael. NA 10.48 dra&kwn to_ me\n

plei=ston tou~ sw&matoj e0pisu&rwn; Euseb. Comm. in Isaiam 89 (GCS Eusebius 9, i. 172.13,ed. Ziegler) h}n d' ou{toj o( skolio_j ou{toj o1fij kai\ dra&kwn prosfuw~j w)nomasme/nojdia_ to_ xamai\ su&resqai kai\ e3rpein; Nonn. D. 41.60 o)fiw&dei" su/reto tarsw| ~ (of Cecrops).The application of the verb to currents of water (as opposed to objects being dragged along

by water) seems to be attested first in Dionysius, but occurs again in Symmachus’ rendering

of 2 Sam. 14: 14 katasuro/menon u3dwr; Alciphron, Epist . 2.10.2 katasuro&menoi (sc.potamoi/); Anon. Peri\ tw=n tessa/rwn merw=n tou= telei/ou lo/gou, iii. p. 580.15 Walz o9 potamo\j polu\j su/retai; John Chrys. e.g. PG 50.461.47 potamo\j . . . su/retai;Philostorgius, Hist. Eccles. 3.8 (GCS p. 37.20, edd. Bidez/Winkelmann) pro_j to_n Persiko_n

katasu&retai ko&lpon (of the Euphrates); Geopon. 5.2.17 h( ga_r u(grasi/a . . . katasurome/nh.



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motion is used for general appearance/visibility (36 n. and 451; 90, 493 nn.); for thingscoming into sight, like stars or constellations rising (298 – 9 n.); and for curvature and flexion,where landscape features with curved outlines are sometimes described using language whichAratus uses for the circuits of the stars (161 – 2 n., 925). Dionysius also shares with Aratus a

good deal of quasi-cartographical vocabulary, though specific neither to stars nor to terrestrialfeatures: words for extent (p. 123 teta/nustai, tetanusme/noj), placement (386 n., 442, 927parake/klitai), orientation (298 – 9 n., 926, 1034 e0j e0p’ . . . tetramme/noj, a1xri(j)); and —

even though it pulls against the idea of motion — fixity (204 n., 495, 551 e0sth/riktai). Therevolutions of the stars become the sinuosity of the landscape, and language used for theembeddedness of the stars in the heavens is equally appropriate to the fixity of landscapefeatures.

Homage to Aratus and Nicander is implied, not only by the presence of snake and starsimiles, but also by the fact that two of the poem’s three major acrostichs follow patterns

associated with these poets. The snake simile (123 – 5) is embedded in a name-acrostich (112 – 34), just as Nicander names himself in a purple patch (Ther . 345 – 53) (though without asimile). Wires are slightly crossed at the other end, however, where form and content do notcoincide: the ‘Aratean’ star -simile (531 – 2) appears in highly elaborate acrostich (517 – 32),

but the one that follows the Aratean pattern (307 – 11) — a gamma-shape, where the encodedfive-letter word is also spelt out in the first word of the first line — is reserved for subject-matter of a different type.

The acrostichs in particular, and the snakes and stars theme in general, remain true toDionysius’ combinatory and conflative approach. The ‘Nicandrean’ simile has certain points

of contact with Nicander’s language (123 – 6, 123, 124nn.), but more obvious on a lexicallevel is that it employs window-allusion through an Apollonian snake-simile to a Homericone (123n.). The language of the ‘Aratean’ star simile, meanwhile, is more obviously

indebted to Homeric star-similes (530 – 2 n.), while the Aratean ‘gamma’ acrostich (307 – 11)can also be seen as an allusion back through the Phaenomena to the inadvertent Homericacrostich at the beginning of Il . 24 (298 – 330 n.).

Dionysius pays tribute to both Nicander and Aratus, but also draws on the literal andfigurative use of snakes and stars which reaches back to early Greek hexameter poetry;186 andhe is surely aware that both Aratus and Nicander, in the course of a work about the one

subject, readily evoke the other. The one, very close to the beginning of a poem about thestars, includes a set-piece description of a serpent ( Phaen. 45 – 62), while the other, straightafter the proem of a poem about snakes, includes a mythological set piece which climaxes ina catasterismos (Ther . 13 – 20). Indeed, Aratus’ description of Draco includes the

Phaenomena’s first simile, and the comparison of the twisting celestial serpent to a river (45)

perhaps sets up yet another background for Dionysius’ comparison of the southern coast of

186 Stars: 298 – 9 n. e0pite/lletai. Snakes: 123 – 6 n. (Hes. fr. 70.23 ap. Strab. 9.3.16, cf. Dueck2005, 42); also Hes. fr. 293 M. – W. (ap. Serv. on V. Georg. 1.244 – 5), the constellation Draco

potamw= | r9ei/onti e0oikw/j, and Th. 790 – 1, where the description of ocean di/nh|j a0rgure/h|jei9ligme/noj has serpentine connotations (Janko on Il . 14.244 – 8).



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Asia Minor to a snake. Never one for confining himself to one thing at a time, Dionysiusevokes multiple models, and inasmuch as some words are appropriate to snakes, stars, andwaterways all at once (skolio/j, o9lko/j, e9li/ssesqai), activates several image-groupssimultaneously (161 – 2, 488, 861 – 3 nn.).



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V. GEOPOETICS

Most areas in the world may be placed in latitude and longitude,

described chemically in their earth, sky and water, rooted and fuzzed

over with identified flora and peopled with known fauna, and there’san end to it. Then there are others where fable, myth, preconception,

love, longing, or prejudice step in and so distort a cool, clear appraisal

that a kind of high-colored magical confusion takes permanent hold.

Greece is such an area, and those parts of England where King Arthur

walked.

(John Steinbeck, Travels With Charley, Part Four)

ALL landscape features of the Periegesis, whether natural or man-made, all spatial extent,

and even gaps and absences, are meaningful. The modern distinction between abstract or

measured space and affective, experienced place (pp. 22-3) is unhelpful for an ancient

geographical poem in which all space is treated subjectively, and none is merely abstract.

Cities, rivers, and mountains are treated with a particularism which is nevertheless

constrained by the scale of the poem and by the presence of repeated themes and emphases.

On the other hand, the poet evokes a sense of vastness, playing off specificity against

imprecision and closed series against boundlessness. Early Greek hexameter poetry and

Apollonius had already offered a series of adjectives denoting vastness or innumerability in

conjunction with features of the landscape subjectively perceived, since a given sea is not

boundless, though it may seem so to those travelling over it or living beside it. Dionysius

extends and develops these adjectives — a0qe/sfatoj (23); a0me/trhtoj (1171); a0peire/sioj,

a0pei/ritoj, a0pei/rwn;1 a1pletoj (98); a1spetoj;2 periw/sioj3 — which he applies to tribes,

1 Of vastness: islands: 4, 458 v.l., 550; countries: 323, 1030; gulfs and seas: 119; forests: 659;

rivers: 666, 977, 1137; regions: 430; wealth: 1062. Of innumerability: oceanic gulfs: 57;

peoples: 165, 217, 635; islands: 514, 613, 616; rivers: 644; Delphyne 443. In early Greek

hexameter poetry, a0pei/rwn or a0pei/ritoj are often used of gai=a and po/ntoj. More

interesting are Il . 24.545, used by Achilles of the Hellespont; Od . 19.173 – 4, used byOdysseus of the peoples of Crete; HHom. Ap. 431, of the gulf of Crisa (as it appeared to the

sailors?). For the subjective viewpoint implied by these adjectives, even when not strictly in

character text, see G. Bartelink, LfrgrE s.v. a0peire/sioj, 1011.29 – 31; a0pei/ritoj, 1012.60 –

3: ‘von dem . . . was einem Betrachter (meist einem imaginären, k 195 jedoch viell. der

handelnden Pers.) unendlich erscheint, ohne es tatsächlich sein zu müssen’; sim. a0pei/rwn,

1013.36 –40: ‘. . . relativ vom Standpunkt eines (allerdings stets imaginären) Betrachters aus’.

2 Races: 138, 186, 1142; coastline: 200, 387; lands: 305, 809; an island archipelago: 488; an

isthmus: 636; rivers: 920. Wealth: 712, 1057. In earlier poetry, cf. Il . 18.402 – 3 r9o/oj

0Wkeanoi=o . . . a1spetoj; Ap. Rhod. 4.838 dolixh&n te kai\ a1speton oi[mon (focalised byThetis), 4.1001 – 2 strato_j a1spetoj . . . Ko&lxwn.



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lands, rivers, coastlines, an island archipelago, and other sweeps of landscape (as well as the

favourite theme of wealth). Specific measurement is eschewed. Yet he also elides vast

distances across the outer ocean by focusing on the peregrinating addressee, and treats the

circumference of the oi0koume/nh as a series of island hops from one colourful local destination

to another. Even desert wastes or barren plains are places within the literary imagination — Scythia, with its wagon-trundling nomads, the sweltering caves of the Erembi, and the

scrubby wastes of Ariana offset by precious stones and coral.

Dionysius sets out to inform and instruct his reader about a world in which no place is

without significance. It is against this background that I now turn to the literary presentation

of the world itself, beginning with descriptive epithets and categories, and moving on to

Dionysius’ manipulation of the conventions of ethnography and chorography.

1. EPITHETS

As to the Adjective: when in doubt, strike it out.

(Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar;

Mark Twain, Pudd’nhead Wilson, ch. 11.)

Comparing the Periegesis with the hypotyposis makes plain how essential epithets are to the

poeticisation of the subject-matter.4 The starting-point is naturally geographical description in

early Greek hexameter poetry, especially the Catalogue of Ships; from here proceeds a

double set of questions, first concerning the specific selection of epithets (how generic? howindividuated?), the second concerning their intended effect, in the light of the ancient theory

and practice of the decorative style. The deliberate cultivation of a Homeric register imparts a

reassuring stability and traditionality to the landscape, the pleasurable experience of which is

heightened by an enriched vocabulary of sanctity and beauty. Beyond that, the epithets’ effect

is multivalent; for Strabo, the geographer, the topographical descriptions of the Catalogue are

precise, and partake of a historiographic concern for truth;5 for the literary critic, on the other

3 Mount Ida: 504; the British Isles: 568; the fu=la of Arabia: 960; the Babylonian plain: 1009.

In early Greek hexameter poetry it is not used of geographical features; of peoples in Ap.

Rhod. 2.394, Simias fr. 1.9 P.

4 On the descriptive epithets of the Periegesis, see Jacob 1990, 42 – 3.

5 1.2.17. Comparing Strab. 1.2.3 = Eratosthenes I A, 4 Berger, Radt ad loc. (I p. 25,13 – 6)

derives the passage from Eratosthenes; even the latter had conceded the descriptive quality of

Homeric epithets, and that none was ever thrown away redundantly. For Ammianus’ ‘vivid

verbal images’ in geographical passages, used as ‘individualizing tags’ which equate toHomeric epithets, see Sundwall, 637.



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hand, epithets are stylistic highlights, illuminating the poem like jewels or stars.6 We are also

reminded of the propinquity (which Eustathius noted7) of geographical description and

encomium, for in his address to the Alexandrians, Dio Chrysostom noted how ‘most people

. . . count themselves blessed if they dwell, as Homer puts it, “on a tree -clad isle” or one that

is “deep-soiled” or on a mainland “of abundant pasture, rich in sheep” or hard by “shadowymountains” or “fountains of translucent waters”.’8 For this reason, epinician — a collateral

(rather than direct) relative of the Periegesis — is also a relevant comparison, in that praise of

his homeland is an expected part of the celebration of the victor’s achievement;9 indeed,

Pindar seems to be the source for a handful of Dionysius’ epithets (p. 36).

With early Greek hexameter poetry, of course, questions arise about oral poetics, the

extent to which epithets are purely formulaic, and how far they might be context-sensitive.10

Although the ground has now shifted, it is still legitimate to ask how Dionysius has

reproduced the effect of the formulae he has inherited — which emphases he has retained,

which he has altered, and whether he has tried to retain, or create, an effect of pseudo- 6 Macrob. Sat . 5.14.8; on stella as a literary-critical term, Roberts, 54; for stars in the

Periegesis, 530 – 2 n. and pp. 129-30. For oral poets, Minchin 2001, 86, suggests that the

epithets with their strong visual appeal served as an aide-mémoire.

7 What prompts Eustathius to identify encomia are usually honorific epithets, or other

presentations that redound to a place or person’s credit: the manifold blessings of Egypt and

the Egyptians (on 232, 239); the honour that has fallen to Crete to be the birthplace of Zeus

(on 498); the proud fact that Thebes was home of both Dionysus and Heracles (on 623); the

beauty of the Lydian Bacchants (on 839); the glamorous presentation of life in Arabia (on

933), and again the honorific fact that Dionysus was born there (on 939); and the brief royal

encomium that consists in the reference to the Roman subjugation of the Parthians (on 1039,

cf. GGM ii, p. 214.1).

8 Dio Chrys. Or . 32.38 oi9 plei/ouj . . . makari/ouj e9autou_j kri/nousin, a2n oi0kw~si kaq' 3Omhron nh~son dendrh&essan h2 baqei=an <h1> tina h1peiron eu1boton, eu1mhlon, h2 pro_jo1resi skieroi=j h2 phgai=j diauge/sin (transl. Cohoon and Crosby); cf. also Ar. Ach. 639 – 40

for the encomiastic potential of an epithet (in this case liparo/j).

9 For Pindar’s encomia of place (the Heimatlob), see Saïd – Trédé-Boulmer; Mader, 75 – 6. Ol .

5.9 – 14 (although untypical) is a particularly good comparison, featuring geographical Realien, especially water (a sacred grove, river, lake, canals), rather than abstract qualities,

and even listing them in a catalogue-like structure (Saïd – Trédé-Boulmer, 164; Mader, 75).

For Pindar’s choice of epithets, see especially Saïd– Tréde-Boulmer, 164 –5: generic (‘sea-

girt’ islands, ‘well-ordered’ cities) and morally weighted descriptions are prominent, as well

as epithets for fame, beauty, fertility (especially for overseas settlements), and prosperity. For

Bacchylides (special emphasis on sanctity, splendour), Elliger, 208 – 9.

10 Visser distinguishes between purely generic epithets and epithets with a individualising

quality, and shows how the latter can be subdivided by terrain (coastal, hillside, mountainous,

grassland); once those categories are accepted the poet can be seen to adhere to the principleof economy.



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formularity. Epithets in the Periegesis may be borrowed from early Greek hexameter poetry;

independently of this, they may recur within the poem, sometimes in lightly varied phrases

and cadences. For example, h0nemo/essa in early Greek hexameter poetry is above all the

epithet of Ilium, but has a far wider application in the Periegesis;11 a0fnei=oj is only once

applied in Homer to a geographical personal name, but occurs six times here;

12

on the otherhand, ai0peino/j in Homer is used generically of fortified cities,13 but in the Periegesis only

once, of an island (521 n.).

As for specificity, what we find is a spectrum, all the way from the generic to the

local, individual, and pointed. All positions along this spectrum represent deliberate effects: a

‘generic’ element may be, less a misfire or a failure of inspiration, than a deliberate attempt

to sound a particular register, especially the Homeric. An epithet may of course be traditional

and yet appropriate at the same time. Swiftness is a traditional property of rivers, but that of

the Tigris (983 w1kistoj a9pa/ntwn) was famous; the silver eddies of the Achelous may also

be more than a verse-filler (433 and 496 – 7 nn.). Epithets for riches — a0fnei=oj, liparo/j, theCallimachean r9uhfenh/j (337), and the picture of a plain weighed down with sheaves of corn

(358) — are all well chosen and apposite for places which are agriculturally or mineralogically

rich. The harbour of Carthage is a beautiful instance of the generic and particular in

immediate juxtaposition: it is both ‘lovely’ and enclosed by the city, as the historical harbour

really was (195 n.). And ‘well-crowned’ Croton (369) is interpretable as a pointed, indeed

encomiastic, epithet masquerading as a formulaic one.

Among epithets which were generic in Homer Dionysius has especially cultivated

those denoting beauty and sanctity.14 Homeric epithets are leavened with examples from later

poetry, and sometimes by Dionysius’ own innovations. It is mostly a matter of reproducing asemantic range, though specific passages or metrical patterns are sometimes reproduced.

Dionysius’ vocabulary of holiness is not particularly innovative or extensive, but it is

insistent, with one example each of za/qeoj (814 n.), qei=oj (1145, cf. 1144 b – 1148 n.), and

11 Though Dionysius appears sensitive to its use in Homer and earlier poetry, whose

application of the epithet to high ground (Visser, 134, and Brügger et al. on Il . 2.606;

Kienzle, 25) is reflected by 472, Peloris (cf. Sil. Ital. 14.78 celsus harenosa tollit se mole Pelorus); 831, Tmolus; 1091, Caucasus; 1129, Indian mountains. Also used in 521 (Scyrus),

815 (Ilium), 855 (Phaselis); v.l. 912 (Sidon) (White, 325).

12 Il . 2.570, of Corinth, cf. Visser, 126 – 7, and Hes. fr. 240.1 – 2 M. – W., of Ellopia; this and

other epithets for wealth in Kienzle, 88 – 9. In Dionysius: 258 (Alexandria); 356 (Rome); 564

(Iberes); 734 (Bactrians); 955 (Nabataeans); 1004 (Matienoi).

13 Visser, 128 – 9.

14 Kienzle, 86 – 8, beauty (as he notes, such epithets may be affective or colourless); 79 – 81,

sanctity. For epithets of beauty in Hesiod, Elliger, 160, in lyric, 178, and of sanctity in Pindar,205.



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eight of i9ero/j, which he favours and whose range he extends.15 As for beauty, he avails

himself of Homeric epithets of loveliness (816 a0glao/j; e0ph/ratoj;16 e0rateino/j;17

i9merto/j;18 195 n. poluh/ratoj) and adds to them from other archaic or Hellenistic

hexameter poetry (1107 n. e0rato/j; 534 n., 806 i9mero/eij19), or suo Marte (337, 370 n., 913

xari/eij, apparently not associated with a place-name in early Greek hexameter or Hellenistic poetry). kalligu/naic is a notable absence, though the tableau of Lydian dancers conveys its

spirit (Eustathius on 839); so are other epithets praising the quality of a country’s inhabitants

(eu0a/ndroj, eu0h/nwr, a0glao/kouroj).20

Water is a particularly fine illustration of the effects the poet achieves through his

choice of epithets. The spectrum extends from more or less generic epithets, which allow the

Ganges both to be black-eddying (577) and to have white waters (626),21 or which allow a

description to be transferred from one river of the Troad to another as if they are

interchangeable ( Il . 2.849 – 50 ~ 796, 819), to the Hydaspes, which is plwto\j nh/essin

(1139) for the good reason that Alexander sailed down it. Nevertheless, water has aconsistently dynamic and vivacious character, a tradition which Dionysius has inherited from

the Iliad and ultimately Indo-European (p. 126). Seas have strong currents and their waters

are turbulent (198, 325 a0ga/rrooj;22 85 n. kurto/j; 126 nh/xutoj; 86, 143, 863

polu/klustoj); these epithets tend to crowd out Homeric colour-terms which were perhaps

too sombre for Dionysius’ bright universe.23 Rivers24 are silver-eddying (433 n., 1140, cf.

15 Towns and cities: 88, 1005; rivers: 298, 747; islands: 448; a plain: 788; a grove: 916; the

sea: 1182. In early Greek hexameter poetry i9ero/j is used with names of cities, islands, and

rivers ( LfrgrE i9ero/j, 1140.50 – 1141.33, 1143.11 – 31; West on Hes. Th. 788 (rivers)). Theseuses continue in later poetry: rivers and springs in Ap. Rhod. 1.1208, 2.515, 3.165, 4.134,

4.1417; Nisbet and Hubbard on Hor. Od . 1.1.22. For islands, cf. Call. Hymn 4.3.

16 Of islands: 458 v.l. (see n.), 509; of countries: 351, 1099 (negated). In early Greek

hexameter poetry, also of Troy: Il . 18.512 = 22.121; of islands: Hes. fr. 205.4 M. – W.; of

Parnassus: HHom. Ap. 521, cf. 529 (negated).

17 Rivers: 410, 794 – 6 nn.; countries: 802 = 925 (see 800 – 2, 1107 nn.); Visser, 123 – 4.

18 Cities: 354, 369 (cf. Bacchyl. 1.123); islands: 537 n. Also of rivers: Il . 2.751, Ap. Rhod.

2.939; regions: Mimn. fr. 9.2 W.19 Extending the range of early Greek hexameter poetry, where it describes cities (Hes. fr.

43a.62 M. – W., HHom. Ap. 180).

20 Obviously germane to Pindaric encomium: Saïd – Trédé-Boulmer, 165.

21 Elliger, 98, notes that Homeric water, too, may be both leuko/n and dnofero/n.

22 Brügger et al . on Il . 2.845: ‘Epitheton von Gewässern mit starker Strömung’.

23 Elliger, 96. The exceptions are 879 polih=j a9lo/j and 169 kuanauge/oj a0mfitri/thj (see

n.).

24 For Dionysius’ river -epithets see also Ilyushechkina 2010, 148 – 9.



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497 a0rgurodi/nhj), white (626, 774 leuko\n u3dwr), and have a fast, lively current (693 =

981, 991 qoo/j;25 1090 (see 1089 – 93 n.), 1146 la/broj; 983 n. w0ku/j; 49 n. ai0pu/). They

share beauty and sanctity with the rest of Dionysius’ landscape (to the examples above, add

353, 848, 984, 1152 e0u+rrei/thj;26 246, 289 kalli/rrooj; 796 ka/llistoj). Rivers are

impressive (424 n. qespe/sioj), enormous (a0peire/sioj, a1spetoj; see above), an ancientfeature of the landscape (1055 n., 1124 a0e/naoj; 417 n. w0gu/gioj), and their fertilising

properties (824 n. liparo/j) contribute a favourite theme. At the same time, many of these

epithets have point: the river of the Romans is basileu/tatoj (353), the Amazonian

Thermodon e0nua/lioj (774); the frost-bitten Thermodon krumw/dhj (780); the Danube delta

penta/poroj (301); the Nile pio/tatoj (221 n.); and the Arcadian Ladon w0gu/gioj (417)

with reference to its mythology and to Arcadia’s famed antiquity. Glancing at Apollonius

brings Dionysius’ interests into closer focus: his rivers may be sacred (n. 151), but they are

not conspicuously lovely. The Nile and Phasis are large and broad, but it is the sea which is

characterised by speed and dynamism,27 and some rivers are even gentle, tranquil, and

modest in their flow — qualities quite lost to view in the Periegesis.28

Where epithets are context-sensitive or pointed, they may simply, neutrally, allude to

a place’s well-known natural attributes — for example, liparo/j to the Nile floodplain (227),

Campania (357), or the Maeander (824) — but it is hard to find convincing examples of

epithets which render features of a landscape as it was described, for instance, by Strabo. It is

as we should expect: this is a literary landscape, not a geographical treatise. Many epithets

simply perpetuate the way a place figured in the literary tradition: the landscape has timeless

characteristics. Ilium remains windy (815), Thebes hundred-gated (249); and if ‘flowery’ is

correct for Sidon it is presumably because Europa — who was sometimes located there,

sometimes in Tyre — was picking flowers when she was abducted (912 n.; v.l. h0nemo/essan).

In sum, if we take the bare lists of islands in Strabo’s hypotyposis as a reasonably good

indication of the material on which the poet based his description of the islands of the

Mediterranean, Dionysius’ approach comes into focus. Some epithets are generic or

conventional (epithets of loveliness for Corsica, Samos, and Tenedos: 458 (v.l.), 534, 537; of

size for Sardinia, Crete, and Lesbos: 458, 502, 537); some refer to mythological associations

(Cyprus and Lemnos: 509, 522); but they are leavened by literary allusion. Crete in 502 is

liparh/ because in Od . 19.173 it was kalh_ kai\ pi/eira; Corcyra in 494 presumably on

25

The application to water is post-Homeric; of the sea in Ap. Rhod. fr. 8.2 P. qoa_ be/nqeapo&ntou. 26 The background is early Greek ( Il . 6.34, Od . 14.257, Hes. fr. 10a.35 M. – W.) rather than

Hellenistic, though Dionysius reproduces no specific verse-patterns except 1152 ~ Hes. Th.

343.

27 la/broj: 1.541, 2.594, 3.343, 4.944, 4.1243; leuko/j: 2.570, 4.1574, and of a river 2.368;

qoo/j: fr. 8.2 P.; for Apollonius’ sea-epithets, see A. Lesky, Thalatta: der Weg der Griechen

zum Meer (Vienna, 1896), 254 – 5.

28

2.937 prhu+ta/tou potamou=, cf. 2.367 meio/teroj; 3.876 liaroi=sin e0f’ u3dasiParqeni/oio.



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account of the fertility of Homeric Scheria, with which it was identified; and peri/dromoj in

461 teasingly suggests what the ambiguity of the verbal adjective refuses to confirm, that

Aeolus’ Homeric kingdom is still afloat.

2. CHOROGRAPHY AND ETHNOGRAPHY

Chorographia is an ancient word;29 ethnography is not. It properly refers to the description of

regions or countries, but if the term might properly be applied to Mela’s account of the

inhabited world, so too it might to the Periegesis. ‘Ethnography’, a modern term, apparently

emphasises the ethnological aspects of the subject; but people live in a landscape, and in

practice the description of terrain, its shape, climate, and productive capacity, is integral to

ancient accounts of population. By the time the Periegesis was written a framework had long

been in place for the description of peoples and their relation to the landscape. It began with

an account of qe/sij or situs (defining the shape of a territory, often using shape comparisons,and giving the approximate alignment of its sides by compass point), then moved on to its

climate, its natural resources (animal, vegetable, and mineral), the products of human

cultivation (crops, trees, and livestock), and then the human population itself, especially its

origins, but also customs and telling details that indicate its cultural level. This framework

underpins Dionysius’ ethnographies. The occasional technical or semi-technical geographical

term, such as katagra/fein (707), qe/sij (556, 886, 933), sxh=ma (242, 269, 277, 620, 718,

887, 1128),30 as well as pleura/ (pp. 77-8), hint at the specialist prose tract. But the whole

ethnographical scheme is treated in an extremely flexible and selective way, as befits a

cursory poetic treatment.

Above all, an effort is made not to routinise; to vary. This is the most important

compositional principle. The Periegesis contains fully fleshed ethnographies which touch on

most or all of the main components in the ideal scheme, but many other notices restrict

themselves to a single element or two — the alignment of a region,31 the lifestyle of a group

29 First in Polyb. 34.1.5 (= Strab. 10.3.5), 34.5.1 (= Strab. 2.4.1); see Walbank on both

passages. For Strab. 2.5.1 more than mere description is required, for a chorographer must

have some knowledge of physical and mathematical hypotheses. Ptol. 1.1, who does not

claim that mathematics is a prerequisite for chorography, distinguishes it from geography as

part from whole. See Silberman on Mela 1.1, n. 1; Dueck 2012, 7; for the ancient title of

Mela’s treatise, Silberman, p. xiv and Dueck, 47.

30 Less technical is r9usmo/j (271, 620), cf. Ross on Arist. Met . 985 b16. Neither it nor morfh/ (169, 239, 269, cf. 1177) is applied to the shape of countries by Polybius or Strabo.

31

Seas surrounding Greece (399 – 403) and Arabia (927 – 32); the central spine of Italy (339 – 44).



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(with little on their locale),32 or comments on traditions about national and civic origins and

colonisation (n. 150, pp. 174-5).

A fairly rounded ethnography is that of Syria (897 – 922). The country’s layout comes

first (897 – 901), then the distribution of the human population, followed (as usual in

Dionysius) by agricultural produce, though fauna and flora are barely registered. Within thereview of the human population there are diversions on familiar themes (national origins,

906; eu9rh/mata, 907 – 9; potamography, 913, 919 – 20). The categories are also well-defined in

the ethnography of Persia (1053 – 79): position (1062 – 5), territories and peoples within the

country (1066 – 70) (the opening fanfare, 1056 – 62, already handled aspects of Persian

culture); rivers (1071 – 4) and natural produce (1075 – 9). At the opposite extreme, Parthia

(1039 – 52) is entirely lop-sided: interest concentrates in the Parthians’ lifestyle, a propos of

which occurs one of the poem’s rare cultural nomoi (1048 – 9). An unconventional example is

Arabia (927 – 61), where, after alignment (927 – 34), the main ethnography is given over to

fragrances and spices, with the qau=ma of Dionysus’ birth and the Golden Age effects thatfollow. This structure nevertheless permits observations on fauna (942, 944), flora (spices

passim), by implication climate (936), and lifestyle (953). A brief north – south review of

tribes concludes it (954 – 61).

The ethnographies are varied by shifts of emphasis and by different modes of

presentation. Some items are treated in the form of tableaux; there are arresting qau/mata; a

favourite device (discussed below) is the priamel. With the art that conceals art, similar

structures are deployed, yet varied in such a way that the reader either fails to notice the

underlying pattern, or appreciates all the more the poet’s pains to vary it from one item to the

next.Both the existence of a pattern, and its flexibility, emerge from the ordering of items

with ethnographies. There is a strong tendency for sxh=ma, or situs — information about a

country’s shape, the alignment of its sides, the rivers, seas, and mountain -ranges that border

it — to come first. This occurs in the opening descriptions of all three continents, as well as in

Syria and Arabia. For Egypt, Persia, and India a different system is adopted. In these three

cases a prospectus — which in two cases comes halfway through — is followed (rather than

preceded) by situs (238 – 41 + 242 – 6, within 221 – 68; 1062 – 5, within 1053 – 79; 1128 – 9 +

1130 – 1 within 1107 – 65). Persia begins with an introductory fanfare on gold and boundless

wealth before it touches on anything as prosaic as situation. In the other two cases thetransition to that country has made it convenient for Dionysius to start with something else

(viz., the course of the Nile, leading up from southern Libya; India’s easternness, which leads

on to the colour of the inhabitants’ skin).

In four cases (Egypt, Syria, Persia, and India), this description of situs is followed by

a review of the country’s centres of population,33 and in three of those four cases these

32 186 – 94, the Libyan Nomads (remarks in passing about u3lh and dri/a); 739 – 45, the

Massagetae (located beyond the Araxes, with nothing more about terrain); 962 – 9, the Erembi

(remarks on caves and burning sun).

33 Eratosthenes appears to have proceeded in a similar way (Thalamas, 248 – 9).



141

reviews are introduced by a formula calling attention to the people’s blessedness, that is, to

their advanced state of culture (247 = 902 = 1135 kai\ th\n me\n polloi/ te kai\ o1lbioi a1ndreje1xousin).34 Located here or elsewhere, such a review is almost de rigueur in Dionysius’

ethnographies; Parthia is the only real exception, though that of Media in 1030 – 5 is sketchy.

It proceeds in an orderly fashion, from north to south (Arabia, 954 – 9; Mesopotamia, 1001 – 8;Persia, 1066 – 70), south to north (Egypt, 247 – 64; Syro-Phoenicia, 910 – 20), or, in the more

elaborate, climactic, example, west-to-east (India, 1135 – 44). The effect can be contrasted

with the ‘sketchiness’ device or a0peire/sioj topos (p. 97). Whereas the latter suggests that

the poet’s stamina is petering out, or that he is swamped by the magnitude of his task, these

highly selective surveys create an illusion of plenitude, of comprehensive coverage.

Finally, there is a tendency (no more) for a section on natural products to follow the

review of human population (Syria: 921 – 2, concluding 897 – 922; Mesopotamia: 1009 – 13,

concluding 992 – 1013; Persia: 1075 – 9, concluding 1053 – 79). In three cases a section on

rivers comes at or near the end of the review of human settlement (very briefly Syria, wherethe Orontes, 919 – 20, the only river mentioned, ends the review of cities; Persia, 1071 – 4;

India, where it is combined with, and eventually takes over from, population, 1137 – 52). This

does not apply to the special cases of Egypt and Mesopotamia, territories which are variously

defined by their rivers.

Turning from structure to presentation — from dispositio to elocutio — we find a

combination of, or tension between, closure and openness — between items under which a

more or less palpable line is drawn once they are finished, and a more free-flowing structure.

There is a double background. The first is within catalogue writing and approaches to listing

(discrete or continuous, formally structured or more free-form) with which Hellenistic andRoman poets experimented, and which we have already discussed.35 The second inheres

within ethnography itself, where Trüdinger’s almost century-old, and still excellent, analysis

laid emphasis on two different compositional principles: in the first, items are treated in an

orderly way under (more or less predictable) headings, while in the second they may be

chosen more selectively and arranged associatively by the literary artist.36 If that is right,

Dionysius felicitously combines formal experiments in catalogue writing, dear to the

Hellenistic poets, with two ways of ordering ethnography which can be traced back at least to

Herodotus.

Dionysius’ whole approach is flexible. The discrete style is best exemplified by histreatment of situs, which is largely predictable in position, orderly, and solemn. Rather than

34 The first two peoples also receive praise as primi inventores, including in astronomy,

though not at the same point in the description (232 – 7, 907 – 9 nn.).

35 Hutchinson, 74 – 6; J. L. Lightfoot, ‘Ovid and Hellenistic Poetry’, in P. E. Knox (ed.), A

Companion to Ovid (Chichester, 2009), 219 – 35, at 232.

36 Trüdinger, e.g. 25 – 6 (Herodotus), 68 (Nearchus), 77 (Megasthenes), 132 (Trogus/Justin),

163 (Tacitus). He suggests that Ionian ethnography employed a discrete style where topics

were arranged under headings (peri\ qusi/hj, etc.) and Herodotus himself introduced theassociative principle, whereby one topic suggested another.



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being run together with other items in the ethnographic rigmarole, this topic is itemised,

inventoried, and given its own special space. Its prominence in the Periegesis compares with

the special position reserved for discussions of situs in full-length formal ethnographies such

as Tacitus’ description of Germany, but contrasts (for example) with Virgil’s laudes Italiae,

where the situs of Italy barely figures: Richard Thomas comments that Virgil ‘omits orcontracts certain elements which are unsuitable in a poetic setting (such as the elaborate

treatment of situs which is found in Strabo’s passage)’ (1982a, 39; the reference is to Strab.

6.4.1). Here Dionysius cultivates the impression of technicality and prose-like precision — an

effect that much of the rest of his ethnographies will countermine.

For the most part the touch is lighter. Items are glimpsed en passant rather than in the

course of a dutiful tour, and their inclusion is often ingenious and gently opportunistic. For

instance, the treatment of fragrance in Arabia permits reference to various kinds of terrain

and their produce (950 – 1: fields: frankincense; mountains: gold; rivers: perfume) and to the

clothing of the inhabitants (953). The population of Media is divided across different types ofterrain (rocky or pasture), with a natural product associated with each (a precious stone,

1031; wool, 1033). In India, natural resources, rather than being treated in a separate section,

are run together with the activities of the inhabitants (1114 – 24): gold-mining, linen-weaving

(which implies the cultivation of the plant as well as the sartorial peculiarity noted by Mela

3.63), and the extraction of precious metals. Later, Indian tribes are combined with

potamography (1135 – 51). A whole ethnographic category may be evoked by a glancing

mention of a single item; in 1126, Indian millet (ke/gxroj) is a sort of metonym for all the

crops India produces, which are listed in full in the parallel accounts in Strabo and Diodorus.

Given the economy of the poem, such items have a suggestive power out of proportion to

their length.

It follows that ethnography in Dionysius’ hands is beautifully manipulable and fluid;

except for the formally marked sections on sxh/mata we barely notice the transition from

one category to another. For instance, the south – north review of Phoenician cities culminates

with Antioch-on-the-Orontes, and the mention of the river eases the transition to the short

notice on agricultural fertility which follows (919 – 20 + 921 – 2). Since rivers are so often

assumed to carry precious stones downstream, the river systems of Persia segue first into

mineralogy (1075 – 7) then into further natural produce, crops and climate (1078 – 9). India is a

fine example of crafting and the art of transition. It falls into two parts. The first leads off

from India’s easternmost position: this suggests the inhabitants’ sun-burned skin colour, and

in turn gives way to their activities, combined with the country’s natural resources (which

they either extract or from which they manufacture products). The second half is introduced

by a fresh syllabus (1128 – 9), followed by the formal situs with orientation of the country’s

sides (1130 – 4). There follows a review of the centres of population, combined with

potamography, which takes us as far as the Gargaridae and the Hypanis, the limit of

Alexander’s advance. The rivers are then uncoupled from human population and serve to take

us into remote regions: the mention of human tribes falls away and clears the ground for a

final tableau of Dionysus in Nysa; and that in turn is concluded by the image of the god

erecting his pillars beside the ocean: we have reached the eastern edge of the earth (1162 – 5).



143

It is a beautifully crafted structure, unparalleled in scale; we have no other opportunity of

watching Dionysius think as ‘big’ as this.

Let us turn to the stuff of Dionysius’ descriptions of landscapes and peoples— to the

material with which he has filled out his categories, and to the way he has manipulated it. I

begin with the natural landscape and geophysical features, and gradually move in towards thehuman landscape and Dionysius’ presentation of human cultures.

The landscape

Non Tesin, Po, Varo, Arno, Adige et Tebro,

Eufrate, Tigre, Nilo, Ermo, Indo et Gange,

Tana, Istro, Alfeo, Garona, e ’l mar che frange,

Rodano, Ibero, Ren, Sena, Albia, Era, Ebro . . .

Petrarch, Canzoniere 148.1 – 4

The natural landscape has its own story to tell in a poem about a world that is by and large

beautiful and vibrant, and is both diverse (according to the envoi) and yet stylised. It includes

seas and islands, lakes (253, 267, 987, as well as the Maeotian Lake), woodland and forest

(188, 286, 460, 492, 659), meadows (836, 1125), plains (665, 692, 837, 872, 888, 1009), and

sandy desert (212, 1099 – 1100, cf. the Indian gold-bearing sand at 1115). But there is always

something ; there is never an absence of feature. Where Herodotus’ Scythia petered out intonothingness (4.17 – 31, passim), even Dionysius’ e1rhma are relieved by surface detail (754 – 6,

colourful flowers among the Seres), or are freighted with historical association (208, where

the e0rhmwqe/nta me/laqra of the Nasamones still advertise the righteous chastisement of

Rome). A few landscape features and marvels emerge into individual clarity: the Pillars of

Heracles; the Syrtes fronting the north African shore; the lake into which the Tigris sinks

before emerging again with renewed vigour (this last with no known poetic background). Yet

the real stars of the physical landscape are rivers and mountains.37 Their parallelism is

ancient; Near Eastern texts in various genres seem to pair them as if they form a natural

couple,38 and to a large extent that is still true here. The first of the poem’s cosmological

37 Cf. Mela’s lists of ‘chief examples of x’: 2.17, chief rivers and mountains of Thrace; 2.36,

mountains of northern Greece; 2.43, chief cities, mountains, and rivers of Arcadia; 3.29 – 30,

chief swamps, forests, mountains, and rivers of Germany. Or his lists of ‘chief features of x’,

including mountains: e.g. 2.41, central Greece and the Peloponnese.

38 (i) Narrative: West on Hes. Th. 129 cites a Hittite text from the Kumbarbi cycle. (ii)

Various Egyptian and Hittite treaties given in translation in ANET , pp. 201, 205, 206. For

example, a treaty between the Hittites and Egyptians in the reign of Rameses II (13th-c.)

invokes ‘. . . the Lady (of the) mountains and the rivers of the land of Hatti . . . the male gods;

the female gods; the mountains; and the rivers of the land of Egypt; the sky; the earth; the

great sea; the winds; and the clouds’ (p. 201). (iii) Exorcism formulae and requests for



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syllabuses (1 – 2) begins with a Hesiodic triad of earth, seas, and rivers; mountains, another

element in the armature of Hesiod’s universe (Th. 129 – 30), figure side by side with rivers

both in later cosmological reviews,39 and in the Periegesis itself.40 There are many ways in

which their treatment runs parallel,41 and their joint prominence is one sign of how far

Dionysius has moved from the periplous into something more like an aerial journey: we soarabove mountain ranges and the anfractuous courses of rivers, not just those visible to a

mariner threading his way along the coast. Both are, moreover, associated in rhetoric with

encomia of place.42

Rivers have a privileged place in ethnography.43 Herodotus’ treatment of the Nile and

the river-systems of Scythia put them there, and the mighty rivers of India dominate accounts

of the physical landscape in the Alexander historians.44 As Strabo explains, rivers are

important in geographical writing because they serve as natural frontiers, but the Nile and

Indian rivers are special: they ‘offer a certain advantage as compared with the rest because of

the fact that apart from them the countries are uninhabitable, being at the same timenavigable and tillable, and that they can neither be travelled over otherwise nor inhabited at

all’ (15.1.26, transl. H. L. Jones). They stamp their identity on lands through which they

flow; cities are built on them, tribes live beside them. Through mention of their fertility (p.

138), they segue happily into discussions of natural produce, trees, crops, and pasture land.45

The variety of their roles in chorography and ethnography is matched by the diversity of the

ways in which geographical writers treat them — organising the entire description of a country

around them, using them to divide up a territory into a series of tranches which can then be

absolution (so-called lipšur litanies): see W. Horowitz, Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography

(Winona Lake, IN, 1998), 208 and n. 1, with bibliography. E. Reiner, ‘ Lipšur Litanies’, JNES

15 (1956), 129 – 49, at 132 – 5, published a text in which a series of named mountains are asked

for absolution (‘May Mount Sâbu absolve, the home of Enlil . . .’) followed directly by rivers

(‘May the Tigris absolve, which brings abundance . . .’).

39 Ap. Rhod. 1.501 – 2 (cf. Virg. Ecl . 6.40, but without rivers), 3.164 – 6; Hor. Odes 1.34.9 – 12,

and Nisbet and Hubbard on 9, 11 (interpreting Atlanteus . . . finis as a reference to Mount

Atlas).

40 1055 (Persia), 1128 – 9 (India), 1183 (the whole world and the poem); 709 – 14 (naming a

river, a sea, a people, and a mountain range); sea, mountains, and stars in 716 – 17.

41 Cf. Ilyushechkina 2010, 274 – 6. Thalmann, 152, notes that Apollonius gives rivers the

priority over mountains.

42 Nisbet and Hubbard on Hor. Odes 2.9.16.

43 On rivers and ethnographical theory, Jones, 37 – 47. For Dionysius’ own ‘river scheme’,

Ilyushechkina 2010, 277.

44 Strab. 15.1.26 – 38; Arr. Ind . 3.9 – 6.8; Mela 3.68 – 9; Curt. 8.9.3 – 11.

45 Kienzle, 54 – 5, Counillon 1983, 280.



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tackled singly, using them as points for orientation,46 describing individual rivers, or simply

listing famous names.47

Yet if ethnography gives a minimal explanation for the prominence of rivers in the

Periegesis, and if there are many parallels between Dionysius’ own treatment of rivers and

that of other authors, much remains that is individual. Above all, his rivers contributeliveliness, vivacity, dynamism to the landscape through the poetic lexicon for running water

which he exploits to the hilt. Some — such as the continent-dividing Nile and Tanais — are

obvious stars, while literary considerations thrust others into the limelight: the Thermodon is

given a mythographical tour de force to match Apollonius’ topographical one; the Rhebas is

plucked out of obscurity in Apollonius, inter alia to serve as a geographical hinge or turning-

point. Some, very obscure indeed, raise the possibility of the use of a specialist tract (p. 34).

Others, though known from earlier sources, appear to have been subjected to manipulation, in

some cases to Dionysius’ hallmark combinatory technique (314 – 15, 496 – 7, 663 – 5, 691 –

4 nn.). Springs, on the other hand, do not feature (unless any of the otherwise unknown riversare springs), despite their appearance as a separate category in the poem’s closing syllabus

(1183), as well as in papyrus lists.48

Rivers, like mountains, serve both to divide and to connect, as well as to impose

internal order within the poem. The Danube divides central Europe, just as the Caucasus

range divides Asia,49 and sections of the poem are organised around both divisions. To a still

greater extent than mountains, they bound countries and continents. In the latter case,

although Dionysius is aware of the method of division both by rivers and by isthmuses, he

seems to prefer the former — even though this leads to some ambiguity in the case of Egypt

(220 – 64, 262

b

– 264 nn.) — and he invests both Nile and Tanais with local colour and culturalsignificance. Rivers also mark the western and eastern sides of a huge country like India

(1132 – 4). In a few cases, a river’s underlying boundary function is almost lost to view (361,

367, 784 – 6 nn.), but elsewhere it is enhanced, especially when it is a question of marking

sections also within the poem: the vast Tanais (boundary of Europe and Asia; beginning

46 For Eratosthenes’ main meridian (running through the mouth of the Borysthenes and the

Nile Delta), see 17 – 18 n.; for the British Isles and the Rhine Delta, 566 n.; for the river

Amnisos in Crete, 498 n.

47 For rivers in Hecataeus, see Jacoby, RE s.v. Hekataios, 2692.31 – 8, 2694.1 – 8, 2704.56 –

2705.57; for Herodotus’ Scythia, see Corcella on Hdt. 4.16– 31 (p. 586), with bibliography;

for Xenophon, M.-F. Baslez, ‘Fleuves et voies d’eau dans l’« Anabase »’, Pallas, 43 (1995),

79 – 88; for Eratosthenes, Thalamas, 248 – 9. For lists of rivers in Mela, see p. 144 n. 37,

adding 3.71 (Ariana). His account of Gaul is entirely organised round three major rivers

(3.20, 3.21, 3.24).

48 Nine ‘most beautiful springs’ in the Laterculi Alexandrini (P. Berl. inv. 13044, col. 12, ll.

5 – 16); Legras, 169 – 70. The absence is surprising, given that they include famous names like

Arethusa, Castalia, and Dirce.

49

This is more obvious in Strab. 2.5.30 – 1, where the Danube and Taurus are dealt with intwo successive chapters.



146

travelogue of northern Asia); the tiny Rhebas; the Ganges, which is reinforced with the

Pillars of Dionysus and Nysa, the end of the Emodon mountains, and the ocean (623 – 6 +

1152 – 65). On the other hand, they connect features of the landscape through which they

flow, running predictably from mountains to sea.50 Instead of separate rosters of mountains,

rivers, cities they intersect, lakes into which they plunge, the sea they eventually reach (andeven the islands in their estuary), they are all joined seamlessly together. One effect is to

enhance the two-dimensionality of the landscape, and the impression that we are able to look

down from a height and take in a wide, synoptic view (p. 123). Even in the periplous-like

journey along the Black Sea coast, the gaze is directed not just towards the mouth of the

river, but at the whole of its course.

Rivers aid definition and help to anchor peoples and places in a landscape. This is

particularly useful in north eastern Asia, regions remote and otherwise hard to visualise. The

Mardus runs through the territories of the Dercebii and Bactrians (734 – 5); the Araxes divides

the Massagetae from the Caspian tribes (740); the Oxus flows through the middle of Sogdia(747); the Sakai live beside the Jaxartes (749 – 50), the southern Scythians beside the Indus

(1088). The Indian rivers also structure the account of Indian tribes (1137 – 47). Closer to

home, where the settlement pattern is by cities rather than tribes, cities are set beside them.51

The relationship between human and physical geography emerges most clearly in connection

with rivers.

It is because rivers are so readily associable with the landscapes through which they

flow that by an extremely common poetic figure they may serve as the primary identifiers of

a region, or even as metonyms.52 So too in the Periegesis, where rivers evoke cities or

regions: the Alpheus and Olympia (374); the Ilissus and Attica (1023); the Ismenus andThebes (1165). In 575 the almost wholly obscure river Apsynthus particularises Thrace itself,

its famed connection with Dionysus expressed through a choice obscurity. More often a river

50 Not a foregone conclusion: in Herodotus, the mighty rivers of southern Russia rise in lakes

(4.51, 52.1, 54, 55, 57; cf. 2.33.3, where the Istros rises in the city, not mountain, Pyrene).

Aristotle, Meteor . 349 b4 – 350a13, cf. 356a1 – 34 (targeting Plat. Phaed . 111 C – 113 C), devotes

an extensive refutation to the view that rivers rise out of underground reservoirs of water (cf.

Thomson, 104, and commentary by H. Strohm, Meteorologie: Über die Welt/Aristoteles

(Berlin, 1970), 157 – 9, 173 – 4); in V. Georg . 4.367 – 72, waters break out from founts

underneath the sea; underground rivers and reservoirs in Sen. QN 3.15.

51 Rome, 351 – 6; Epizephyrian Locri, 365 – 7; Croton, 369 – 70; Sinope, 773 – 9; Ilium, 818 – 19;

Aspendos, 852; Tarsus, 868 – 9; Sidon, 912 – 13; Antioch, 918 – 20 (and perhaps formerly

Emesa: 916 b – 920 n.).

52 e.g. Il . 2.877, 5.479, 6.172; on Pindar’s use of hydronyms for towns, see Said– Trédé-

Boulmer, 164, Mader, 76, 77, and Braswell on Nem. 9.9 0Aswpou=; for tragedy, Biehl on Eur.

Troad. 132 – 3; Mastronarde on Phoen. 126, 222, 347 – 8, 646 – 8; W. Breitenbach,

Untersuchungen zur Sprache der euripideischen Lyrik (Stuttgart, 1934), 178; Mynors on V.

Georg . 3.475; Nisbet and Rudd on Hor. Od . 3.4.35 – 6, 3.29.27 – 8; for river-metonyms forIndia (Hydaspes, Ganges), André and Filliozat, 400 n. 398.



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runs through an already-named territory, adding to its characterisation. Greece is a country of

rivers to a remarkable degree (410 – 13; 416 – 17; 423 – 5; 432 – 5; 439 – 40). Each of its famous

regions has one or more famous rivers, and it is worth asking why rivers have been chosen as

signifiers rather than cities. Estelle Oudot has offered some thoughts on the Ilissus as a

signifier of Athens,

53

but instead of, or as well as, sinking a depth-charge, she might haveasked why all of Greece is treated like this. The regions of Asia Minor, too, have their

distinctive rivers, but this time the rivers compete with cities: the Mysian Cius (806); the

Sangarius in Greater Phrygia (811); Xanthus and Simoeis rivers of Troy in Lesser Phrygia

(819); the Ionian Maeander (823 – 5); the Maeonian (Lydian) Pactolus and Cayster (831, 837);

the Lycian Xanthus and Eurymedon (847, 852); the Cilician Pyramus, Pinaros, and Cydnus.

These connotative rivers evoke the places with which they are associated: the Tanais,

Scythia (659 – 79); the Lydian tableau (830 – 46) projects the reader so vividly into the

landscape that he is encouraged to imagine himself on the banks of the Pactolus listening to

the swan’s song in spring. This scene, which culminates in the ‘sacred place’ of Dionysus, is balanced at the opposite end of Asia by the ‘honoured and sacred place’ consecrated to

Bacchus beside the Ganges (1152 – 60), the site of his victory over the Indians: the two

festivals are paired, but a site of dancing and rejoicing contrasts with a site of contumely and

anger. The connection between rivers, gods, and festivity is anticipated by Apollonius, who

has several tableaux figuring gods and/or cultic revelry on their banks.54 Besides this, a

wealth of riverine mythology is there to be exploited: Phaethon and the Heliades on the

Eridanus (290 – 3); Boreas and the Ilissus (424 – 5); the Amazons on the Thermodon (774 – 5);

Hylas on the Cius (806 – 8); and the pièce de résistance, the Sinope epyllion (775 – 9), which

both creates and takes away a sense of local myth, for the eponymous city is not beside the

river, and the maiden is an elaborate confection of earlier literary maidens and myths.

In short, rivers create a sense of specific place.55 The rich vocabulary associated with

running water in hexameter poetry endows them, together with seas and coastlines, with a

lively character; they roar, foam, and perform their serpentine manoeuvres in the landscape

whether there is anyone to see or hear them or not. At the same time they evoke histories,

myths, and other topoi, and perhaps on occasion specific literary texts. Let us now turn to

mountains, with which they have so much in common.

Although orography seems not to have been a special area of interest to the same

extent as potamography, the ways in which mountains figure in earlier chorography andethnography in ways do prefigure the Periegesis. They both define and serve as reference-

points. They bound countries and — on the theory that continent-division is by isthmus rather

53 Oudot, 257 – 61.

54 1.307 – 9, 1.536 – 9 (a reference to the temple of Ismenian Apollo on the banks of the

Ismenus: Paus. 9.10.2; Schachter, i. 80 – 1), 2.904 – 10, 3.876 – 84 (where two rivers have been

substituted for two mountains in Od . 6.103).

55 R. Jenkyns, V irgil’s Experience: Nature and History: Times, Names, and Places (Oxford,

1998), 18: ‘Virgil makes them [rivers] part of his imaginative, humanized landscape,inspirers of patriotic sentiment and sense of place.’



148

than waterways — larger land-masses, so that the Caucasus marks the border of Asia and

Europe;56 they mark the beginnings and ends of seas, and points on the coastline.57 ‘Beneath’

them are situated peoples, cities, and other landmarks,58 and they connect one place with

another: the Caspian Gates, a mountain pass, are the starting-point for routes in western Asia

(1034 – 8), while we follow the Taurus range from its Lycian outpost, Cragos (849 – 50), all theway to the eastern end of the world (1162 – 3). Along the way, rivers run off it (644, 663, 748,

1091, 1146 – 7), peoples adhere to its sides (690, 714), it bisects the continent of Asia (638 –

43, 890) and demarcates the northern boundary of India (1134). Dionysius makes more of his

mountains than, say, ps.-Scymnus or Mela; this is less an exercise in orography than a study

of sensibility. On the one hand, their use as boundaries, or dividing lines, or to pinpoint other

locations, are all associated with a precise, descriptive style; on the other, they are also used

to evoke a sense of a landscape whose most distinctive and famous features they are. Regions

of Greece (415, 431 – 2, 438 – 9) and Asia Minor (814, 830 – 1) and some Aegean islands (502,

535) have their characteristic heights, and sometimes rivers too; the summits of snowy

Haemus denote Thrace (428 – 9), as mountains emblematise regions and countries in other

poets.59

It is no surprise that mountains and the rivers in the Periegesis have much in

common. The latter diversify the earth’s surface through a dynamic lexicon, imagery, and

rich cultural associations; the former lack such a wide range of imagery, yet also supply

contour and relief. Both demarcate, divide, and connect — not least to each other — as well as

structure the poem: the Tanais divides Europe as the Taurus does Asia, in both cases with the

northern side treated first. Where linear, they can mark lines of latitude and longitude;

conversely, a point, such as a cape, headland (511 – 12, 561 – 3), or river mouth (542, 566) can

be used to orient an island.60 More associatively, both are connected with precious stones

(below); rocks and water are both sources of natural bounty and exquisite colour. In the

spring tableaux which complement each other so exquisitely, Apollo’s choirs match

Dionysus’s revels, and the nightingale in the mountains (528 – 9) the swans on the river

Pactolus (833 – 4).

56 Countries: 900 – 1, 954 – 5, 970 – 1, 1063, 1134, 1162. For the Caucasus, see 19 – 21, though

the isthmus is flat in 636 – 7.

57 Seas: 109, 115 – 16 (not in fact a mountain: see n.), 129, 379 – 81. Coastline: 388 – 9, 878 – 90.

58 737, 814 – 15, 1002 – 3, 1066 – 7, 1097 – 8. As already in Hecataeus, e.g. FGrH 1 F 73;

Jacoby, RE s.v. Hekataios, 2693.39 – 67.

59 Mountain metonyms are less common than rivers, but cf. Tmolus for Lydia ( Il. 2.866,

Aesch. Pers. 49, al.), Pindar’s use of Kro/nion as a metonym for Olympia (Ol . 1.111, 6.64,

9.3; Elliger, 203). Commoner in Latin poetry, e.g. Rhodope and Ismaros for Thrace (V. Ecl .

6.30); Ida for Phrygia (V. Aen. 7.207, Sil. Ital. 1.126); Etna for Sicily (Sil. Ital. 9.196);

Niphates for Armenia (V. Georg. 3.30). Rivers and mountains combined at Il . 2.868 – 9

(Caria), Call. Hymn 4.70 – 1 (Arcadia); Orph. Arg. 80 (Thrace); V. Georg. 3.350 – 1 (Scythia),

4.461 – 3 (Thrace); Hor. Od . 2.9.20 – 1 (Armenia), 3.25.10 – 12 (Thrace).

60 Compare e.g. Mela 2.106 (Lemnos opposite Mt. Athos).



149

The differences are also illuminating. Mountains are less associated with human

culture. Troy is at the foot of Mount Ida (814 – 15), the Germans leap across the Hercynian

range in a bravura display of hardihood and recherché Hellenistic vocabulary (285 – 6). But

few myths are attached to them (save to the Ceraunian mountains, 390 – 7), and — except for

Dionysus’ pillars at the extr emity of the Taurus — no gods. This is curious. Artemis and herretinue might have danced over them; Zeus as thunder-god might have been enthroned upon

them; the Nymphs might have made them uncanny; and although Pan is mentioned once

(995) it is in connection with pan-pipes, not with his native mountains. The rather decorous

attempts to evoke Dionysian cult (below) do not extend to oreibasia, nor does Cybele, the

Mountain Mother, sweep across them in her chariot.61 The mountains are not emblems of the

wilds, opposed to cities as carriers of civilisation. It is presumably in keeping with the spirit

of harmony that pervades the poem that there are no volcanoes, either — no Typho, and no

Hephaestus or Cyclopes blasting away in their smithies.

Natural resources

Natural resources are a traditional category of ethnography. Fauna and flora, including

agricultural produce, and livestock, belong here; so too do mineral resources.62 Some items

have a curiosity value: it is diverting to hear about elephants and crocodiles. But their main

significance is as background for the character of the human population.

In what follows wild animals and natural flora are treated separately from the

products of human cultivation. Dionysius is far more interested in civilisation and what

sustains it. Yet a few items of natural flora do emerge: the oaks of Crete (503); fragrance and

spices in Araby the Blest (937 – 9, 945, 951), Babylonian palms (1010), the scrubby soil of the

Arieni (1099 – 1100); Indian sweet reeds and millet (1126 – 7). Animals are not very numerous,

but space is found for the elephant (593, 1116 – 17) and sea-monsters of the Indian Ocean

(597 – 605); swans on the Pactolus (831 – 5) come from poetry rather than ethnography. The

cinnamon-bearing birds of Arabia (944 – 5) are a local curiosity, converted into Dionysiac

miracle. In general, peculiarities of fauna and flora characterise the non-classical world, with

the exception of Cretan oaks; they individualise the landscape, whereas the ivy and vines

which accompany Dionysus’ cult from the far west to the far east (573, 947 – 8, 1157, 1160)

have the opposite effect.

All this is fairly incidental. The aspect of the natural world in which the poet shows a

much more sustained interest is mineralogy, with repeated descriptions of precious and semi-

precious stones. It is worth while considering why they are here at all. Other ethnographies

61 On gods associated with mountains, see Gerber, 300 – 1, R. Buxton, Imaginary Greece:

The Contexts of Mythology (Cambridge, 1994), 85 – 6; on the associations of mountains in

mythology, ibid. 86 – 96.

62 Thomas 1982a, 3 – 4.



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pay significantly more attention to precious metals:63 not just in their own right, but because

they can be connected with cultural products such as weapons, coinage, and jewellery. In

such products the Periegesis shows no interest whatsoever, and even the raw metals come in

a very poor second.64 On the other hand, some geographical writers do pay attention to

gemstones. Strabo does, repeatedly,

65

as does Agatharchides, whose work On the ErythraeanSea is also reflected by Diodorus Siculus.66 If the extant fragments of Posidonius show more

interest in precious metals, he nevertheless mentioned the precious stones brought back to

Egypt from India in the reign of Euergetes II (146 – 116 BC) by the explorer Eudoxus;67 and a

specialist treatise on rivers ascribed to Plutarch associates with each river a specific plant and

precious stone.68 Pliny’s Natural History of course has a separate book on gemstones which

is our best single source for ancient gemmology. So if the sheer prominence of mineralogy

within the poem remains striking, the mere fact of its presence in a geographical compendium

is no surprise.

Various traditions of lapidary writing are represented in poetry and in prose.

69

Each is broadly definable, but in practice a given text will often overlap with the others besides the

one to which it is mainly affiliated. The one most assimilable to geography — the one to

which Dionysius’ mineralogical notices seem most akin — is that which puts a premium on

precise description and classification. It is represented by Pliny’s thirty-seventh book, and

perhaps also by Dionysius’ lost poem De Lapidibus, from which a mere handful of

63 e.g. Diod. Sic. 3.12 – 14 (gold-mines on the borders of Egypt with Arabia and Ethiopia, a

section drawn from Agatharchides: see B. Bommelaer, Diodore, iii (Livre III), xii, xv, xviii),

5.27 (Gaul); Caesar, BG 5.12.4 – 5 (Britain); Tac. Germ. 5.2 – 6.1. Unprovenanced fragments

of Posidonius (F 239 – 40 E. – K. = 19, 402 Theiler) mention Spanish mines (gold, silver,

copper); tin in the Tin Islands; silver, tin, and white gold in the far north-west of Lusitania.

64 Tin: 563; iron: 768 – 71; gold: 832 (a topos), 951, 1114, 1144.

65 e.g. 4.6.2 (amber among the Ligures); 12.2.10 (crystal and onyx near Galatian territory);

15.1.67 (Indian crystal, anthracite, pearls), 15.1.69 (precious stones in India); 16.3.7 =

Nearchus, FGrH 133 F 28 (pearls and other precious stones on islands in the Persian Gulf);

16.4.6 (topaz on Serpent Island in the Arabian Gulf); 16.4.20 (emerald and beryl in Arabian

gold-mines); 17.2.2 (mines of precious stones in Meroe); 17.3.11 (lychnis and ‘the

Carthaginian stone’ in Masaesylia). 66 1121 n. (topaz on Serpent Island); Diod. Sic. 1.33.3 (precious stones in Meroe, possibly

also from Agatharchides: see P. Bertrac, Diodore, i (Livre I), 11); cf. also the gold-mines on

the Egyptian border (n. 63).

67 Strab. 2.3.4 = Posidonius F 49 E. – K. = 13 Theiler.

68 Ps.-Plut. de Fluviis; see RE s.v. Plutarchos, 870.39 –871.19 (K. Ziegler); J. Bidez, ‘Plantes

et pierres magiques d’après le ps.-Plutarque de Fluviis’, in Mélanges offerts à M. Octave

Navarre (Toulouse, 1935), 25 – 40. It is published with a commentary by Müller, GGM ii.

637 – 65.

69 Halleux – Schamp, p. xvi.



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fragments, partly overlapping with the Periegesis, are preserved.70 Such works are not

immune from superstition and the reportage of magical properties which is characteristic of a

second category, described by Halleux and Schamp as containing ‘un courant franchement

magique, souvent véhiculé par des apocryphes orientaux’, and a couplet from the Periegesis

(also attributed to the lost poem in S Od . 10.323) credits jasper with the power of protectionagainst ‘Empusas and other ghosts’ (724– 5). The very idea of stones ‘being born’ ( below)

seems to rest on an animistic conception,71 though it could by now be dead metaphor. In any

case, precious stones are among the resources of the land, and as such must be precisely

located and described.

Dionysius tends to associate precious stones with Asia — especially central Asia and

the far east (India: adamas, amethyst, beryl, jasper, topaz; Media: narcissite; Ariana: coral

and ‘sapphire’; Persia: agate; Babylon: beryl), but also the Caspian (jasper) and Asia Minor

(jasper and crystal on the Thermodon). Within Europe, they are found on Pallene (lychnis

and asterios) and the borders of the ocean in the far north (adamas and amber). Save forPallene and the Thermodon, the exoticism of these locations recalls, first, Herodotus’ belief

that the edges of the earth bear the costliest things (including precious minerals and gold),72

and, second, the tendency, already marked in Posidippus, for precious stones to be associated

with exotic places. The exception, Pallene, is perhaps explained by literary considerations,

namely symmetry with the preceding, matching section (298 – 330 n.).

Gemstones are referred to both within ethnographies and as stand-alone curiosities.

Traditional ethnography treats mineral resources alongside agriculture, as specimens of a

country’s produce.73 Precious stones are accordingly mentioned alongside livestock (1030 – 3)

or crops (1075 – 9). Elsewhere they appear as isolated notices, and/or — quite frequently — placed at the end of a section or subsection.74 That is to say, gems are useful for

paragraphing. There are mineralogical sign-offs in 1011 – 13 (Mesopotamian beryl), 1075 – 7

(agate almost ends Persia), 1103 – 6 (coral and sapphire conclude the peoples to the west of

the Indus), and in 724 – 5 crystal and jasper divide the situs of the Caspian from the review of

its people.

70 GGM ii, p. xxvi; Knaack, RE s.v. Dionysius, 924.1 – 27; Bowie 1990, 79; Halleux – Schamp,

141 – 2. Amato 2005a, 68 – 74, cf. 2005b, 110 and n. 58, sees it rather as ‘un prodotto delsincretismo magico-astrologico orientale risalente a Zoroastro, ai Magi ed ai Caldei’

(quotation on p. 70).

71 Jacob 1990, 44.

72 Hdt. 3.106.1, 114 – 16, and 116.2; Jacob 1991a, 52; J. S. Romm, The Edges of the Earth in

Ancient Thought (Princeton, 1992), 38 – 41; Nesselrath; Rood, 130 – 1. Herodotus cites gold in

India, Aethiopia, and northern Europe; amber and tin e0c e0sxa/thj, but denies the existence of

Eridanus and is agnostic about the Cassiterides.

73 Thomas 1982a, 44.

74 Counillon 1983, 183.



152

Within ethnographies, although human beings may turn mineral resources to account

(292 – 3, 1101 – 6, 1118 – 22), gemstones are more often seen as natural products of the land

(316 – 18, 328 – 9, 724 – 5, 780 – 2, 1011 – 13, 1031, 1075 – 6), which they beautify and to which

they add colour and exquisiteness. This type of writing is quite different from poetic

ecphrases of highly wrought jewels or otherwise exceptional stones. There is no interest intheir worked state; they are never cut, or engraved; the final stage of transforming them from

nature into culture vanishes from view.75 It is the same with metals: humans may extract

them, but, in contrast to the treatment of metals in many other Greek and Roman

ethnographies, there is not the slightest hint of what might be done with them. As a corollary,

the question of value does not arise.76 The effect is quite different from Virgil’s treatment of

the precious metals of Italy. Richard Thomas suggests that ‘the mention of precious metals,

particularly of gold and silver, again suggests luxury, and the presence of such metals implies

a high degree of civilisation and the potential for decline’.77 Dionysius’ minerals may be

carried down from the mountains by rivers, but the process is arrested before it gets as far as

human adornment.78 It is the landscape that is beautified; there is no room for worrying

human luxus.

The most obvious poetic effect of the stones within the poem is that they, like Chinese

silks, add brilliance and colour, which is described carefully. The mere fact that they do so is

important, for neither Homeric epic nor Herodotean ethnography paints the world in bright

tones, though the Alexander historians are sensitive to colour in their evocations of the

qau/mata of Central Asia and India.79 Colour and brilliance are precisely the two usual

75 Plin. NH 37.1 violare etiam signis, quae causa gemmarum est, quasdam nefas ducentes.

Contrast e.g. Agatharchides (p. 150 n. 66 above), who, having described the appearance and

extraction of topaz, concludes by saying that it is given over to the polishers ( De Mari Erythr.

82, Diod. Sic. 3.39.9 toi=j dia\ th=j te/xnhj duname/noij e0kleai/nein to\ paradoqe\noi0kei/wj); Strab. 15.1.69, on furnishings and utensils studded with precious stones in an

Indian religious procession. On Strabo’s interest in the extraction, exploitation, and

profitability of precious metals, see Jacob 1991a, 156; Aujac 2see21 – 3.

76 Contrast e.g. Nearchus ap. Strab. 16.3.7 = FGrH 133 F 28 margari/thj polu\j kai\

poluti/mhtoj. 77 Thomas loc. cit.

78 Unlike Posidippus, in whom it does: see D. Schnur, ‘A Garland of Stones: Hellenistic

Lithica as Reflections on Poetic Transformation’, in B. Acosta-Hughes, E. Kosmetatou, and

M. Baumbach (eds.), 118 – 22, at 118 – 19.

79 Elliger, 96 – 102; Trüdinger, 79. For the Alexander historians, Nearchus, FGrH 133 F 11

(Arr. Ind . 16.4) and Onesicritus, FGrH 134 F 21 (Strab. 15.1.30) on dyed Indian beards (T. S.

Brown, Onesicritus: A Study in Hellenistic Historiography (Chicago, 1981), 52, 75); Arr.

Anab. 6.29.5 –6, on Cyrus’ tomb-chamber; Cleitarchus, FGrH 137 F 18, 21 (Ael. NA 17.2,23), on Indian snakes and the catreus bird; also Solin. 52,18, on Indian hair-dyes.



153

focuses of ancient descriptions of gemstones.80 Both figure in Posidippus’ Liqika/ —

strikingly so, given David Petrain’s observation that the resplendency of stones is ‘a

commonplace in Latin literature, but surprisingly enough the Greek epigrams that we

possessed before the discovery of the papyrus seldom mention a stone’s sparkle’ (345). At

the same time, stones are identified and categorised by colour, and when Posidippusdescribes the colour of his gemstones with the kind of precision Dionysius emulates (and in

one case directly imitates), it raises the question of their use of technical, prose treatises.81

Indeed, Dionysius’ descriptions of the colours of his gemstones usually marry up nicely with

the lapidary handbooks and manuals.82 The chromatographic tradition contrasts with Strabo

(for example), who does not feel called upon to describe as well as name the stone, and more

often than not does not.

Born among the rocks, and associated time and again with rivers and coastlines, there

is a marked formularity in the presentation of gemstones. The verb fu/esqai is repeatedly

used for their genesis in rocks (328, 1013, 1031, cf. 1104 w0di/nousi) and once for the genesisin the Caspian of crystal, which was in fact believed to be composed of water (724). This

same verb and its equivalents (genna=sqai; nasci) are repeatedly used by ancient lapidary

writers, who apply it equally well to water, to rock, and to the stone’s country of origin. 83

Another motif is that of stones carried downstream by rivers (1075 – 7, 1118 – 24, cf. 316 – 18).

The so-called river topos figures several times in Posidippus (7.1 – 2, 16.1 – 2, cf. 15.1 A. – B.;

presumed in 1.1 and 10.3),84 but may also have been seriously proposed by Posidonius,85 and

80 Roberts, 52, citing TLL s.v. lumen (generatim), VII.2. 1817.5 – 18.

81

Colour: 3.1 a1nqrac] au0ga/zwn; 4.1 la=an] . . . glauko/n; 5.1 – 2 to\n a0stero/enta sa/peiron [sc. lapis lazuli] | to/nde xrusi/thn; 6.3 marmai=ron b[hru/llion; 7.3 me/litixroih\n li/q[on ei1kelon; 16.1 to\n polio\n kru/stallon. Radiance: 8.5 – 6, 9.3, 14.1, 16.5.

Smith, 106, compares Posidipp. 8.5 – 6 A. – B., with Theophr. Lapid . 3.18, and concludes that

‘from parallels such as this it is clear that Posidippus is relying to some degree on technical

writing’.

82 Standard colour-epithets are used for amethyst (1122 n.); beryl (1012 n.); coral (1103 n.);

jasper (724, 782, 1012 nn.); ‘sapphire’ (1104– 5 n.). But they are subject to the usual

difficulties about ancient colour terms — which becomes a particular problem with topaz

glaukio/wn (1121 n.).83 Agatharchides, Mar. Erythr . 82 (Diod. Sic. 3.39.8 li/qoj fuo/menoj/Phot. 456 b 15

gi/netai); ps.-Plut. Fluv. ( passim) and ps.-Dioscor. Lapid . (e.g. 28, 32) use genna=sqai; Orph.

Lith. Keryg . uses both fu/esqai (e.g. 5) and genna=sqai (e.g. 8); Pliny and Damigeron – Evax

use nasci.

84 See Bastianini and Gallazzi on 10.3 A. – B. (= col. II 9); Hunter 2004b, 97; see also T.

Wright (ed.), The Travels of Marco Polo the Venetian (London, 1854), Book III ch. 21, 398 –

9 and n. 3 (diamonds in the kingdom of Murphili).

85

See Edelstein – Kidd on their Posidonius F 49.165 ff. (p. 243): a Posidonian origin isuncertain.



154

is another nice example of the inseparability of poetic and prose backgrounds to Dionysius’

gemmology. Dionysius builds on both connections, enhancing them in his idiosyncratic way.

He both formalises them (all Indian gemstones are apparently carried down by rivers) and

adds the natural beauty of the brilliancy and colour of the gems to the animatedness of the

running water.It seems highly likely that Dionysius knew Posidippus. Their shared interest in

colours, brilliancy (328, 328, 1119 – 20 n.), in exotic origins, their shared use of the river

topos, verbal correspondences,86 and perhaps also their fondness for similes,87 all speak in

favour of this. There are also overlaps with Pliny, which is unsurprising, given Pliny’s range

of sources and encyclopaedic coverage. The most impressive correspondence is in their

treatment of jasper, a nice instance of the way Dionysius apparently combines allusions to his

Hellenistic poetic predecessors with technical writing. On the one hand, the mention of jasper

in three separate locations throughout the poem (724, 782, 1120) is apparently an attempt to

differentiate three local varieties in a way that corresponds nicely to information in NH 37.115; on the other, h0ero/essan i1aspin in 724 appears to echo the same clausula in

Posidipp. 14.1 A. – B. Apart from this, narcissite (1030 – 1) is mentioned only in Pliny and one

other lapidary writer; asterios (327 –9) is again located on the coasts of ‘Pallene’ in the

manuscripts at NH 37.132, though many editors accept the emendation to Patalene; and the

presence of amber and adamas in the far north agrees with a fragment of Metrodorus of

Scepsis quoted by Pliny, though Pliny himself does not believe it (318 – 19 n.).88 Other

technical treatises which Dionysius must also have used are inscrutable.89 Several other

oddities and oddments cohere, now with one writer, now with another, but no overall pattern

emerges.90

In the end, what we have are the poetics of gems in the landscape and in the

Periegesis itself. Posidippus’ epigrams on stone, lapidary in both subject-matter and

execution, are rightly seen as a figure for his own art, and although a didactic work of 1200

86 319, 724 n., 1119 – 20 n., cf. 1075 – 7 n.

87 Similes for light/colour: 317 oi[a/ tij au0gh/, 328 oi[a/ tij a0sth/r, 781 oi[a/ te pa/xnhn;

Posidipp. 4.3 a0ntise/lhnon, 5.1 to\n a0stero/enta sa/peiron, 16.6 w3sper kai\ kalo\j h0e/lioj

(but formally and metrically compare rather Ap. Rhod. 3.814 oi[a/ te kou/rh, 4.317, al.).

Other: 1011 xrusoi=o . . . xarie/steron, 1075 – 7 (see n.); Posidipp. 15.5 yeu/dei+ xeiro\jo3moion, 17.4 ma/gnhj oi[a li/qoj, 19.6 tou= Polufhmei/ou skaiote/rhn qureou=.88 Following Müller (on 314), Göthe, 22 – 3, argues that Metrodorus of Scepsis was the source

underlying all of 302 – 7, 316 – 19 (nations north and south of the Ister and the precious stones

associated with them); cf. Counillon 1983, 246, 256, 308 (adding 724, 781 – 2, 1119).

89 Greaves, 91 – 4, proposes that Dionysius was using specialised mineralogical treatises for

northern Asia and Europe, and sources for middle and southern Asia which (like the Periplus

Maris Erythraei) treated its natural produce more fully.

90

See 328 n. (asterios in Pallene); 1011 – 13 n. (Mesopotamian beryl); 1075 n. (Persian agate);1103 n. (coral in Ariana); 1104 – 5 n. (‘sapphire’ in Ariana); 1121 n. (Indian topaz).



155

lines is obviously on a different scale from an epigram, the gemstones are also a good

metaphor for the poikilia and minute, particularistic detail of the poem’s aesthetic. (It is not

far from gemstones to the mosaic metaphors which suggest themselves so readily.) Of course,

the Hellenistic gemstone poems are about cut gems, whereas the Periegesis treats precious

stones only in their raw state, and never anticipates the finished, cut products. Perhaps thatdoes not matter. It takes nothing away from their exquisiteness, though the lack of human

finish does mean that, no matter highly wrought or intricate the poem (and it is both), the raw

state of the gemstones would spoil any Callimachean notion of mo/xqoj. If that were the

point, the Chinese silk woven from flowers in 754 – 6 would be a more suitable metapoetic

figure.91

David Petrain has suggested that a couple of passages on gemstones in Augustan

Latin are early examples of what would in later antiquity be called the ‘jewelled style’. This

is characterised by visual detail, by the division of a whole into parts ( leptologia), by ‘dense,

richly textur ed effects’, and ‘intricate variations over a set of short, similar word groups’.

92

Although neither he nor Michael Roberts, who studied the style’s late-antique exemplars,

considered whether it was represented in Greek poets as well, the question arises whether the

style is reflected in Dionysius, considering that it is born of the same quest for vividness (pp.

116-7) which characterises the Periegesis, and that its content is so particularistic and packed

with detail. In practice, the highly spun antitheses and rhetorical artifice of the Latin jewelled

style are not characteristic of the didactic poem, but it is still worth drawing attention to the

passage where the treatment of gemstones reaches its climax:

h1 pou bhru&llou glaukh_n li/qon h)d' a)da&manta

marmai/ront' h2 xlwra_ diauga&zousan i1aspin 1120

h2 kai\ glaukio&wnta li/qon kaqaroi=o topa&zou

kai\ glukerh_n a)me/quston u(phre/ma porfure/ousan

This highly wrought list of five jewel-names, spread over four lines, consists of two basic

constructions (li/qoj + gem name in the genitive, and gem name + epithet) each of which is

elaborated in the second pair of lines. No antitheses, but a series of short word-groups with

micro-variation in each one.

In short, gemstones showcase the earth’s spontaneous beauty. To quote Pliny, ‘here

nature’s grandeur is gathered together within the narrowest limits . . . very many people find

that a single gemstone alone is enough to provide them with a supreme and perfect vision of

91 Flowers as a stylistic figure: Roberts, 48 – 51; fine cloth: S. J. Heyworth, ‘Notes on

Propertius Books III and IV’, CQ2 36 (1986), 199 – 211 at 209 (Call. fr. 532 Pf.; Prop. 2.1.5 – 6,

4.5.57).

92 Petrain, esp. 344, 349; Roberts, 52 – 5.



156

the wonders of Nature’.93 Precious minerals had a place in traditional ethnography, but in the

Periegesis they are an emblem of a diverse, beautiful, and fundamentally benign world, as

well as a metaphor at some level for the exquisiteness of the poem.

The next category comprises natural products which are the result of human

cultivation. In traditional ethnography they are usually divided into the categories of crops,trees, and livestock.94 Dionysius, who is interested in a country’s productive capacity,95

obviously reflects them, and it beautifully illustrates his sensitivity to formal minutiae that in

921 – 2 he uses a styleme otherwise apparently attested only in Latin poetry, 96 whereby the

three categories are tersely distributed over two lines:

pa~sa de/ toi liparh& te kai\ eu1botoj e1pleto xw&rh,

mh~la& te ferbe/menai kai\ de/ndresi karpo_n a)e/cein.

In general, however, rather than registering a place’s bare capacity for the production ofstandard footstuffs or supporting livestock, Dionysius prefers to treat traditional items like

karpo/j, si=toj, mh=la, bo/ej, in some more individuated and artistic way, as if an attempt is

being made to lift them out of banality.

Numerous rhetorical set-pieces put this into effect: for Egypt, an encomium of the

Nile and its population; a Dionysian Golden Age tableau for Araby the Blest; for

Mesopotamia, a miniature bucolic idyll complete with panpipes; for India, a review of its

native industries and the fertilising properties of its famous rivers. Another device is the

negative priamel, whereby the poet registers departure from the civilised norm. The Libyan

Nomads provide the clearest example of primitivism: they do not use the plough or wagon,have no cattle, but live like wild beasts (190 – 3). The Massagetae are more frightful than

pitiful: they consume no corn or wine, but mares’ milk mixed with blood (743– 5). Like them,

the Parthians are formidable warriors: they plough no fields, nor sail in boats, nor pasture

cattle, but from birth are mounted horsemen, and obtain food by hunting (1041 – 5, 1050). The

Seres are not so much primitives as so far removed from ordinary usage as to be almost

utopian: they have no livestock, but make silk from the variegated flowers of the earth (753 –

6). Other accounts of the Seres supply what needs to be understood here to make sense of the

93 NH 37.1 in artum coacta rerum naturae maiestas . . . ut plerisque ad summamabsolutamque naturae rerum contemplationem satis sit una aliqua gemma (transl. D. E.

Eichholz, adapted).

94 Thomas 1982a, 3 – 4; the categories appear also in Tac. Germ. 5.1.

95 Egypt (229, 234 – 5, 240 – 1); Syria (921 – 2); Mesopotamia (994 – 9); Persia (1079); India

(1125 – 7).

96 Noted by Thomas 1982a, 40, citing V. Georg . 2.143 – 4, 222 – 3, both of which, like

Dionysius, are concerned with soil excellent enough to produce all these good effects, and

4.128 – 9, on poor soil which has the opposite property; other examples in 3.352 – 3, 4.559 – 60,Hor. Epist . 1.16.3; no livestock in Lucan, BC 9.433 – 4.



157

antithesis — they make a living by exchanging their goods with the outside world (Mela 3.60);

but by omitting any mention of contact with outsiders Dionysius enhances the impression of

children of nature living in an unpierced idyll.

After anaphora and epanalepsis, the priamel is one of Dionysius’ favourite stylistic

twitches, which he replays no fewer than half a dozen times.97 Based ultimately on a fairlycommon ethnographical styleme ‘no agriculture, but . . .’,98 their particular model is

Apollonius’ account of the Chalybes, and their distinctive way of life:

toi=si me\n ou1te bow~n a1rotoj me/lei ou1te tij a1llh

futalih_ karpoi=o meli/fronoj, ou)de\ me\n oi3ge

poi/mnaj e9rsh&enti nomw| ~ e1ni poimai/nousin:

a)lla_ sidhrofo&ron stufelh_n xqo&na gatome/ontej

w}non a)mei/bontai bioth&sion . . . (2.1002 – 6)

Here we have, in the context of the periplous-cum-ethnography of the south Pontic coast, a

people whose peculiarity is brought out by a triple negative (cf. 190 – 2, 994 – 6). The form is

cultivated, the content traditional. The most civilised peoples practise agriculture; primitives

are ignorant of it.99 While Herodotus had opposed agriculture to the life of pastoral nomads,

later authors develop the historical schematism and have a more sophisticated taxonomy of

lifestyles.100 Dionysius — like Apollonius before him — draws a series of antitheses with the

97 190 – 3; 709 – 15; 743 – 5; 753 – 6; 994 – 8; 1041 – 5; cf. also 575 –9 (‘not thus’).

98 Examples of not x + adversative, in Hdt. 1.216.3 (Massagetae), 4.46.3 (Scythians, but the

immediate point is invulnerability to invasion, not primitivism); Caes. BG 4.1.8 (Suebi),

5.14.2 (inhabitants of inland Britain); Tac. Germ. 46.3 (Fenni); Dio 49.36.2 (Pannonians). In

poetry: Ap. Rhod. 2.987 – 9, 996 – 7 (Fränkel, 262 –3); Virgilian examples of ‘not x but y’ are

noted by Thomas 1982a, 38; add Aen. 8.316 – 18 (early Italians).

99 Jacob 1991a, 162, Rottier, 523 (Strabo); to the examples in Mattern, 72, add Mela 3.59 obinmanitatem habitantium inculta, Plin. NH 6.53 proxima (sc. pars) inculta saevitia gentium

(both of the far east).

100 On the ancient hierarchy of lifestyles, see Shaw 1982a and 1982b, esp. 29 – 31; Lund, 57;

Mosino, 15. Historical schematisation in Dicaearchus fr. 48 Wehrli (the earliest men lived on

fruits produced spontaneously by the earth; then came hunting and pastoralism; finally

agriculture). In a synchronic analysis, Arist. Pol . 1256a30 – 1256B7 distinguishes pastoralism,

brigandage, fishing, and hunting (including fowling); he admits that some of these lifestyles

are combinable with others. In practice, pastoralism and agriculture may of course coexist,

but this was not often acknowledged in antiquity (Polybius’ Celts, 2.17.8– 11 are unusual);

elsewhere, agriculture is known but suppressed as a deliberate lifestyle choice (Caes. BG



158

civilised practice of agriculture, all of them, however, pitiful, fearful, or (like the Seres)

unattainable.

What interests him, then, is a people’s cultural level— above all, as evinced by its

alimentation.101 What matters is not how natural products can be economically exploited (as

with Strabo102), but what they indicate about the lifestyles of their possessors, advanced or backward, prosperous or wretched. The double silence about foodstuffs on both sides of the

antithesis is curious. On the one hand, he never mentions those indices of classical culture,

the olive or the vine, and rarely specifies which cereal crops are grown.103 On the other, he is

equally silent about the bizarre or downright repulsive diets that other classical ethnographers

attribute to ‘other’ peoples— raw fish, lice, locusts, and so on.104

The range of nomoi that so fascinated Herodotus — customs regarding birth, marriage,

and above all the disposal of the dead — go for nothing here; one of the very few culturally

distinctive practices that Dionysius registers is a dietary one, when he notes that the Parthians

disallow feasting until they have exerted themselves in battle (1048 – 9). Sporadic attention is paid to clothing:105 the Blessed Arabians wear soft golden robes (953); the Indians weave

linen (1116); the Erembi in contrast are gumnoi/ (965); weaponry is not exactly a category,

though four peoples are said to employ bows and arrows (740, 750 – 1, 856 – 7, 1067). But it is

worth reflecting on the general dearth of nomoi. It could partly be a matter of sources and

what they fail to supply. The Alexander historians are selective with regard to Indian

customs, disregarding the traditional Ionian categories of religion, tafai/, o3rkia, and

pi/steij;106 on the other hand, the nomos about Parthian feasting turns up in similar form in

Trogus’ Parthian ethnography. Nevertheless, Dionysius’ overall lack of interest in cultural

curiosities and diaita is a general characteristic of the poem as a whole; it emerges clearly incontrast with Mela, who has a lively interest in them. 107 One of the consequences is that it is

impossible to build up the sort of detailed picture-by-negatives of the narrator’s society—

6.22, among the Germans). Aristotle’s taxonomy is followed by Strabo, with the addition of

subsistence from trade and commerce (van der Vliet 2003, 264).

101 A feature of ancient ethnographies which can be traced back to Homer: Jacob 1991a, 25 –

30; Woolf, 32 – 3; for Herodotus, S. R. West 1999, 76.

102 Aujac 2000, 114 – 23.

103 For Strabo’s interest in the olive and vine, see van der Vliet 1984, 57; Aujac 2000, 117.

104 For the Ichthyophagi, Jacob 1991a, 137; among Herodotus’ Libyan tribes, lice (4.168.1);

dried locusts sprinkled in milk (172.1), snakes and lizards (183.4), apes (194).

105 For clothing in ethnography, see Trüdinger, 175, s.v. Kleidung ; van der Vliet 1984, 63 – 5

(Strabo).

106 Trüdinger, 76 – 80.

107 Brodersen 1994b, 7 – 9. Like Dionysius, Mela is interested in diet and clothing, but also in

topics which pass Dionysius by: the relations between the sexes, weaponry, political life,religion and ritual practices.



159

beyond the obvious facts that it is classical and prosperous — which has been a corollary of

ethnographical observation from Herodotus onwards.108 It is not that deviations from a norm

are never registered, but they are bland and reflect only the most general assumptions by

classical peoples of what constitutes civilised behaviour.

A sense of self is engrained in the work —the narrator’s acknowledgement of the political power of Rome, his implicit affiliation with Alexandria, his Graeco-Roman

sensibility and myopia about cultures other than the classical — but it is perhaps a corollary of

the low definition and lack of specificity in which his own culture is framed that there are no

‘Greeks’ versus ‘barbarians’ in the poem; the word barbaros occurs only once, of the Seres

(752), and these are a gentle, remote race, emblematised by their cobweb-fine silks.109

Nevertheless, a contrast is suggested between peoples who are agricultural (or occasionally

mercantile), and therefore advanced and civilised, or those blessed with advantageous natural

resources, and those who are warlike.110 For bellicosity is a remarkably frequent quality in

the poem.

111

It tends to adhere to peoples on the edges of the empire, such as the Caucasus, oroutside it, and to that extent corresponds to the traditional image of the aggressive, and often

mountain-dwelling, barbarian.112 Yet Persian militarism has disappeared behind Persian gold,

and on the other hand there are also warlike races within Italy, above all the Latins

themselves. Despite the frisson of fear the narrator feigns for the Massagetae (741), none of

108 Detailed comparisons with ‘our’ practices in Tacitus (Trüdinger, 166): Tac. Germ. 6.2 nec

. . . in morem nostrum, 16.1 non in nostrum morem, 25.1 non in nostrum morem, 26.4 non in

totidem (i.e. as many as among us); hinted by negatives in 8.2, 9.2 (no anthropomorphic

deities), 17.2 (women’s dress), 18.2 (dowries), 19– 20 passim (marital ethics). Some are veryculturally specific to Rome; see also Thomas 1982a, 125.

109 Still more so in Mela: 3.60 genus plenum iustitiae.

110 People tend not to be both; similarly in Strabo, bellicosity is directly connected with

paucity of natural resources (Thollard, 8 – 14). Two closely related exceptions are Dionysius’

Matieni (1004), and Strabo’s Hyrcanians, endowed with good agricultural land yet remaining

imperfectly civilised (Thollard, 20 – 1).

111 31 a0reimane/wn 0Arimaspw=n; 285 a0reimane/wn Germanw=n; 305 a0lkh/entej 0Alanoi/; 350

me/rmeron e1qnoj a0gauw=n . . . Lati/nwn; 376 Marsw=n qoa\ fu=la; 653 – 8, the Maeotae andSauromatae, descended from the Amazons, e0sqlo\n e0nuali/ou ge/noj 1Areoj . . . pai=dejmegalh/torej; 682 a0lkh/entej 0Axaioi/; 699, the Iberes a0pexqe/a dh=rin e1xontej with the

Hyrcanians; 731 0Albanoi/ . . .. a0rh/i+oi; 740 Massage/tai . . . qow=n r9uth=rej o0i+stw=n; 750 –

1 to/ca Sa/kai fore/ontej; 856 – 7 i1driej e0n pole/moisi Luka/onej a0gkulo/tocoi; 1002

a0gxe/maxoi Matihnoi/ . . .. 1Areoj eu] dedaw=tej; 1040 – 52, the Parthians; 1067 tocofo/rwn. . . Mh/dwn.

112 Dauge, 428 – 32, 623 – 5, and passim (index s.v. feritas, ferocia); Lund, 43 – 4, 46, 61, 69 –

70, and passim; Jacob 1991a, 160 – 2; Mattern, 72, 74, 75, 77 – 8, with examples from Polyb.

2.17.10 (Celts), Caes. BG 6.23.1 – 4 (Germans), Dio 49.36.3 (Pannonians); on brigandage,Batty 2007, 161 – 9, 278 – 83, 480 – 506.



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them poses a real threat, with the possible exception of the Parthians — so it is precisely here

we are reassured that the Romans put them down. In general, the application of traditional

epithets to warlike peoples casts a Homeric patina over them, generalising and indistinct, not

inaccurate but somewhat blurred; even peoples known to geographers as vagabonds or

bandits may be glamorised by the application of a Homeric epithet.

113

In Virgil, it may bethat the warlike qualities of the gentes of Italy implies a post-lapsarian state,114 but the move

of the Periegesis is rather to Homerise, or epicise, their bellicosity away into literary topos

and harmlessness, as opposed to nuisance or menace.

Prosperity — the property of those who are not bellicose — is distributed across the

world, but whereas people on all three continents are a0fneioi/ (258, 356, 564, 734, 955), only

easterners apparently possess o1lboj.115 Yet there is no suggestion of the corrupting power of

wealth.116 Perhaps this is because o1lboj is usually a matter of natural wealth, which reflects

rather on the beneficence of the earth than on the corruption of the uses to which it is put.117

So firmly is natural wealth associated with Asia that instead of hearing, for example, aboutthe desolation of the Fish-Eaters of the Gedrosian coastline, we learn of two beautiful natural

products that alleviate the hardships of the Arieni (1102). The exception are the Persians,

who got theirs from sacking Sardis (1057, 1062) — and even there it is hard to pick up a whiff

of disapproval. Rarely is wealth transferable: only among the merchants who risk their lives

in the pursuit of gain in India (712), and among the Arieni, who sell their minerals to make a

living.

Peoples and their environment

In general, peoples and products adorn that part of the oi0koume/nh where they happen to be.

Movement is envisaged, though only haphazardly. The Phoenicians invented navigation

(908), and one of the peculiarities of the Parthians is that they do not travel in ships (1043).

The narrator himself does not travel in ships like a merchant — but some people do (709 – 12),

and the addressee moves across the seas in a boat, in one instance a o9lka/j, literally a

113 281 – 2, 305, 350, 375 – 6, 658, 680 – 9, 731a, 857 nn. Not all the epithets are Homeric

(a0reimanh/j originates with Simylus; a0lkh/eij is also post-Homeric), but tocofo/roj,

a0gxe/maxoj,a0rh/i+oj

,megalh/twr

are.

114 Thomas 1982a, 45 – 9.

115 For o1lboj, see Counillon 1983, 276 – 7.

116 For corrupting Asiatic riches, Dauge, 155, 417, 634 – 7, 648, 704 – 5; Dionysius’ lack of

interest in this idea is shared with Strabo (Thollard, 24 – 5). He also lacks the image of the

tribes unspoilt by lucre (contrast e.g. Mela 2.10 Satarchae auri argentique, maximarum

pestium, ignari).

117 229, the fertile Nile, cf. 247; 921 – 2, good agricultural land in Syria, cf. 902; 927, 934, 949

Arabian spices; 1102, the minerals of the Arieni; 1123, the diversity of natural o1lboj produced by India, cf. 1135.



161

merchant ship (155 n.). This being a periplous, there are five mentions of harbours (75, 195,

480, 516, 617); but instead of registering any of the practical functions which harbours serve

and for which they are noted in other periploi (their capacity, the presence of sources of fresh

water, their significance for trade118), Dionysius treats them as markers of civilisation (617),

or as decorative ways of referring to position (516), or as partakers in his universe ofdelightsomeness (195 poluh/raton, 617 e0ph/raton), but never as stopovers for sea-traffic or

places of trade and exchange.119 The diversity of the world, and the poikilia of the poem, is

mainly the result of people staying in their ecological niches — colourful tesserae in a large

and basically static whole.

A connection between lifestyle and environment is assumed by the whole classical

system of beliefs about civilisation and its opposites — nomadism, primitivism, barbarism —

which underpins the poem.120 Of the poem’s three sets of nomads, the Erembi live in their

scorching caves up in the rocks, and the Scythians are driven to migrate by the cold — though

we hear nothing about the climate of the equally wretched and backward nomads of Libya.The high cultural level of the Egyptians (blessed, numerous, city-dwelling) is also implicitly,

but directly, related to the resources of their country, in the sequence in which the items are

presented: the Nile flood prompted other eu9rh/mata through the practical need to measure the

progression of the seasons (233 – 7). Yet even the tableau of Scythian cold fails really to

connect lifestyle with climate (as opposed to the need to flee it). Contrast the details about the

practical consequences of the extreme cold given by Diodorus (3.34.2): in Dionysius the

Scythians just trundle their wagons away, and that is an end of it. Some peoples survive

despite rather than because of, or by adapting to, their environment: the Arieni have

compensatory resources which allow them to eke out a living in an awful terrain (1097 –

1106). The Persians’ lifestyle is the result of a territorial conquest in the distant past (1057 – 8)

rather than the direct result of their environment.

118 The Odyssey already notes harbours (Elliger, 108 – 10); in prose, from Hecataeus ( FGrH 1

F 106, 343; Jacoby, RE s.v. Hekataios, 2694.2); for Timosthenes’ Peri\ Lime/nwn, Meyer

1998a; in general, Mosino, 20 – 1. The author of the Periplus Maris Erythraei is particularly

interested in the role of harbours in trade networks (Pédech, 176 – 7; Casson, 271 – 7); the

authors of the Periplus Maris Magni and the Periplus Ponti Euxini frequently note their

quality, their capacity for shipping, and the presence of water-supplies. Descriptions of

harbours in early Greek hexameter poetry and later imitations often mention safe shelter and

water-supply (Kienzle, 60 – 1).

119 It is also instructive to consider how a harbour is treated in rhetorical encomia. Ps.-

Libanius, Progymn. 12.8 = viii. 483 – 5 Förster describes a harbour as a place of busy

transition and exchange between sea and land. Dio Chrys. Or . 32.36 (cf. 37) praises the

beauty of Alexandria’s harbours in the context of commerce and prosperity.

120 For the influence of environment, Lund, 35 – 55; Shaw 1982a (on the connection between

primitivism and harshness of climate); Thomas 1982a, 11 – 12 (on temperies); Dauge, 468 – 71

(on zone theory). For Strabo, in whom the effect of climate on character is not whollydeterministic, see Thollard, 12 – 19; van der Vliet 1984, 59, 60, 61 – 2, 71, and passim.



162

When Dionysius refers to human populations he does so usually using ethnic

adjectives, but if he refers to types of settlement it is in terms of either cities121 or tribes

(fu=la, e1qnea122). There are no kw=mai. Cities and tribes are not quite mutually exclusive, but

there is a strong tendency for cities to be within the Roman empire and tribes without; the

distinction between centre and periphery is particularly clear at the Danube, which dividesthe tribes of northern Europe (302) from the a0ste’ e0remna/ (v.l. e0rumna/) of the south (321).

Tribes and cities coexist in Italy; Asia Minor in the main is a land of cities, but Asians

generally, and the inhabitants of Pontus and Cilicia in particular, can also be referred to in

tribal terms. There are also tribes of Iberes and in north Africa. Conversely, cities are a

feature of Mediterranean lands, with only a few exceptions (Babylon, Syene, Thebes). The

only city outside the Roman empire itself is Babylon; even where other populations were

known to live in cities, Dionysius eschews the name.123

Rome is the mother of all cities, and in his Roman Oration Aristides draws out and

makes explicit what Dionysius’ pregnant phrase implies: it is Rome’s sovereignty thatsupports the unprecedented urban prosperity throughout her empire.124 Yet under Rome’s

121 On cities in the Periegesis: Jacob 1990, 53 – 4; Oudot, esp. 250. In other encomiastic

treatments of place, the sheer number of cities within a given territory is an index of

developed culture and prosperity (Theocr. Id . 17.81 – 5 (Egypt), V. Georg . 2.155 – 6 (Italy);

Manil. 4.686 – 9 (Europe); for Ammianus, see Sundwall, 628); this idea is not absent from the

Periegesis, but less explicit.

122 fu=la: 2 (general syllabus); in Asia: 138, 700 (Camaritae), 726 (round Caspian), 765

(Becheiri), 798 (Scythian tribes), 934 and 960 (Arabian tribes), 1142 (Peucaleis), 1161(Indian tribes); in Libya: 186 (Nomads); in Europe: 285 (Germans), 302 (n. of Danube), 308

(Agaui), 345 (Italy), 347 (Pelasgi), 376 (Marsi), 379 (Iapyges). e1qnea: in Libya: 185

(Maurusii); in Europe: 282, 485 (Iberes); 350 (Latins); 383 (Italy); in Asia: 650, 653

(Sauromatae), 697 (eastern Iberes), 752 (Seres), 763 (Pontus), 864 (Cilicians), 1020 (Medes),

1056 (Persians), 1094 (separated by Indus), 1129 (India).

123 In 954 – 9, the south Arabian tribes correspond to those mentioned by Eratosthenes ap.

Strab. 16.4.2 (III B, 48 Berger), but each is given a po/lij, mhtro/polij, or basi/leion by

Eratosthenes; Strab. 16.4.3 goes even further, and informs us that they are eu0dai/monej,

kateskeuasme/nai kalw=j i9eroi=j te kai\ basilei/oij. Likewise, Taxila and Peukelaotis inIndia are not treated as cities, but as quasi-tribes (1141 Toci/loi a1ndrej, 1143 Peukale/wn);

the five thousand cities between the Hypanis and Hydapes (Strab. 15.1.3, 15.1.33, Plin. NH

6.59) have vanished without trace. Even within the empire, the three cities of the Amazons,

mentioned in Ap. Rhod. 2.373 – 4, are silently dropped at 773: very likely the Amazons were

not urbane enough for urban living.

124 Or . 26.92 – 9 passim. For example: ‘(93) When were there so many cities on land or

throughout the sea, or when have they been so thoroughly adorned? . . . One would say that

those men had been kings, as it were, of deserts and garrisons, but that you alone are rulers of

cities. (94) Now all of the Greek cities flourish under you, and the offerings in them, the arts,

and all their adornments bring honor to you, as an adornment in a suburb. The seacoasts and



163

tutelage cities are above all carriers of Greek civilisation. In Italy, for example, with the

exception of Rome, Trieste, and Aquilea, one city (Naples) is in Campania, another (Hyria)

in Apulia, and the others are all in Magna Graecia: Italy is predominantly a country of Italian

peoples, but Greek cities. Much the same applies to Africa, which is mostly described in

tribal terms save for three cities, one (Cyrene) a Spartan foundation, another (Carthage)Phoenician, and a third (Neapolis = Lepcis Magna) in origin also Phoenician, but coloured by

Greek mythology (195 – 7, 204 – 5, 213). The populousness of urban Egypt (247 – 64),

presented in overwhelmingly Greek terms,125 contrasts with the wastes of Scythia (675 – 7).

All this notwithstanding the fact that Greece itself has few cities to its name, and none of the

most glamorous:126 this is a facet of Dionysius’ treatment of Greece, not of his attitude to

Greek culture.

Cities are located especially in relation to water (beside a river, on the sea-shore).127

Like other landscape-features, they can function as markers, especially of the limits of bodies

of water (29, [118], 379 – 82) and countries (260 – 4). Used metonymically, a city evokes alarger territory (in 505, Ialysos for Rhodes); used ‘distributively’, they convey an impression

of the larger area through which they are dispersed (854 – 5, Pamphylia; 858 – 60, Pisidia; 874 –

5, Cilicia). On the other hand, 910 – 18 is neither metonymic nor ‘distributive’, but a semi-

systematic catalogue of the cities of Syro-Phoenicia in approximately reverse order.

The range of epithets combines tradition with Dionysius’ own sensibility. Cities are

well fortified with gates and walls (249, 369, 1005 – 6, cf. 321 v.l. e0rumna/),128 but also

beautiful (337, 369, cf. 195), sacred (88, 1005), wealthy (258, 914), famous (248, 816, 860),

and steeped in antiquity (249, 911). Along with rivers, they are focuses for mythology and for

the divine. Foundation-myths (13, 261, 775 – 9, 868 – 71) and temples (257, 371, 828, 1007 –

the interiors have been filled with cities, some founded, others increased under you and by

you... (98) Never does the flow of gifts from you to these cities stop, nor can it be discovered

who has received the greater share, because your generosity is equal toward all. (99) Indeed,

the cities shine with radiance and grace, and the whole earth has been adorned like a pleasure

garden’ (transl. Behr).

125

Thebes and Memnon; Alexandria and Zeus of Sinope; the skopiai/ of Pallenian Eidothea;Peleus and Pelusium.

126 427 Makhdoni/hj te po/lhej; 436 Kefallh/nwn ptoli/eqra; contrast 423 0Attiko\nou]daj (not Athens).

127 On or beside rivers: 354, 369 – 70, 413, 818 – 19, 852, 868 – 9, 912 – 13, 919 – 20, 978 – 80, cf.

V. Georg . 2.157 fluminaque antiquos subter labentia muros. In relation to the sea (a

traditional motif: Kienzle, 20 – 2): 827, 851 – 2, 912, 915. Both locations — especially rivers —

in Strabo: Rottier, 520 – 2.

128

Kienzle, 30 – 1; for the Catalogue of Ships, see Brügger et al., 150, and lexical notes byVisser, 128 – 9 (ai0peino/j), 131 – 2 (teixio/eij); for Strabo, Rottier, 527 – 8.



164

8) — the only kind of building other than city-walls mentioned in the poem129 — are at home,

or implanted, there.130 On the other hand, the name of a city is occasionally effaced by

mythology: Naples by the Siren Parthenope (358 – 9), who had given her name to the original

city, and Heraclea (788 – 9) by the story of Cerberus.

The divine

It is, as we have seen, rivers and cities that anchor gods in the landscape, rather than

mountains, for all their qualities of sublimity, remoteness, and grandeur. The temple of

Lacinian Hera in south Italy is near the river Aisaros (370 – 1); the Cephisus gives very

approximate anchorage to Delphi (439 – 44). River country is the home of the pious (1143 – 5);

holy places of Dionysus lie beside the Cayster (840) and Ganges (1152 – 3). A god’s spring-

time visitation is the occasion of two loci amoeni (527 – 9, 830 – 6); Dionysus’ bir th confers

utopian qualities on Arabia.

The treatment of the divine is eclectic. Gods are shaped to fit the needs of the poem,

and it is far from clear that there is a single consistent theology that underpins it. They are

treated to Dionysius’ habitual art of combination; the dancing women of Maeonia appear to

be a composite of various kinds of Dionysiac cult, just as the dances on Delos are a mosaic of

Apolline festivals. The detail is less informative than confusing, but above all picturesque. At

the same time, the reader is encouraged to explor e the poem’s formal patterning, which

extends to the treatment of the divine. This is a positive result, even if the gains are more for

the structure of the poem131 and appreciation of its aesthetics than for any profound moral

purport or even insight into sources. Mela does not use the gods in this way. He treats them

as a haphazard array of miscellaneous factoids.

Dionysus is the most prominent god132 — possibly a self-referential pun?133 — and

patterns and parallels with other deities enhance his characterisation. To begin with, there is

129 For buildings mentioned by Strabo, see Rottier, 528, 532 – 3 (the royal palaces at Susa and

Babylon).

130 371 elides the cape on which the temple of Hera Lacinia was situated with the nearby city

of Croton. At 851 – 3, where Artemis Kastnietis in the poetic model referred to a local

mountain (Steph. Byz. p. 366.17 Mein.), Dionysius has substituted the names of the adjacentcity and river.

131 Counillon 2001b, 105 – 9.

132 Bernhardy, 507 – 10; Jacob 1981, 55; id. 1990, 66 – 71; Greaves, 24 – 6; Counillon 1983, 16,

277 – 9, 283, 316, and 2001b; Leo, 149; Coccaro Andreou, 131 – 2; Ilyushechkina 2010, 175 – 8;

ead. 2011, 173 – 7. Dionysius anticipates this god’s popularity in poetry of the 3rd c. and later,

and the universality on which it was based: M. Hose, Poesie aus der Schule: Überlegungen

zur spätgriechischen Dichtung (Munich, 2004), 13, 15.

133

Bowie 2004a, 185. For self-allusion in Aratus and Apollonius, see Vox, 157, with bibliography; in their cases the name appears (or is suggested) at the beginning of the poem.



165

an obvious geographical partnership with Heracles.134 The Pillars set up by the pair of them

book-end the world, and the poem (Heracles: 64, 72, 185, 282, 336, 450; Dionysus: 623,

1164).135 The Alexander historians elaborated the myth of Dionysus’ Indian triumph, but

what interests Dionysius is not the military victory, nor even the god’s civilising activities,

but the travels themselves, especially the establishment of these terminal pillars (623 – 6 n.).

136

The previous tradition about them is not entirely clear. Some writers speak of pillars, others

of altars, explicitly or implicitly at the limit of the god’s expedition; they have an obvious eye

to Alexander’s altars on the Hyphasis. Dionysius, in fashioning them as a terminal marker,

has endowed them with a new precision and specificity so as to mark the world’s eastern

limit as quite conclusively closed: the mountains end, the ocean begins, the pillars mark the

edge of the earth. If the western first half of the poem returns, recursively, to the Pillars of

Heracles (pp. 19-20), the Pillars of Dionysus both frame the Asian second half and conclude

the whole.

A more suggestive pairing is that of Dionysus and Apollo. Apollo stars in Delos andDelphi, but the poem also glances at his presence in Asia Minor (446, Miletus and Claros;

817, Troy); he and Artemis are also the gods of the oracular grove at Daphne, just outside

Antioch (916). Dionysus, on the other hand, dominates Asia, from the Lydian shore to the

Pillars on the borders of the eastern ocean. His Indian campaign predominates, but is

balanced by the Bacchants of the Loire (570 – 4), as well as by the god’s presence in Thrace

(575 – 6), Lydia, and the Caucasus (700 – 5). Since Apollo is present in the eastern

Mediterranean, and since Dionysius treats the Cyclades as if on the Asiatic side of the

Aegean, it cannot be said that Apollo reserved for Europe and the west,137 but a contrast

remains between his confinement to areas of classical culture and the ubiquity of Dionysus.

Parallels are also discernible. The circuit of Greece and the itinerary of Asia end each with a

god triumphing over his enemies. Both gods have choirs (Delos, 527; the Caucasus, 700 – 5)

and a spring scene (528, 833) with a certain cross-over, for the Pactolus and its swans have

strong Apolline associations in Dionysius’ poetic models, even if he himself does not bring

them to the surface (Ilyushechkina 2010, 181).

134 For Heracles in India, a tradition Dionysius has perforce ignored, see Arr. Ind . 5.8 – 13,

8.4 – 9.4, 9.10, and P. A. Brunt, Arrian with an English Translation, ii (Cambridge, MA,

1983), 435 – 42; An. 4.28.1 – 2 and Bosworth ad loc. (pp. 180 – 1); K. Karttunen, India in EarlyGreek Literature, i (Helsinki, 1989), 210 – 13.

135 Heracles’ presence throughout the poem is too scattergun (788– 92, 806 – 8; Geryon in 558)

to develop a contrast between the endurer and Dionysus the pleasure-giver (Jacob 1990, 70),

especially given the reference to Hylas.

136 On the connection of Dionysus and India, and the antiquity of the tradition, see Kern, RE

s.v. Dionysos, 1039.34 – 1041.13; Brunt (n. 134); Dihle, and id. RAC s.v. Indien, 8 – 9; Jacob

1990, 68; Bosworth on Arr. An. 5.1.1; Karttunen (n. 134), 210 – 19; P. Schneider, 117 – 22; F.

Vian, Nonnos, v (Chants XI – XIII), 111.

137 Qualifying Lightfoot 2008, 24 (which ignored Miletus, Claros, and Daphne).



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Rather than a tidy antithesis of Apollo and Dionysus as representatives of order and

disorder, there is a tendency for Dionysiac cult itself to be more disorderly towards the outer

margins. The Loire women are noisy, and their devotions take place at night (a detail not

mentioned by Strabo), and in his final appearance Dionysus angrily asserts himself against

his enemies. Contrast this with the locus amoenus in Lydia, where the female celebrantsdance — unfrenzied and expressly not wearing Bacchic costume, as they do in both the far

west and the far east — in language drawn from Apollonian and Callimachean references to

nymphs. Even so, the noisy celebrants on the Loire have been toned down vis-à-vis Strabo’s

more violent account, and detail of the Indian war is kept to a minimum; the Indian incursion

is not presented as a military expedition, and ends in communal celebration. Dionysus is

stripped of the most riotous excess;138 the section on the Camaritae in the Caucasus

overwrites and obliterates a semi-civilised band of pirates whom other geographers report in

the area, with the result that Dionysus is actually a force for order in comparison with what

might have stood in his stead. In sum, Apollo and Dionysus, the one in a relatively confined

area in the centre, the other from far east to west, form a suggestive partnership and only

partial opposition.

The gods’ presence in the world is felt through their devotees—in Dionysus’ case,

through little-known or otherwise totally obscure communities (Loire; the Camaritae; the

Gargaridae), but especially in the Lydian section, where other sources for similar Bacchic

festivals speak of the closeness of the god’s presence and Himerius, Or . 46.6, speaks

expressly of e0pidhmi/a in Lydia. Yet for all the divine toing and froing, for all the stories

about divine activity in the past (pote/), for all the ongoing rituals (in Delos, Gaul, or Lydia),

for all the settlements or devotees which attest to divine favour (the Camaritae, Arabians, and

Gargaridae), there is only one truly epiphanic moment in the poem, and that moment is

Apollo’s, at Delphi. Only here does the god ‘often’ appear— so that the circuit of Greece ends

in a moment of glory, compensating for the mutedness of the treatment of Greece’s cultural

riches hitherto. (The simile on which this is based, Ap. Rhod. 1.307 – 9, also depicts Apollo’s

habitual activity.)

The Aegean islands are treated as a list, which gods embellish. Hephaestus on

Lemnos (522), Demeter on Thasos (523), the Corybants on Samothrace (524), Apollo on

Delos (527), Hera on Samos (534): all except the last fall within a major acrostich, itself

mentioning Hermes. Gods, like heroes (Diomedes, the Colchians, Alcinous, and Achilles),

are useful identifiers, but the particular effect is to create a petit point of godliness in a small

area, unique in the poem. This emerges more clearly by contrast with Strabo’s and Mela’s

138 Jacob 1990, 69; Counillon 1983, 229, 2001b, 107 – 8. In a darker reading, Jacob 1990, 68

(cf. Counillon 1983, 278 – 9; 2001b, 109) suggests that the action of the Bacchae looms over

the poem; insofar as the poem has a sense of time, the eastern journeys have ‘happened’ and

we await the god’s the entry to Greece. Against this is the avowed transformation of Cadmusand Harmonia into snakes after a happy old age (391 – 3).



167

bare lists;139 conversely, the reservation of Greece for Apollo at the expense of, say, Athena

in Athens, Hera in Argos, Dionysus in Thebes, or Zeus in Olympia, is thrown into relief by

Mela’s Greece (2.39 – 54), which mentions Delphic Apollo, Demeter in Eleusis, Hera in

Argos, Zeus in Elis and Dodona; Poseidon at the Isthmus and in Tainaron, and Hermes on

Cyllene. In contrast to the local gods of the islands and western Asia Minor (827, 853, cf.817), Dionysus’ ubiquity is matched only by the actual or implicit presence of Ares (97, 654,

774, 1004), reflecting Dionysius’ interest in bellicose tribes without heightening any of them

to the point where they become an outright menace.

Zeus, too, figures throughout. References to the Alpheios (373 – 4, 410) and Dodona

(430) evoke his most celebrated cult-places in old Greece, but his most high-profile local

manifestation is at Alexandria, which the patriotic poet advertises as holier than all other

temples. Where Strabo had referred to the Sara/pion, Dionysius’ Homeric noun-epithet

combination (255) classicises away any Egyptian associations. This privileged link is the

more striking in the absence of reference to Capitoline Jupiter, or any other gods, at Rome.However, it is no less clear that Roman power is aligned with that of the supreme deity;

whatever the Nasamones’ precise fault when they were punished by the Romans for

disregarding him (210), Zeus and Roman might have been aligned in such a way that a

political offence now becomes a graver, theological one.140

The poem implies a theology of reward and punishment, with a moralised view of the

afterlife (547 – 8).141 Sometimes Zeus is expressly the agent (372 – 3, 547), but there are also a

couple of references to an anonymous dai/mwn (604 – 5, 968 – 9) and one to qeoi/ (1169); these

follow the traditional pattern whereby gods are held responsible for providential dispensation,

whereas dai/monej are credited with upsets and with the dispensation of bad as well as goodfortune.142 All are in connection with a series of improving little sentiments whose

didacticism is offset by an overall tendency to fragmentation and a decorativeness that serves

the needs of the moment. Gods are woven into the weft of the poem in a discernible pattern

for sections to end with an image of divine activity or reflection on their governance of the

world. The punishment of Sybaris (372 – 4) is close to the end of the circuit of Italy (383). The

139 Strab. 2.5.21; Mela 2.106 ~ 522 – 4 (Thasos, Samothrace, Lemnos et al. in an

unembellished list), 2.111 ~ 525 – 7 (Cyclades), 2.101 ~ 534 (Samos). Mela does mention

cults in 2.102 (~ 508 – 9, Cyprus) and 113 (~ 501, Crete).

140 Jacob 1990, 64 – 5, 71 – 2; cf. 1991, 46 – 7, 48. For Zeus in the Periegesis, see also Leo, 149;

Counillon 1983, 15 – 16, 153, 173, 316, 318, and 2001b, 110.

141 Jacob 1990, 72.

142 Janko on Il. 15.461 – 70; Cairns on Bacchyl. 3.37 (pp. 205 – 6), citing inter al . Od . 5.396 – 7.

This use of dai/mwn goes back to Homer, when a character is unable or unwilling to name a

specific deity ( Il . 7.291 ~ 377, 396, 9.600, 15.468, 21.93), but also occurs occasionally in

narrative ( Il. 11.480, 15.418); see Hainsworth on Il . 9.600, 11.480; de Jong on Od . 5.421.

There is therefore no need to see ‘une tendance monothéiste qui témoigne sans doute de

l’évolution des croyances à l’époque de Denys’ (Jacob 1990, 67), nor the Stoicising influenceof Posidonius (Counillon 2001b, 111).



168

section on Illyria (384 – 97) ends with the te/raj of clashing rocks which the gods have set up

there (394 – 7). The best example is Apollo’s appearance at Delphi at the end of the circuit of

Greece (398 – 446), and of mainland Europe as a whole (270 – 446).

Looking closer, one discerns patterns of meaning as well as mere formal decoration.

The impressive opening figure of the ocean with the polyonymous quality of the supreme god(28) has by the end given way to an argument for Providence. The section on islands, just

before the halfway point, falls into two halves which contain two paired and contrasting

tableaux. The Mediterranean islands (450 – 554) almost end with the ghosts of the heroes on

Leuce (541 – 8), and the islands of the ocean (555 – 612) almost with the sea-monsters of

Taprobane (600 – 5). These figure respectively as images of divinely sponsored reward for

virtue and punishment for sinners; in general, the closer to home we are, the more impressive

the images of divine proximity and favourable disposition. Thereafter, the divine is co-opted

into the poet’s artistic striving for poikili/a, when, after the contrasted tableaux of Blessed

Arabians and Erembi, we are informed that ‘the god did not bestow an equal share inhappiness upon all men’ (968– 9). But this idea is not developed until the coda, where a fairly

extensive adaptation of Aratus’ proem introduces the notion that the gods in general (1169),

or Zeus in particular (1179), superintend the kind of beneficent and providential cosmic

system with which we are familiar from the Phaenomena.143 They have not set up a system

which is helpfully interpretable, but rather one in which each star seems to have control of a

defined portion of the earth, and the resulting variety itself (1175, 1180) is what we are to

understand as beneficial. The wish to strike up an Aratean chord is evident; the attempt to

persuade us that variety itself is the result of divine providence is not particularly

revelatory — but an appropriate final stance for the poet.

In conclusion, it is only appropriate to stress the gap that separates Dionysius’

treatment of the divine from that of many other ethnographers. Orderly or systematic

treatment144 is out of the question, but one might have expected religion to turn up as one of

the flexible, but identifiable, categories in his ethographies, as it does from time to time in

Mela,145 or that gods and different species of worship might at least have been good for

diversion and embellishment. In fact it is not so. Dionysius is flatly uninterested in the

peculiarities of foreign gods and their worship which engrossed Herodotus. This is

particularly clear from their treatments of Persia, where Herodotus (1.131 – 2) registers many

interests to which Dionysius is simply oblivious (the conceptual difference from Greek

understanding of deity; gods as natural forces; cults connected to mountains; cultural

diffusion of deities; equivalences of name; sacrificial peculiarities . . .) and Dionysius no gods

at all. Some silences are hardly surprising. The total effacement of Indian religion in favour

of the topos of Dionysus as conqueror of India comes as no surprise, given that the Alexander

historians did just the same thing. Neither does the total silence on Parthian religion, where

143 Jacob 1990, 71, also emphasises its determinism, rightly.

144 Contrast Tacitus’ Germania, with a defined section on gods (9) and divination (10).

145

Egyptian animal-worship (1.58), Scythian worship of Ares (2.15), Celtic human sacrificeand Druidical teaching about the gods and afterlife (3.18 – 19).



169

classical literary topoi about the Parthians are overwhelmingly military (Justin 41.3.6 is one

of the very few classical observations on Parthian religion), nor its absence from the lifestyle

notices on the Libyan nomads, Scythians, Massagetae, or Erembi, which reproduce the

essence of other classical notices about these peoples. But the Greek Dionysus again drowns

out any gesture towards cultural distinctiveness for Araby the Blest, where Herodotus had atleast registered Orotalt, Alilat, and the peculiarities of Arabian oath-taking. The few foreign

deities are mentioned under Greek or culturally familiar aspects, and by means of literary

topoi. Heracles is so emphatically the son of Zeus in Cádiz (454) as to erase (or perhaps

advertise?) the possibility that, as the Phoenician Melqart, he could be regarded in a

significantly different way.146 In Herodotus’ footsteps, we visit the Babylonian temple of

Belos (1007 – 8); any sense of Mesopotamian particularity beyond that is swept aside in

favour of a bucolic idyll with a cameo appearance for Pan (995). About Belos and ‘Sinopitan

Zeus’ (255; not an official form of nomenclature) we learn only about the costly adornment

of their temples. The acrostich reference to Hermes (Thoth?) in 517 – 21 is inscrutable.

Tauropolos (610 – 11) on the island of Icaros comes from Eratosthenes/Strabo; its ‘unpleasant

smoke’ is the only even faintly untoward fact about a foreign cult that Dionysius registers.

Mythology147

In his approach to myth, Dionysius has not followed those didactic poems which have a

single substantial mythical narrative.148 He parts company with Aratus, and even with

Nicander, who has a very modest number of myths, which stand out when they do occur.

Instead, he has threaded mythological references throughout his poem, the longest counting

almost as extremely short epyllia (775 – 9, 1021 – 8), with many others even more glancing.This treatment arises out of the subject-matter itself, a landscape rife with myth and legend; it

is like that of Mela, who refers to myths in their appropriate geographical contexts and in

doing so adds variety and colour to what might otherwise have been a dry summary. Aratus,

too, has passing mythological allusions throughout; the heavens are similarly replete with

legend. But, unlike landscape features, constellations ipso facto have latent myth; they are not

natural but man-made in that their figuration depends on mythological stories. Proper names

alone (Andromeda, Perseus, Orion, and so on) evoke the mythological register; visual details

clarify the figure the patterned stars are supposed to resemble; an epithet brings a story into

sharper focus.

149

Landscape myths are thick on the ground — but not immanent in it.So it is a deliberate choice what to evoke and what not to evoke. The vast majority of

Dionysius’ myths are geographical in character . He is not simply mentioning famous myths

146 For Mela’s Hercules, see Batty, 87, for whom shades of Melqart are indeed present.

147 Jacob 1981, 53 – 5; 1990, 44 – 51; Greaves, 94 – 8.

148 Arat. 96 – 136; Nic. Ther . 343 – 58; Manil. 5.538 – 618; V. Georg . 4.315 – 558.

149 348 0Ihsoni\j . . . 0Argw/; 360 0Hridanoi=o poluklau/tou; 654 deilh\ Kassie/peia.



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in the places to which they adhere, as does Mela.150 He makes a deliberate selection of myths

that involve travelling. The poem is full of famous travellers, whether gods (even Apollo, a

more static figure in the poem than Dionysus, is imagined approaching Delphi from two

alternative places in Asia Minor, 446), heroes (Heracles; Odysseus; Menelaus, with his

steersman Canobus, 13; Diomedes, 483 – 6), and heroines (Io, 140, cf. 775 – 9 n.; Sinope;Medea, 1021 – 8, cf. 1026 plazome/nh kata\ fw=taj). Exiles are a significant category:

Cadmus and Harmonia, translated from Thebes to Illyria (392 – 3); Bellerophon, wanderer in

the Aleian Plain (870 – 3); Peleus, who apparently founded Pelusium when in exile (261).

Colonial foundations and migrations are of obvious interest.151 The Arimaspi are not

wanderers themselves, but come from a poetic account of a journey (31). All this emerges

quite clearly if one considers how many myths in the poem involve travelling only

tangentially, or not at all: such a list might include the Trojan War (815 – 19) and how

Poseidon severed Sicily from the Italian mainland with his trident (476). The poem is

naturally full of aetiological myths, but this one is unusual because it takes us deeper into the

past, when the world had not yet taken on its present form; although it does not involve

travel, Dionysius has nevertheless managed to invest it with a little topographical detail, the

Boeotian origin of the iron. As for the rape of Oreithyia (425), Dionysius leaves it to his

cultivated readers to conjure the model (Ap. Rhod. 1.213 – 18) which supplies the

peregrinations about which he himself is silent.

Despite the foregrounding of the travel theme, the poem contains various kinds of

myth, inhabiting different levels of reality, from Homeric myths of remote peoples which the

narrator will not vouch for in his own voice, to stories that to an ancient sensibility counted as

history. Yet all the stories have to be plotted onto the same map, and they extend all over the

known world.

‘Beyond this place there be dragons’: Dionysius avoids all this. There are no one-eyed

wonders or dog-faced men in the Periegesis. Yet just a little of the charisma of the edges of

the earth clings to the margins of his map: Geryon’s Erytheia (558) and the Hesperides (563)

find room — very probably identified with real places, but with the mythological labels

nonetheless. The presence of otherworldly peoples tends to be insinuated, rather than

delineated. The Cimmerii are only evoked (33 –5); the ‘sons of the Arimaspi’ are there (31),

but the Hyperboreans, their inevitable adjunct, are not. The Ethiopians of the far west are

dealt with differently: although they have something of the blessedness of marginal peoples,

they are colonists, and have no otherworldly, utopian quality (558 – 61). Such ‘historical’

150 This is not to say that Mela’s myths are assembled uncritically, but that— although myths

of travelling, nostoi, colonisation necessarily figure prominently in the Chorographia — there

is no sign that he has systematically selected in favour of myths of travel. For a digest of

myths mentioned by Mela, see Brodersen 1994b, 10 – 12.

151 In south Italy: 347 – 8, 365 – 7, 376 – 7. Around the eastern Black Sea coast and the

Caucasus: 553, 682 – 5, 687, 688, 689 (cf. 489 – 90, the Colchians’ later settlement), 697– 8. In

Libya: 13, 213 (Spartan colonies), 196 – 7, 453 – 6 (Phoenician colonies), 560 – 1. Phoenicia:905 – 6. But Diomedes’ Spanish colonies are not mentioned in 485.



171

traditions of colonisation and foundation, with precise, definite locations in place and time,

are abundant. In between the mythology of real place and that of the peripheries are those

myths presumed to be fixable in real space, though that localisation is only a product of

secondary speculation. This is exemplified by the wanderings of Odysseus, the Argonauts,

Heracles, and so on, fixed, for the most part, in their traditional locations, though brought tothe surface, or not, with various degrees of explicitness. Odysseus is mentioned by name only

once (207),152 Jason and the Argonauts collectively not at all, although their associations

pervade the landscape.153

Different historical and geographical writers have different thresholds of tolerance of

myth (and are not always consistent); even those with a reputation for hard-headedness or

agnosticism may allow the occasional mythographical aside.154 Eratosthenes threw out poetic

geography altogether, specifically including several of the myths of which Dionysius is

fondest (Heracles, Dionysus, and wanderings of Odysseus), and Apollodorus took a similar

line.

155

Strabo, who lays down the principle that the admission of mythical elements intogeographical writing serves two conceivable purposes — didactic and diversion156 — at the

same time operates a filter which allows some myths through as more ‘historical’ than

others.157 What Strabo goes on to identify as the appeal of myths, even for men of affairs —

charm and the fame of the places with which those myths are associated 158 — are doubtless

prime considerations in Dionysius’ mythography. But it is also important to consider whether

he has his own threshold of tolerance; whether some myths for him are more mythical than

others.

152 Though Ithaca (495) must evoke him. The reference to Aeolus (461 – 4) is laced withHomeric echoes, although Aeolus figures in Apollonius’ Argonautica as well, as do the

Sirens (357 – 60, but in a post-Homeric legend) and Alcinoos (494). Implicit allusion to the

Odyssey also in 33 – 5, the Cimmerians, and 589 – 90, the rising-place of the sun.

153 144 – 5, 488 – 90, 806 – 8; if 399 0Wriki/h echoes Call. fr. 12.5 H. (17 M.), the context there,

too, is Argonautic. By the time echoes of Apollonius’ travelogue and myths (e.g. 291– 3) are

added, the Argonautic roster becomes endless.

154 e.g. Thuc. 4.24.5, with Hornblower ad loc. (a le/getai rider is attached).

155

Eratosthenes, I A, 11 Berger = Strab. 1.2.7 (contra Odysseus’ wanderings) and I B, 23Berger = Strab. 15.1.7 (contra the tales about Heracles and Dionysus); Apollodorus, FGrH

244 F 157, ap. Strab. 7.3.6 (among other objects of his scepticism are the Homeric

Hippemolgi; the Rhipaean mountains; the Hesperides; and the identification of Scheria with

Corcyra — all admitted by Dionysius).

156 1.1.19 ta\ paradei/gmata xrh/sima and diagwgh/n.

157 For instance — directly juxtaposed with one another — the story of Phaethon, Eridanus, and

the Heliades, is deemed muqeuo/mena or kateyeusme/na, but that of Diomedes among the

Eneti historical fact (5.1.9).

158 1.1.19 to_ e1ndocon kai\ to_ h(du&.



172

Myths are often equipped with an explicit pointer of pastness (pa/roj, pote/).159 Yet

various items are still there, at least potentially, to be encountered in the landscape: peoples

(the Lotus-Eaters, 206; the Camaritae, 700 – 5, though their moment of mythological glory is

set in the past; the Amazons, or at least their descendants, on the Thermodon, 773);

monuments and landscape-features (the tomb of Cadmus and Harmonia, 392 – 3; the Pillars ofHeracles and Dionysus). Now, concerning myths of which traces have been left in the

observable landscape it is possible to detect a certain inhibition.160 The Clashing Rocks are

reported to be in the Bosporus (144, o3qi mu=qoj): an odd conjuncture, for it was easy enough

to go to the Bosporus and see what was actually there. The ghosts of Achilles and the other

heroes are reported to be on the island of Leuce (545 – 6, fa/tij): the theodicy that set them

there still prevails — though the narrator shies away from bald assertion of their presence.

This reticence extends to the tomb of Cadmus and Harmonia, which is reported , rather than

asserted, to be theirs (391 fh=mij e0ni/spei). Of the two other instances of the ut fama est topos

used for mythology161 much the same can be said: at 788 – 92 the story of Cerberus and

Heracles at Heraclea has left traces in the real landscape (though cultivated readers are left to

supply the details), and in 197 the city of Carthage is still there for all to see — and in both

cases the narrator appeals to tradition, rather than asserting the story for himself.162

What effect is intended? Mela is an interesting comparison, for the Chorographia is

full of allusions to myths qualified by phrases like ut ferunt , dicuntur , accepimus.163 Not all

159 140, Io (o4n pa/roj); 207, Odysseus (e1nqa pot’); 290– 1, the Heliades (ou[ pot’ e0pi\ proxoh= |sin); 425, Boreas and Oreithyia (e1nqen . . . pot’); 489, the Colchians and Apsyrtides

(a3j pote); 775, Sinope (o3j pot’); 807, Heracles and Hylas (tou= pot’); 869, Bellerophon(o3qi dh/ pote). Without a marker of past time: 357 – 9, Parthenope; 461 – 4, Aeolus; 483 – 6,

Diomedes; 788 – 92, Cerberus; 817 – 18, sack of Troy.

160 On Dionysius’ attitude to the supernatural and irrational, see Greaves, 31– 2; Counillon

1983, 215.

161 The ‘men say’ device is also used for the reportage of geographical data where there can

be no such inhibition (22 h0uda/canto; 105, 111, 287, 562 e0ne/pousi).162 Comparison with Aratus is useful up to a point. When evoking myths he very often uses

relata refero (see Kidd on 637); 268 – 71, Lyra, and 653 – 8, Cassiepeia, are exceptions. But thedistancing topos must work differently in a poem about the stars, where the very patterning of

the constellations is a fiction based on their supposed similarity to mythological figures (p.

169).

163 1.26, 1.64, 1.80, 1.86 ut ferunt ; 1.27 addit fama nominis fabulam, 1.37 dicuntur ; 1.76

quem Typhoneum vocant ; 1.88 ut aiunt . . . traduntur ; 1.92 duplex causa nominis iactatur:

alii . . . commemorant, alii . . . putant ; 1.98 accepimus; 1.103 ut ferunt . . . ut aiunt ; 1.108

fabula vetere; 2.5 memoratur ; 2.26 traditur ; 2.28 narrantur ; 2.29 signum fabulae; 2.36

fabula; 2.78 ferunt ; 2.99 aliquando creditae dictaeque; 2.106 dicuntur ; 2.112 multis

famigerata fabulis; 2.120 dicitur ; 3.47 accepimus; 3.99 ut aiunt ; 3.100 memoratur ; 3.106dicitur . . .. ut incolae ferunt .



173

his mythography is qualified in this way, but a great deal is. Yet it is unclear whether he

means to imply scepticism. He not infrequently refers to signs — signa — and physical traces

in the landscape that purportedly corroborate mythological stories.164 If the locals report a

story and cite evidence to ‘prove’ it, or if the narrator himself adduces material to support

what he nevertheless calls a fabula, we are, it seems, strongly encouraged neither to think thathe himself endorses it, nor that he is a sceptic. The effect is of interested but non-committal

reportage.

The difference between the two narrators is that there is a more or less careful

distinction in Dionysius between myths set in the past, none of which uses the ut fama est

topos, and those which continue to resonate in the present, all of which do. Mela has no such

scruples: he draws attention to the reportedness of myths of both types. What results for

Dionysius is a rather mixed picture. There is no hesitation about the mythological past, yet

perhaps a sense of reticence about connecting it too closely with the empirical world — or

perhaps a sense of some need for additional reinforcement where mythography and the realworld intersect. Or perhaps the ut fama est topos occurs with myths whose traces live on in

the present precisely because, as T. W. E. Stinton suggested, it is here that the narrator wishes

to register the presence of the marvellous, yet to preserve an appropriately objective tone.165

A tendency to caution is supported by a certain amount of demythologisation. The western

Ethiopians have been mentioned already; if the Lotus-Eaters are present in the real geography

of north Africa, that is because their name has become attached to peoples whose alimentary

peculiarities are noted by several other Roman geographers besides Dionysius (though he

permits a small Homerising detail, their hospitality, that other authors omit).166 For the Plotai

an etymology was available which understood them as floating islands, but Dionysius is

careful not to commit himself (465 – 6 n.). The ethnographical tradition does admit and expect

qau/mata in the natural world:167 Dionysius uses the word four times (65, 723, 829, 935), for

both natural and cultural marvels, and strikingly the clashing rocks of Illyria (394 – 7) are

reported without inhibition. Nevertheless, the attitude to natural qau/mata seems not to be

164 1.26, Tangiers founded by Antaeus, as proved (in the opinion of the locals) by a huge

shield cut from elephant hide; 1.64, Iope with testimonials of the Andromeda myth: altars

inscribed with the names of Cepheus and Phineus and the bones of the sea-monster; 1.108, in

Colchis are the grove and temple of Phrixus; 2.29, the tower of Diomedes remains asevidence of the legend; 3.46, the temple of Egyptian Heracles in Gades contains his bones;

3.106, what the Mauretanians report as Antaeus’ funeral mound, in the shape of a reclining

man.

165 T. C. W. Stinton, ‘“Si Credere Dignum Est”: Some Expressions of Disbelief in Euripides

and Others’, PCPhS 2 22 (1976), 60 – 89 = Collected Papers on Greek Tragedy (Oxford,

1990), 236 – 70.

166 For the Amazons on the Thermodon, see 773 n.: the patronymic obfuscates whether it is

they who are still there, or their descendants.

167 Cf. Delage, 285 – 6, for Apollonius.



174

entirely consistent, for Herodotus’ gold-digging ants in India are replaced by human beings

who dig the gold out of the sand with mattocks (1114 – 15).

Dionysius is performing a balancing act, however one characterises the contrast —

between scepticism and credulity, or scrupulous reportage and unqualified assertion. The

antithesis is not simply between poetry and prose, because other poets can perfectly wellavail themselves of the same device: for example, Nicander qualifies all the myths he cites at

any length using the ut fama est topos — and sometimes expresses himself more strongly than

Dionysius, with a couple of instances of ei0 e1tumon or similar.168 If Dionysius is compared

with the aggressive rationalisers such as Palaephatus, Heraclitus, and with a remarkable

fragment of Agatharchides’ On the Erythraean Sea,169 where a tendency is discernible again

and again to return to the same set of problematic myths, there is a small but perhaps not

insignificant overlap. The myths of Atlas, Geryon, the Heliades, the Sirens, Aeolus, Boreas,

Cerberus, Pegasus, and Io are dealt with by some or all of these authors, and while Dionysius

is far removed from the fundamentalism of the rationalists, his criteria for acceptability seemnot too far removed from theirs; what they roundly denounce he either passes over in silence

(that Atlas bore the heavens on his shoulders; that the Sirens had birds’ feet, and Geryon and

Cerberus three heads; that Aeolus held the winds pent up in a bag; and that Io and the

Heliades underwent physical transformation) or qualifies with a relata refero (they say that

Cerberus was brought up from the underworld). With Strabo, too, the difference is more a

matter of style (the presence or absence of explicit polemic) than substance.170 If Strabo

discloses a desire to ‘save’ Homer, to preserve a kernel of truth in other myths deemed

otherwise far-fetched,171 Dionysius goes about his demythologisation of Aeolus in the same

way, only more quietly (461 – 3); and although Dionysius includes myths to which Strabo had

objected, the offensive aspects of those myths (the cattle of Geryon, the transformation of the

Heliades) are not admitted to the Periegesis either. If he is no strident rationalist, neither does

Dionysius adopt the post of the naïve recorder of myths and miracles, or the uncritical

compiler of curiosities. Quietly he enjoys the best of both worlds — the presence of myth, an

appropriate and decorous attitude towards it.

History and time

168

Ther . 10 e0ne/pousin . . . ei0 e0teo/n per; 309 ei0 e1tumon; 343 w)gu&gioj d' a1ra mu~qoj e0nai0zhoi=si forei=tai; 484 r(e/ei fa&tij; 835 lo&goj ge me\n w3j pot' 0Odusseu&j.

169 Palaephatus and Heraclitus in N. Festa (ed.), Mythographi graeci, iii/2 (Leipzig, 1902);

Agatharch. Mar. Erythr . 7 (Phot. 442b29 – 444b19), cf. Jacob 1991a, 142.

170 Though Strabo denounces Cerne, the Eridanus, the Rhipaean mountains (219, 290 – 3,

314 – 15 nn.).

171 Charybdis a semi-mythologised but still recognisable study of the tides in the straits of

Messina (Strab. 1.2.16 (paraphrasing Polybius), 1.2.36); Aia a real town, Aeetes and Medea

historical persons, the mineral wealth of Colchis a ‘reasonable’ explanation for Jason’sexpedition (Strab. 1.2.39).



175

Let us drop the Mississippi’s physical history, and say a word about its historical

history — so to speak.

(Mark Twain, Life on the Mississippi.)

With mythology we have already started to talk about the poem’s other axis, secondary to the

main one: time, as opposed to place. It is developed only fitfully, too patchily to offer any

insight into historical processes: isolated foundation traditions are scattered throughout, but

larger questions about the dissemination of classical culture through travel, conquest, and

colonisation, and above all the rise of the Roman empire, are too big to address. 172 Yet

matters of time and history did not have to be treated so spasmodically; after all, traditional

ethnography had a place for the question of racial origins, of origines gentium,173 but

Dionysius proves almost entirely immune to any sense of interest in the subject — all the more

notably, since it might so readily have lent itself to association wi th the ‘wandering heroes’

theme. All he really says about a nation’s origins (as opposed to the foundation of settlements

and colonies) is that the Medes were named after Medea — and this just takes us back to the

theme of travelling hero(in)es; we are none the wiser about the origins of the race. And since

she is not a Greek, there is still no sign that Dionysius was interested in claiming classical

origins for non-Greek peoples, which, given that it was such a common manoeuvre, is worthy

of remark.

In what follows I consider, not only specific historical allusions, which are few and

far between, but the poem’s awareness of time. One question is that of its awareness of the

contemporary context and of the past — and the methodological issue of how this might be

discerned (that is, when an allusion is an allusion). Another is the kind of world the narrator

is actually evoking — whether an unhistorical one, in which things coexist that never

coexisted, a timeless one, or one in which anachronisms can in principle be identified.

Historical allusions are readily disposed of; there are not many of them. The

references chosen are those that demonstrate universal power — whether that of Zeus, who

waxed wroth with Sybaris and destroyed it in 511 BC (372 – 4 n.), or that of the Romans, who

tamed the power of the Parthians in what seems to be the most recent historical allusion in the

poem (1051 – 2 n., AD 114 – 17), or of both in alignment, as when the Nasamones’ tax revolt is

treated as an outrage against Zeus, and the Romans punish them accordingly (208 – 10 n.). On

the two occasions when the Roman empire acts, it reacts to a challenge, rather than taking the

initiative or acting aggressively — demonstrating by contraries how little interested is the

poem in the outward expansion of its might.

Beyond these specific and easily identifiable references, there are any number of

things that could count as allusions; it is a question, not of some impossible attempt to

adjudicate on presence or absence, but of trying to identify the level at which something

resonates. For example, the Alexander historians are obviously used passim, and descriptions

172 On the poem’s silence here, Jacob 1991b, 47.

173 Trüdinger, 149 – 54.



176

(for example) of Alexander’s passage through the Gedrosian desert do show through (1086 –

7, 1099 – 1100 n.); but Alexander is never allowed to come to the surface. The Persian wars

almost become visible in the account of Greece: the one myth mentioned in that section is

Boreas on the Ilissus (423 – 5), which ought to be significant, and Thermopylae has been

brought in apropos of Phocis, though it was not strictly in Phocis at all (438). But again, theydo not quite break the surface. Indeed, the choice to leave that surface unpunctured by

anything too historically specific looks like a deliberate one, given that the poet has opted to

offset his own name and that of his emperor, Hadrian, within acrostichs.174

Awareness of contemporary political realities is in very short supply. Why? In the

first place, the whole-world description is not an intrinsically political scheme (p. 17);

Dionysius’ template is not one that heeds what is within and without the Roman limes.

174 Jacob 1991b, 48 – 53, also detects a Hadrianic theme running throughout. According to

him, the poem shadows most of Hadrian’s journeys (except to Judaea), and can be comparedto the commemorations of the provinces and famous places throughout his villa ( HA, Vit .

Hadr . 26.5 Tiburtinam villam mire exaedificavit, ita ut in ea et provinciarum et locorum

celeberrima nomina inscriberet, velut Lycium, Academian, Prytanium, Canopum, Poecilen,

Tempe vocaret ). One cannot follow in his footsteps, but the periegesis offers a way of setting

his travels in the context of the geography of the world. There is nothing in principle

objectionable about this theory, which revisits earlier suggestions that the sculptural

programme of the Villa in Tivoli could be connected to the emperor’s travels, and even that

Pausanias’ Periegesis of Greece was inspired by them: H. Halfmann, Itinera Principum:

Geschichte und Typologie der Kaiserreisen im Römischen Reich (Stuttgart, 1986), 42 – 3 n.

122. In the economy of Dionysius’ poem, the modern Hadrian could be put on the same

footing as the travelling heroes who populate the poem, whether explicitly or implicitly.

However, the theory is hard to substantiate, given that there is bound to be an overlap

between the itinerary of such a well-travelled emperor and a world-geography. Even if we

should not expect, in a poem that shuns directness, specific references to Hadrianoutherai in

Mysia, or Antinoopolis in Egypt, it is more damaging to Jacob’s theory that the cultural

memories of Hadrian’s tours and of the Periegesis do not obviously overlap. The treatment of

Greece is desperately thin if it is supposed to reflect the interests of a passionate philhellene.

The poem says nothing about Eleusis, where Hadrian was initiated; even if reference to

historical individuals is avoided, so that mention of the graves of Pompey in Pelusium and of

Alcibiades in Phrygia is not to be expected, neither does it mention the tomb of Ajax in Troy

(Philostr. Her . 8.1 [137]); the Syrian Mons Casius, which Hadrian ascended to watch the

sunrise and make sacrifice, for Dionysius is only a marker, and Etna, which Hadrian also

ascended, does not get a mention. The great exception is the reference to Memnon (249 – 50),

which Hadrian visited on 19 and 20 Nov. 130, as documented by the 27 epigrams left on the

colossus by his retinue. Though this was one of Egypt’s premier tourist destinations in

antiquity it is possible, if unprovable, that it was Hadrian’s visit that made it popular, but

there is simply insufficient to support a Hadrianic programme in the poem. On Hadrian’s

travels, see P. J. Sijpesteijn, ‘A New Document Concerning Hadrian’s Visit to Egypt’, Historia, 18 (1969), 109 – 18, esp 111 – 16 (on Egypt), and Halfmann, 40 – 7, 188 – 210.



177

Demarcations of territory can of course be superimposed, but Dionysius seems not to want to

make political capital out of them. The political function of the rivers which featured as

boundaries in Augustus’ division of the country into eleven regions could not have been

inferred from the way Dionysius himself treats them (361, 367). The city of Rome itself is,

naturally, a highlight. It is placed more or less perfectly in the middle of Europe,

175

and it isadvertised by a combination of Dionysius’ two favourite devices, line-initial anaphora and

epanalepsis. This kind of anaphora is used, not only for the Tiber (352 – 4), but again for

Carthage (195 – 7) and for Ilium (815 – 18). It is attractive to see this as a significant grouping,

of two empires that had to fall before Rome could rise, 176 but the same figure is also used for

two other proper names that do not obviously fit the series (Aiolos, 461 – 3, and Rhebas, 794 –

6). We have noted (p. 119) a contrast between the catalogic precision used for the imperial

capital and the cultural glamour that invests Alexandria (254 – 9), so suggestive about the

different character of the empire’s two star cities.

Despite the centrality of Rome, there is no suggestion that it (or Italy itself) is in thecentre in any economic, political, cultural, or climatological sense. In other words, the poet

has failed to deploy any of a range of topoi variously associated with the notion of centrality.

There is no suggestion that Italy (or anywhere else) is the most temperate zone, possessed of

an ideal climate, with perfect eu0krasi/a of the seasons;177 that its hegemony is guaranteed by

its location;178 that its political constitution is also the perfect mixture;179 or that it is the

recipient of goods flowing from all corners of the known world — a topos that could be spun

both positively and negatively.180

Nor is there any suggestion that Rome’s empire is a universal one, of the

coextensivity of the empire and the earth.

181

A breach would soon open up between a175 Jacob 1981, 27 and n. 26 (marking the end of the European section end at 449, which

makes Rome just that little bit more central); Bowie 1990, 75.

176 Bowie 1990, 74 – 5.

177 For the notion of temperatio/temperies, cf. Kienzle, 14 – 17, 28; Thomas 1982a, 3, 11.

Praise of Italy’s climate as an element in laudes Italiae: Kienzle, 17 n. 1, 28; Thomas 1982a,

40 – 1, e.g. Strab. 6.4.1; Varro, De Re Rust. 1.2.3 – 4; V. Georg . 2.136 – 76, esp. 149 hic ver

adsiduum atque alienis mensibus aestas (though see Thomas, 41); Vitruv. Arch. 6.1.11; Plin.

NH 3.41. Centrality of Greece and Greek eu0krasi/a: Hdt. 3.106.1 (Nesselrath, 22); MenanderRhetor, i. 345.28 – 31.

178 So Strab. 6.4.1, cf. van der Vliet 2003, 268.

179 Aristid. Or . 26.90.

180 Positively: Aristid. Or . 26.11 – 13 (see Oliver ad loc., with parallels for the same notion

applied to the Piraeus and Alexandria). None of this figures in Dionysius, who is uninterested

in redistribution. For the flow of human, material, and intellectual resources towards Rome in

Strabo, see Clarke 1999, 219 – 24.

181

Contra Jacob 1991b, 47, ‘l’Empire de Denys n’a pas de limes et s’identifie àl’oekoumène’.



178

cartographical description of the known world and any rhetoric of universality that its author

might care to indulge;182 that is why, as Nicolet says, an altogether more plausible stance for

the Romans was to ‘claim to fit in the order of the cosmic destiny — either they were under

the protection of or they held a covenant with the gods, or they were in some way divine.

They become therefore an element, or the guarantee, of world order.’

183

It is no accident that precisely the same rhetoric is found in the Periegesis. If there is no attempt to plot the limits

of empire on the map, with the concomitant and inevitable disappointment of where they fell

short, Dionysius indulges in precisely this rhetoric of Rome’s alignment with the supreme

cosmic power. The limes of the empire could be painfully exposed, but this was altogether

harder to refute.

Kingliness is the attribute of Rome and the Romans.184 Rome is the home of the

poet’s ‘masters’ (355 a0na/ktwn); the Parthians were brought low by the spear of the

Ausonian king (1052 Au0soni/ou basilh=oj), and l. 78 recalls (whether one reads Au0sonih=ej

or -h=oj) the old Hesiodic sentiment that kings come from Zeus (Th. 96 e0k de\ Dio\jbasilh=ej), save that now it refers to the Italians as a whole. But the Romans are not the only

race invested with kingly characteristics. The same combination of kingship with wealth is

found in Persia (1056 – 62), who are the kingliest race in Asia: the fact that the superlative

basileu/tatoj occurs just twice in the poem (353, 1056) suggests some sort of counterpoint.

The rhetorical synkrisis of Rome with other empires was very likely familiar to Dionysius, as

a staple of historiography.185 Even so, in the synchronic and tolerant world-order of the

Periegesis there is no sense of the two as rival systems. Thanks to the timeless ethnographic

present, the Persians’ wealth (which harks back to the days of the Achaemenid empire) is

presented as coexisting with the present reality of Rome.

The poem’s anachronisms are, on the one hand, a characteristic failing of literary

geography.186 While Strabo, for one, was fully aware of various kinds of defect in his

sources,187 and delineates the increase in knowledge that had come about since Alexander’s

182 Nicolet, esp. 29 – 56; 230, index s.v. Universal domination.

183 Nicolet, 35 – 6. Nicolet writes of the appearance of globes as symbols of universal

domination on Republican coins that ‘the globe is less the sign of the concrete domination of

space easily located on the surface of the earth than of a sovereignty the more recognizable

for being general and “cosmic”, even more than geographic’ (35). Still, the coins have a propagandist function that the poem does not.

184 Jacob 1991b, 44 – 5.

185 Polyb. 1.2 compares the Roman empire with Persia, as well as Spartan hegemony in

Greece, and Macedonian conquests; Dion. Hal. AR 1.2.2 – 4, Rome and the Assyrians, Medes,

Persians, and Macedonians; App. Praef . 29 – 42 (Greece, Asian empires, Macedonians and the

successor kings); Aristid. Or . 26.15 – 23 (Rome and Persia).

186 Knaack, RE s.v. Dionysius, 919.35 – 60; F. Gisinger, RE Suppl. 4 (1924), s.v. Geographie

(Verfall), 671.5 – 31; Effe 1977, 188 n. 2.

187 Jacob 1991a, 118.



179

time (p. 17 n. 57), the weight of tradition could nevertheless militate against the full

exploitation of up-to-date sources. Serious, yet avoidable, errors continue to appear in

imperial geographers: Mela, for example, still thinks that one arm of the Danube flows into

the Adriatic (2.63). Dionysius has failed to avail himself of sources which he could have used

if he had wanted state-of-the-art geography. Quite apart from the movements of obscure anddistant tribes, which it was altogether difficult to keep track of,188 he is wholly inadequate, for

instance, on northern Europe. Gaul is figured only as the dw/mata Keltw=n (288) and the city

of Massilia (75), Germany in the form of tribesmen leaping merrily, if generically, through

the Hercynian forest (286), and Britain (284, 565 – 9) as a couple of large, featureless islands

in the northern ocean opposite the Rhine.189 (This time Mela did considerably better: he knew

about the Weser and Elbe (3.30), the Vistula (3.33), and ‘Scadinavia’ and the Danish islands

(3.54).) His haziness about eastern India, which contrasts with what is, by his standards, a

richly detailed account of the Punjab, is the more remarkable if one believes that Strabo book

15, which preserves considerable extracts of Megasthenes and Daimachus (authorities on

what lay to the east of Alexander’s conquests), was available to him: perhaps it was not.

But of course he did not want state-of-the-art geography. He wanted the cultural

prestige of poetry, and for him the world still lives in the state in which the poets described it.

Strabo himself is both aware of the gap that separates the world of his sources from that of

his own day, and conscious of a need to bow to Homer, who had so shaped the mental map of

classical peoples;190 in Dionysius this need is even stronger. A place is found on the map for

the Agaui (308) and Erembi (180, 963 – 7), because Homer had canonised them. Thebes is still

hundred-gated (249), and the Pactolus still runs with gold (831 – 2); Strabo disillusions us on

both counts. The Bebryces of Mysia (805) make it into the review of the Propontis on

Apollonius’ authority, although Eratosthenes might have assured him that this tribe was now

defunct. The ethnographic present speaks of ever-present realities, and is inhospitable to

specific time. The Cimmerians, a dimly remembered trouble already for Herodotus, had long

gone from the Cimmerian Bosporus, but they figure here in the present tense (167 – 8, 681) —

perhaps because Callimachus has treated them in the same way ( Hymn 3.253 – 4). And that is

why the Persians are preserved in aspic as a royal people, endowed with timeless

characteristics, but not one that has ever suffered a historical defeat at the hands of Greece.

That said, Dionysius’ use of Strabo, or something closely comparable, brings him up

to date, if not with the state of the art in Augustan geography, at least with a reasonably well-

informed Augustan’s knowledge. For example, he knows that the sources of the Danube and

Rhine are both in the Alps (298), a discovery made under Augustus (298 – 330 n.), and the

reference to Italian boundary-rivers at least reflects Augustus’ regional division of Italy, even

though their function is suppressed. He appears to have used other first-century sources as

well. Dalmatia’s appearance as a subdivision of the province of Illyria is probably late

188 e.g. northern European tribes, 309, 310 nn.; peoples of the Black Sea coast and Caspian:

730, 766 nn.

189 Compare Pliny’s Britain: Evans 2005a, 51.

190 Clarke 1999, 248 – 51.



180

Augustan (95 – 102 n.). Similarly the Heptapolis (251) may, as an administrative division of

Egypt, go back to Augustus, though it is not certainly attested until later in the first century —

but it is entirely possible, even likely, that as a native Alexandrian Dionysius needed no

written source for this. (That also applies to the temple of Sarapis in Alexandria, 256 n.)

Certain peoples better known from later antiquity also begin to be discernible: the Alani(305 n.), the Indo-Scythians (1088 n.), though a reference to the Huns (730 Ou]n(n)oi) is very

dubious. But the timeless present, combined with the use of sources which reflect a wide

range of different historical perspectives, has resulted in a world where peoples and places

that belong, not only to different periods, but also to different levels of reality, are

juxtaposed.191 A mere three lines separate the Alani, a rising historical threat, from the Agaui,

born of the reification of a Homeric epithet.

The world of the Periegesis is endowed with natural riches. Vibrant waters run

through it; minerals in their natural state endow it with beautiful colour; and its fertile,

cultivable soil sustains populations in whose cultural level the poet seeks to arouse ourinterest. The closing paragraph elevates natural diversity into a principle sponsored by the

gods, and the poem itself not only lays out the earth in all its (carefully controlled) variety,

but encourages its contemplation through means of antitheses. Antithetical ethnography is of

course nothing new. It goes back to Herodotus’ Egyptians and Scythians, and its continued

practice in Roman ethnography is illustrated by, say, Virgil’s balancing tableaux of Libyan

shepherds and herdsmen of the frozen north (Georg . 3.339 – 48 + 349 –83), or Tacitus’

contrasted pairs of German tribes (Germ. 30 – 2, 35 – 6).192 Dionysius has the whole of the

known world to choose from, and his pairs are built round the simple, traditional, and

overlapping antitheses of agriculture versus pastoralism, sedentarism versus nomadism, and

soft versus hard — in other words, all antitheses of lifestyle. The peoples who illustrate the

terms of the antithesis are less interesting in their own right than as carriers of the values they

represent.193 So, the African nomads at the beginning of Libya (186 – 94) are contrasted with

the Egyptians who, by a sleight of the itinerary, are placed at the end (232 – 7): a culturally

backward nation who live like beasts and practice no agriculture are balanced against its

191 Jacob 1981, 51, and 1990, 40.

192 Trüdinger, 36, 168 – 9. Note also Jacob’s analysis of Agatharchides’ ethnographies in On

the Erythraean Sea, where there is a three-way contrast between the gold-miners of Nubia,

the savage tribes of southern Egypt and the Ethiopian Troglodytes, and the blessed tribes of

Arabia (1991a, 133 – 46).

193 See Clarke 1999, 146 and n. 27, ‘on Fish-Eaters and other peoples characterized by their

means of subsistence as stock representatives of different levels of civilization’. Unlike

Posidonius’ Fish-Eaters, Dionysius’ miserable Nomads do not represent ‘the generic ethnic

distinction of a particular latitudinal zone’; nor, like some early modern colonial literature

(cited by Clarke ad loc.), do they carry over particular topoi of primitivism from one peopleto another, but they do tend to view cultures in generic rather than individuated terms.



181

inventors.194 (It is curious that the Athenians’ claim to Triptolemus and the same discovery

goes for nothing in this account — as do Greek prw=toi eu9retai/ in general.) The Nile is then

contrasted, as a continent-marker, with the Tanais (230 – 1 ~ 661 – 2): o1lboj (247) versus

wretchedness (668) is the point, though agriculture is implicit too, for the nomad Scythians in

their wagons are no cultivators of the soil. That same contrast of blessedness and miseryrecurs one last time in the antithesis (explicit at 967 – 8) between the blessed Arabians and the

Erembi, who are geographically contiguous as well as culturally antithetical. Like the

Libyans, the Erembi live like animals; like both them and Scythians, they are nomads (967).

The Blessed Arabians, on the other hand, are a9bro/bioi, an interesting adjective whose

earlier applications (968 n.) prompt the reflection that although Dionysius makes use of the

soft – hard antithesis, he does not do so to the disparagement of the former. The stereotype of

the effeminate oriental did, of course, survive into Roman ethnography,195 and it glimmers

through the soft, radiant garments of the Blessed Arabians. Yet the delicate handling and

non-judgemental tone contrasts with the more strident or contemptuous treatment the same

theme might, in other hands, have received. The two extremes represented by Erembi and

Arabians are aspects of the earth’s wonderful diversity, but if anything it is the hard

barbarian — the nomad, the rock-dweller, the fighter, the pastoralist or hunter who shuns or is

ignorant of agriculture — who presents a more sustained contrast with the implied culture of

the narrator. For in Hadrian’s peaceful and pros perous Roman world, the fundamental

contrast was not between the hard-bitten fighters and their plump, vulnerable victims, but

between the haves and the have-nots. And the vision is optimistic. Where Tacitus, for

instance, had chosen to end the Germania with a kind of ethnographical fade-out, where the

northern tribes petered out into irremediable primitivism (46), the Periegesis ends with a

climax of natural and mineral abundance and Dionysian pomp.

194 Compare Strabo’s antithesis of Ethiopians and Egyptians, the former living nomadikw=j. . . kai\ a0po/rwj, the latter politikw=j kai\ h9me/rwj, inventors of geometry, astronomy, and

successful cultivators of the soil (17.1.3).

195 Mattern, 73 – 4; TLL s.v. mollis, viii. 1379.20 – 3.



182



183

VI. THE END OF THE JOURNEY

Not that I care too much about geography; it’s one of those bossy ideas according to

which, if you locate a place, there’s nothing more to be said about it.

(Saul Bellow, Henderson the Rain King , ch. 5.)

THE Periegesis is most readily studied diachronically. That is, we can study the influences

on it, because so many of the most important ones are extant, and we can also study its

influence and reception, for, although the secondary tradition is not as rich as it is in the case

of the Phaenomena, we still have Latin translations, the scholia, and Eustathius’ commentary

as evidence for its transmission into later antiquity and Byzantium. We might like to proceed

synchronically as well. We might want to ask about its place within the learned culture of its

own times, and we might want specifically to ask about its relationship to school geography.1

But that is not easy. In later antiquity, when the Periegesis was recommended reading for the

monks in Cassiodorus’ foundation at Vivarium in Calabria, we can see that it was taken out

of its original context and read among other pagan cosmographical works as an aid to the

understanding of sacred literature. Cassiodorus specifically does not cite it in his discussion

of the secular liberal arts, the trivium and quadrivium, which occupies the second book of the

Institutiones, but in the first book, in his discussion of sacred letters, where he envisages that

it will serve as auxiliary to the reading of scripture.2

The immediate problem is the lack of any ready-made educational slot in pagan

education into which the Periegesis can fit, but there is also a problem with assuming the

equatability of didactic poems and school curricula in the first place. Even with didactic

poems which seem to have an ‘obvious’ relationship to the school curriculum it is often

important to note the obliquity of their relationship (if any) with the classroom. 3 With a poem

1 Cf. Leo, 148, with further literature.

2 De Institutione Divinarum Litterarum, 1. 15.

3 Another example given by Effe of ‘dieser vor allem für praktische Schulzwecke bestimmten

Sonderform’ are the three Latin poems by Terentianus Maurus, de litteris, de syllabis, de

metris (3rd c. AD). Here the subject-matter does, obviously, connect with the school

curriculum, as the poems expressly acknowledge (e.g. de litt. 1 – 2 elementa rudes quae

pueros docent magistri | vocalia quaedam memorant, consona quaedam). Yet more detailed

and considered analyses, by Jan-Wilhelm Beck and Chiara Cignolo, have emphasised, first,

that the poet departs from standard scholastic terminology and includes advanced, or

abstruse, material which would be unsuitable for beginners (Augustine, util. cred . 17: nulla

imbutus poetica disciplina Terentianum Maurum sine magistro attingere non auderes), and,

second, that the narrative voice repeatedly refers to schoolmasters and pupils in a distanced

way; the persona loquens is not a schoolmaster, nor the addressee a presumed schoolchild

(see J.-W. Beck , ‘Terentianus Maurus’, ANRW ii. 34.4, 3208 – 68, at 3217 – 18, 3215; Cignolo,

i, p. xxix; ii, p. 248). A third example of poetry as Schullunterricht is the anonymous 4th – 5th-

c. Carmen de figuris vel schematibus. In this case, current critical opinion seems to concur.



184

on a geographical subject, it is better to situate it within a broad but diffuse interest in the

subject, one widely shared by the educated, but lacking a specific institutional context. The

same applies to the earlier iambic geographical poems: it is perilous to suppose, merely on

formal grounds, that the use of the iambic metre by ps.-Scymnus or Dionysius son of

Calliphon is ipso facto more suited to school instruction than the Periegesis’ hexameters,especially given the unbroken use of Homer and Hesiod to teach moral and oratorical

lessons.4 Ancient education could accommodate geographical subjects in many ways, and at

all levels. It was pervasive, but at the same time, except in the hands of a determined few,

unsystematic; so, unlike subjects such as grammar, geometry, or astronomy, there was no

obvious point in a student’s career when the Periegesis would have been suitable pedagogy.

Conversely, there was no constraint on its possible constituencies of readers.

If we cannot and should not try to force it into a slot which does not exist, we can,

nevertheless, identify some of the characteristics which it shares with other specimens of

ancient geographical learning — especially the proclivity for prestige literary items presentedin lists and memorable, readily digestible forms. Geographical names figure in early writing

exercises. As isolated items, often from Homer or other poets, they appear in bare lists, along

The two most recent editors, D’Angelo and Schindel, both see it as a work of the schoolroom

(possibly by a pupil, or with a final section by a pupil, which would indeed be an example of

pedagogy in action), though before them Marisa Squillante saw rather a littérateur borrowing

the didactic form for a display of cultivated preciosity (M. Squillante, ‘Un inventario di

figure retoriche della tarda latinità: l’anonimo Carmen de figuris vel schematibus’, Vichiana,1 (1990), 3rd ser., 255 – 61, and Carmen de figuris vel schematibus. Introduzione, testo

critico, traduzione e commento (Rome, 1993), 44 – 53; R. M. D’Angelo, Carmen de figuris vel

schematibus: introduzione, testo critico e commento (Hildesheim, 2001), 23, 45 – 6; U.

Schindel, ‘Entstehungsbedingungen eines spätantiken Schulbuchs: zum Carmen de figuris

(RLM 63 –70)’, in Antike Rhetorik und ihre Rezeption ( Festschrift Classen) (Stuttgart, 1999),

85 – 98; id., Die Rezeption der hellenistischen Theorie der rhetorischen Figuren bei den

Römern (Göttingen, 2001), 54 – 61, and Gnomon, 76 (2004), 67).

4 Effe 1977, 184 – 7, 231 –3, draws what he calls a ‘sharp’ distinction (184, 233) between

didactic poems which aspire to be works of art, and poems which use verse as a merememory-device for instructional purposes, exemplified by the iambic geographical poems of

ps.-Scymnus and Dionysius son of Calliphon (184 –7) (‘es genügt zu sehen, daß der Autor

[sc. ps.-Scymnus] keinerlei literarischen Ehrgeiz entfaltet, daß er das einzige Ziel verfolgt,

den Lehrgegenstand so darzustellen, daß er sich dem Gedächtnis des Adressaten leicht und

dauerhaft einprägt’). True, ps.-Scymnus’ preface makes explicit theoretical claims about

educativeness, but Dionysius’ hexameter poem also adopts an expressly didactic stance; nor

is it true that an iambic poet necessarily has no aesthetic ambitions, for ps.-Scymnus speaks

also about te/ryij, the combination of utility and delight (4, 43 – 4, 92 – 3). The iambic works

use a different register, but to rule them out of the category of ‘true’ didactic poems isarbitrary.



185

with other proper (as well as common) nouns of fixed numbers of syllables.5 At the opposite

end of the spectrum, Alexandrian scholars and scholar-poets produce specialist monographs

and poetry laced with geographical allusion, writing for a cultivated public with what Doris

Meyer has called a passion for geographical knowledge.6 The mania for detail and for

systematic or semi-systematic listing is perhaps reflected in papyri which contain specialistlists, of rivers, springs, mountains, and other geographical features, whether we are to

understand these as displays of knowledge in their own right, or whether as aids to the

comprehension of other texts.7

5 See Legras. A good example is SB XII, 10769, end of 3rd or beginning of 4th c. AD (publ.

W. Clarysse and A. Wouters, ‘A Schoolboy’s Exercise in the Chester Beatty Library’, Anc.

Soc. 1 (1970), 201 – 35). The text is a schoolboy’s exercise, which lists words of one to four

syllables. Geographical names are interspersed among the rest, all with evident literary

associations: they include the islands of Zacynthus (63), Ithaca (81), Lipare, the form used in

Call. Hymn 3.47 (103); the river Scamander (143); Strophie, a spring near Thebes uniquely

attested in Call. Hymn 4.76 (147); Phylake, a city in Thessaly mentioned in Il . 2.695, 700

(170).

6 Meyer 1998, 214 –15, writing of ‘die Leidenschaft für die Geographie Griechenlands

innerhalb der Bildungselite des ptolemäischen Alexandria’, of the combination in

Apollonius’ Argonautica and Timosthenes’ peri\ Lime/nwn of the extension of geographical

knowledge with allusions to Greek cultural history and Ionian science. For virtuoso

geographical lists in Hellenistic poetry, see Weber, 316 –17; M. A. Harder, ‘Callimachus’, in

de Jong 2012, 77 – 98, at 84 ( Hymn 3), 92 (fr. 43.28 – 55 H. = 50 M.). For the fascination of the

Roman poets with geographical minutiae, see Mayer; M. Grant, ‘Seneca’s Tragic

Geography’, Latomus, 59 (2000), 88 – 95; Dueck 2012, 15, 32 – 4. In the 4th or 5th c. Vibius

Sequester produced an alphabetical glossary, presumably for scholastic purposes, of the

names of rivers, springs, lakes, woods, marshes, mountains, and peoples drawn from Virgil,

Silius Italicus, Lucan, and Ovid: ed. P. G. Parroni, Vibii Sequestris De Fluminibus Fontibus

Lacubus etc. (Milan, 1965) and R. Gelsomino, Vibius Sequester (Leipzig, 1967); cf. P. A.

Perotti, ‘Note a Vibio Sequestre’, GIF 56 (2004) 87 – 99.

7 For instance, P. Berl. inv. 13044 (the laterculi Alexandrini, 2nd c. BC) contains lists of

islands, mountains, rivers, springs, and lakes, along with lawgivers, artists, engineers, and

others; see G. Geraci, ‘Nuovi documenti dell’Egitto tolemaico e romano a Bologna’,

Procedings of the XIV International Congress of Papyrologists (London, 1975), 113 – 20; A.

Mehl, ‘Erziehung zum Hellenen – Erziehung zum Weltbürger. Bemerkungen zum

Gymnasion im hellenistischen Osten’, Nikephoros, 5 (1992), 43 – 73, at 59. A later example is

P. Bon. ISA 1 recto (3rd c. AD), a list of potamoi\ me/gistoi. Of this, G. Geraci, ‘P. Bon. ISA

1, recto: lista di fiumi con equivalenze tachigrafiche’, in S. F. Bondì, S. Pernigotti, F. Serra ,

and A. Vivian (eds.), Studi in onore di Edda Bresciani (Pisa, 1985), 231 – 43, at 239,

comments that ‘l’esame della scrittur a e il contenuto del documento escludono a priori per

esso il carattere di esercitazione scolastica di istruzione primaria ed inducono e riferirlo ad un

livello di cultura o di apprendimento superiori, ampiamente impregnati di cognizionigeografiche già topiche e stereotipe, sia in se stesse sia al fine di intendere i testi letterari.’



186

Even when the liberal arts took on firmer contours, geography as such was not part of

the quadrivium, though it was related to both astronomy and geometry, which were.8 It is this

consanguineity Strabo has in mind when he combines a traditionally literary approach with

demands for at least a modicum of technical expertise, for in order to embark adequately on

the study of geography the student must have at least some grounding in astronomy andgeometry. Susan Mattern has suggested that the Periegesis is an example of what might be

taught by the grammatisth/j at the secondary level of education,9 but perhaps we should be

better off envisaging the sort of many-faceted reception which the poem’s counterpart,

Aratus’ Phaenomena, demonstrably enjoyed. Responses to this poem ranged from manuals

providing basic astronomical and/or mythographical back-up to higher-level expert interest

from astronomers and grammarians, as well as from the littérateurs who translated the poem

into Latin.10 In Dionysius’ case we can only speculate about the response; but what we can be

sure of, whatever the level of the text’s reception, is that it partakes fully in the belletristic

character of ancient geography, which manifests itself at every level of sophistication at

which geographical subject-matter is treated.

It is also memorable. In the first place, this is the result of form. In his own

geographical poem, ps.-Scymnus saw verse as an aid to memorability: it was ancillary, an aid

to something designed to instruct (33 – 44). With the Periegesis there is no such sense of

form’s being secondary to content, but it is true that ancient authors theorise the connection

between metre and memorability, so that the use of the hexameter would ipso facto have the

effect of fixing something in a reader’s memory; so too would the verse-patterns, the

repetitions, the tri- and tetracola whose sounds and rhythms insinuate themselves into the

reader’s inner ear.11 Second, the imposition of linear order, in routes that follow a largely

predictable west – east and north – south direction, helps the reader to establish a mental map of

8 For the negligible role of geography in ancient education, see Brodersen 1995, 13 and

bibliography in n. 2, and 108; Dueck 2012, 2; further on enkyklios paideia/the liberal arts, H.

Marrou, Histoire de l’éducation dans l’ Antiquité (Paris, 61965), 266 – 7 and n. 2 (p. 568), 409 –

10 and nn. 32, 33 (pp. 603 – 4); H. Fuchs, RLAC s.v. Enkyklios Paideia, v. 365 – 98; D. A.

Russell, ‘Arts and Sciences in Ancient Education’, G&R 36 (1989), 210 – 25; T. Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman World (Cambridge, 1998), 33 – 9.

9 Mattern, 25 – 6.

10 Kidd, 43 – 8; Martin, i, pp. ccxi, clxxvii; id. Histoire du texte des Phénomènes d’Aratos

(Paris, 1956). On the enormous popularity of Aratus in schools, Marrou (n. 8 above), 277 – 9,

410 and n. 33 (p. 603).

11 Ancient theory on metre: Plat. Phaedr . 267 A, cf. Leg . 810; Longin. Ars rhet. I. ii. 202.17 –

18 Spengel ta\ me/tra ma=llon memnh/meqa tw=n a1neu me/trwn pepoihme/nwn. For verse-

patterns as an aid to the oral performer, especially in lists and catalogues, see Minchin, 24 – 5,88 – 90.



187

the areas described and to recall details along the way.12 Ancient theorists of memory built on

this simple principle. According to the Roman orators who expound a system of artificial

memory which they derive from Simonides, accurate memory depends on arrangement.13 For

one who wished to cultivate the art, memories could be figured by images ( imagines; effigies;

simulacra) disposed across a series or sequence of places (loci), such as the rooms of a house,or places along a familiar route through a city. They could be retrieved as it were from

storage simply by retracing a route or itinerary and collecting the tokens which had been left

along the way. There is an analogy between this orderly series of loci and a geographical text

which deals with a series of items along an orderly route; Christian Jacob’s reading of the

Periegesis as a memory-text views it as a halfway-house between pure topography and these

developed arts of memory.14 The poem is a sort of encyclopaedia in which individual places

are associated with little gems of information (myths, natural marvels, cults and temples),

which may be recalled by the orderly sequence in which they occur.

Yet the analogy can only be pressed a certain way, for the landscape is clearly alandscape in its own right as well as a series of niches for the distribution of tokens. In the

memory artist, the association between the memory-tokens and the space in which they are

implanted is arbitrary; in a geographical itinerary a place’s associations are integral. Memory

is indeed crucial to the Periegesis, but memory in the sense of the repertory of shared themes,

images, and ideologies which the poet is trying to evoke in his readers: the Periegesis does

not represent an unfamiliar world, but one we all know. But if we invoke the notion of

cultural memories (pp. 5, 113) — as well as their counterpart, collective memories, shared by

those who have experienced events of the more recent past15 — we should ask what form they

take. Events within living memory are Roman triumphs and vindications of Roman power,

but the stock images and themes which are presumed to belong to the common culture of the

poem’s readers are less oppositional than inclusive; perhaps that is only to be expected from a

poem whose closing emphasis is on the beauty of natural, or rather divinely sponsored,

diversity. If self-defining clashes are evoked — such as the Persian wars — it is only faintly;

similarly, there are very few myths which underwrite the separate existence of nations and

ethnic groups (long-defunct Media gets its Medea, but there is no Hellen to match her). Nor

are the memories of cultural particularism, at least not in the purposeful, intimately detailed

12 It is suggested that the imposition of linear geographical order already in the Homeric

Catalogue of Ships served as an aide-mémoire to the poet: Minchin, 86; Purves, 37, 155 – 6,221, 228.

13 Cic. de Or . 2.350 – 60; Auct. ad Herennium 3.28 – 40; Quint. Inst . 11.2.1 – 26; cf. Wüst, RE

s.v. Mnemonik; F. Yates, The Art of Memory (London, 1966), 1 – 26 (cf. also 27 – 49); H.

Blum, Die antike Mnemotechnik (Hildesheim, 1969), 1 – 37; Vasaly, 100; Purves, 218 – 19.

14 Jacob 1990, 15 – 18, cf. 1981, 58 – 62; see also Coccaro Andreou, 107, 119 – 21, 131; Selter

2010, 123.

15 Chaniotis, 255, id., War in the Hellenistic World: A Social and Cultural History (Oxford,

2005), 215 – 16, drawing on J. Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen (Munich, 1992).



188

way in which Pausanias sets about his construction of ‘a religious identity for Greece under

Roman rule’.16 Rather, the memories are of literary topoi — the civilised Mediterranean

peoples offset against the primitives, the nomads, the warrior peoples in inhospitable terrain,

the inhabitants of utopias and dystopias on the fringes — and above all of the literature itself in

which they are invoked, from Homer to the Alexandrians. They are shared, not by a politicalor racial community, but by a cultural one.

Read for his content, Dionysius documents the farrago of misconceptions that was

ancient geography. He inherits the notions of a Caspian that communicates with the ocean

(47 – 50 n.); an Egyptian Mons Casius that is a mountain instead of a hill of sand (115 – 16 n.);

the alignment of Britain directly opposite the mouths of the Rhine (though he does not

specify which part of Britain lies there, as other writers do, and get it wrong: 566 n.); the

strange notion of a wasp-waisted Asia Minor (864 – 5 n.). To the failings inherited from

ossified literary geography he adds plenty of confusions, distortions, and anachronisms of his

own. Some fudges could be deliberate, the result of harmonisation.

17

Even so, it is not alwayseasy to draw the line between artful combination and sloppiness, and the result is

geographical chaos either way. Items are taken out of sequence (368, 494, 506 – 12, 1135 –

51 nn.; cf. the disruption of Arabian tribes, 954 – 61 nn.), directions wrong (487 – 90, 500(?),

879 – 80(?) nn.), sources handled in a hazy, imprecise, or cavalier way (relocations of Nysa,

625 – 6 n., Sinope, 775 – 9 n., Hadramotitai, 954 – 61 n.; boundaries of Coele Syria, 897 – 922 n.;

Persian tribes, 1069 n.). Geographical names are treated with astonishing laxity, sometimes

for metrical reasons, but sometimes in eccentric by-forms the original form of which has been

swallowed up in textual uncertainty.18 Elsewhere the geography is questionable or just plain

wrong (order of Syrtes, 103 – 8, 477 – 80 nn.; course of Eurotas, 411 – 13 n.; Achelous and

Chalcis, 496 – 7 n.; Taprobane and the Tropic of Cancer, 594 – 5 nn.). Given his date, he could

16 S. E. Alcock, Graecia Capta: The Landscapes of Roman Greece (Cambridge, 1993), 174.

17 pp. 41-2; e.g. 88 n. (Gortyn, Phaestos, and Kriou Metopon), 168 n. (Cimmerians and

Taurus), 541 – 8 n. (Leuce), 663 – 5 n. (sources of the Tanais), 739 – 51 n. (rivers east of the

Caspian), 1074 n. (Indian and Persian Choaspes), 1096 – 8 n. (Arii and Arieni), 1143 – 44a n.

(Gargaridae).

18 30 1Atlaj; 38 Ai0qo/pioj; 82 Sarda/nioj; 343 0Ape/nnion; 382 Tegestrai/wn; 457

Bou=soj; 566 Bretani/dej; 607 0Eruqrai/ou basilh=oj; 747 Sougdia/j; 764 Xalki\j a1roura,

cf. 803 Xalkide/ej; 877 Kommagehno\n e3doj; 916 Posidh/i+a e1rga. Minor modifications of

suffix are common (469 Lilu/bh; 552 Fainago/rh; 589 Xrusei/h; 875 0Agxia/leia; 915

Laodi/khn). 295 1Alpioj a0rxh/ is perhaps Herodotean. For names in -i/j -i/doj, see pp. 52-4.

Peoples: 187 Masulh=ej; 304 Sama/tai; 387 Boulime/wn; 571 0Amnita/wn; 682 Kerke/tioi;687 Zu/gioi; 734, 738 Derke/bioi; 956 0Agre/ej; 959 Kletabhnoi/; 1015 Kissoi/; 1096

1Aribaj; 1138 Dardane/ej; 1141 Sa/bai, Toci/loi; 1142 Sko/droi; 1144 Gargari/dai. For

vowel quantities, see 21, 65, 469, 855, 867, 918 nn. For A pollonius’ place-names, seeDelage, 282 – 3: archaism characterises many, but not catachresis.



189

have done better. If one reads him for his geography, what interest he offers is that of teasing

out the different strands of his account.19

Poetically, however, it is another matter. His meticulous literary art is testimony to

neo-Hellenistic erudition as well as ingenious allusiveness and combinatory skill. He is

permeated by the literary values of the high priests of Alexandrianism. Moreover, all the pieces of this delicate and painstakingly assembled mosaic fit together into a whole which is

full of colour and variety but also well integrated, a convincing unity. We can give a coherent

and satisfying account of Dionysius’ poetics, but we cannot avoid the question whether he

might also shed light on a certain current of literary sensibility. Before Leue’s discovery of

the acrostichs which conclusively revealed him to be Hadrianic, Tycho Mommsen had placed

him in the late Hellenistic period — not because Alexandrianism per se was incompatible with

a lower date, but because of a prejudice against imperial literature, whose stylistic defects he

did not think compatible with Dionysius’ general tastefulness and moderation. When, in a

later postscript, he acknowledged the new dating, he attributed the poem’s neo-Hellenisticaesthetic to ‘die Kunst der Nachahmung antiker Stilarten’, so marked a feature of the

contemporary visual arts.20 What will be necessary in further attempts to find Dionysius’

proper context is to consider the uptake of the Hellenistic arts, literary and visual, in the

second century, the degree to which they were, or were not, preferred to the arts of the

classical period, and the extent of any difference from previous periods, to distinguish

revivals from continuations.

The obvious one might seem to be the neotericism of Hadrian’s reign. But it is not so

simple. Not all the sources for Hadrian’s own tastes and for literary fashions during his reign

are to be taken at face value.

21

They do not allow us to draw a crude distinction betweenHomerisers and the avant-garde, an opposition which has been properly debunked in

scholarship on Hellenistic poetry, and — supposing anyone were to entertain it in this form —

no less vulnerable in the Antonine period too. The verses quoted by Athenaeus 15.677 F from

Pancrates’ poem on Hadrian’s lion-hunt contains reminiscences of Hellenistic poetry in its

sentimental theme of floral metamorphosis — the very poem which, identified with the

fragments preserved in P. Oxy. 1085, has also been dubbed ‘Homerising’.22 Dionysius has

19 For a fairly unsparing appraisal of Apollonius’ geographical errors, see Delage, 291– 2.

20

Mommsen, 806 – 24; for his judgement of imperial poets, see 806, and for the epilogue,823 – 4. Incidentally, this view entailed that Dionysius even predated Strabo (Anhut, 2 n. 5). In

reaching this conclusion, Mommsen was influenced by his reading of Gottfried Hermann,

Orphica (Leipzig, 1805), 695, placing Dionysius between the ‘younger Alexandrians’

(Nicander and Moschus) and the hexameter poets of the first Christian centuries (812).

21 Discussed by Bowie 2004b, who is inclined to dismiss the claim of Dio (69.4.6) that he

tried to unseat Homer and elevate Antimachus in his place as ‘silly gossip’ (173). The tittle-

tattle is also treated sensibly by Marguerite Yourcenar, in Memoirs of Hadrian (London,

1955), 198.

22 P. Oxy. 1085 = XV Heitsch; but note that with the subsequent discovery of another lion-

hunt poem in P. Oxy. 4352, John Rea encourages doubts over the attribution of 1085 (vol.



190

opted for a genre, style, and diction that enables a virtuoso blending of the Homeric and

Alexandrian, with no sense of tension. The Catalogue of Ships was the authorising model,

and while Dionysius is far from the wretched pasticheurs who can manage no better than

au0ta\r e1peita,23 he draws without inhibition on Homeric formulae and clausulae, and on the

rare occasions when he wants to Homerise (as for Ilium, 815 – 19) he produces a recognisableminiature portrait. More characteristic, though, is the combination of the archaic and

Hellenistic, or rather, the refraction of earlier models through the medium of Hellenistic

poetry, to which Periegesis owes the refurbished didactic genre. In fashioning the didactic

voice, Dionysius’ choices circulate around the theme of knowledge and its transmission, its

literary basis, the literary nature of the narrator’s journey, the confidence with which he can

dispense his knowledge, and the points beyond which his capacity is taxed; all the stances he

adopts come from early Greek hexameter and Hellenistic poetry, reworked in the context of

polite imperial belles-lettres. It is hardly surprising, given its passion for detail, that dozens of

references to toponyms, local myths and other peculiarities, come from Hellenistic poetry.24

Apollonius’ Argonautica is both a model of orderly, linear itineraries, which Dionysius can

take over (or reverse), and a source of details which he can reconstitute and relinearise into an

itinerary of his own (290 – 3, 383 – 97 nn.). It is also a model for ways of looking at the world,

adopting the viewpoint not only of one who travels past, but also of one gazing down from

above. For it is far more than a matter of Realien. The beauty of Dionysius’ world has its

birth in stock Homeric epithets of loveliness; but they are crystallised in tableaux of loci

amoeni, especially associated with divinities, festivals, and choral dances, where the

interweaving of Homer and Hellenistic poetry reaches its height. He is especially given to

reworking similes, both in his dynamic language for running water and in his special

tableaux. In the one case, what was exceptional in the Homeric poems becomes the norm; inthe other, similes involving toponyms, loci amoeni, or simply a strong sense of place become

morceaux de bravoure.25 Archaic and Hellenistic poetry are mobilised equally in support of a

project to present the world in a heightened, intensified, unquotidian form, one where nature

is rich and vibrant, and gods are to be seen revelling with their worshippers at the riverside.

In 1990 Ewen Bowie was sceptical about the very possibility of writing a literary

history of the Antonine period, though twenty years later that prospect is now looking less

LXIII, pp. 3, 13). On Pancrates’ poem, see Bowie 1990, 81– 3; id. 2004b, 173 (‘Homerising’),

181; Leo, 159; A. S. Hollis, ‘Myth in the Service of K ings and Emperors’, in J. A. LópezFérez (ed.), Mitos en la literatura griega helenística e imperial (Madrid, 2003), 1 – 14, at 9 –

14.

23 Pollianus, AP 11.130; Bowie 2004b, 175.

24 In a few cases, echoes and near-citations are carried over from the original to new

geographical contexts, almost as if the physical attributes of the landscape stayed the same,

and only the places associated with them changed: 245, 386, 502, 617 nn.

25 528 – 9, evoking Od . 19.518 – 19, Il . 14.290, Theocr. 12.7 (all bird comparisons), ps.-Theocr.

Id . 9.34, and possibly more, if we could trace the source of ku/ei; 832 – 45, drawing on similesin Ap. Rhod 4.1300 – 2; Il . 2.459 – 63; Ap. Rhod. 4.949 e0p’ i0cu/aj; Anacreon, PMG 408.1.



191

distant, with ‘signs of life’ in the study of imperial poetry. 26 This study of the Periegesis

might constitute at least one piece of a complex jigsaw. Further research into Oppian and ps.-

Oppian is an obvious need. Their choices differ from Dionysius’ in respect of four main

characteristics of didactic poetry (p. 101), but what of other matters, such as their most

privileged models and their techniques of allusion? Despised as it has often been, and inflatedwith rhetorical jingles, the Cynegetica of ps.-Oppian is nevertheless, as Adrian Hollis has

shown, thoroughly imbued with the Hellenistic manner.27 Another intriguing comparison is

Nestor of Laranda, explored and given a context in a characteristically brilliant article by

John Ma.28 The works of the Severan poet were, as far as we can see, more varied than those

of Dionysius, with a lipogrammatic Iliad , an Alexander epic, a didactic poem or poems, and a

work on metamorphoses.29 Ma suggests that his main influences were Hellenistic, but late

Hellenistic (the Alexikepos clearly invokes Nicander, Parthenius’ influence on the

Metamorphoses is possible but less certain30) rather than the high Alexandrian masters; he

suggests that some, at least, of Nestor’s work expressed ‘playfulness, even ironical distance,

towards the Homeric model’, and contrasts it with the ‘reverence with which Homer was

imitated at the level of local literary culture’.31 Barely more than a dozen lines securely

ascribed to Nestor are still extant; we should dearly like to be able to gauge the negotiation of

the Homeric and Hellenistic heritage across the epic, didactic, and mythographical parts of

his oeuvre.

Another question concerns Dionysius’ relationship to Roman poetry. The evidence of

the Periegesis cannot determine whether or not he knew Latin. True, there are some instances

where his treatment of a motif has more in common with an often identifiable Greek,

historiographical or chorographical, source than with that of the Romans poets: his

description of silk-making seems to follow Str abo’s, not the Virgil-based Roman tradition

(752 b – 757 n.); Latin poets also know of the disappearance of the Tigris (Hunink on Lucan,

BC 3.261), but Dionysius’ account is demonstrably related to that of Strabo and perhaps

Eratosthenes (983 – 91, 987 – 91 nn.); the Parthian method of fighting is a Latin topos second to

none in poetic ethnography, but Dionysius’ account has sever al points in common with

26 Bowie 1990, 90: ‘I have offered a sketch, not a history: whether our material w ill ever

allow the latter to be written is doubtful.’ The quotation refers to the collection of essays

edited by K. Carvounis and R. Hunter and published as a Ramus supplement in 2008.

27 Hollis 1994; Whitby, 111 – 14, and ead., ‘The Cynegetica Attributed to Oppian’, in S.

Swain, S. Harrison, and J. Elsner (eds.), Severan Culture (Cambridge, 2007), 125 – 34, esp.

126, 128, 132; De Stefani and Magnelli, 552 – 3. On the Halieutica: Whitby, 108 – 11; De

Stefani and Magnelli, 551 – 2.

28 John Ma, ‘The Worlds of Nestor the Poet’, in Swain, Harrison, and Elsner (n. 27), 83 – 113.

29 Testimonia ibid. 83 – 8.

30 Nicander: ibid. 87, 107 – 8. Parthenius: J. L. Lightfoot, Parthenius of Nicaea (Oxford,

1999), 164 – 5; Ma (n. 27), 84, 107 (more confident).

31 Ma, 110 (cf. 107 – 11 passim); for the fragments, 98 – 103.



192

Trogus/Justin (common source Apollodorus of Artemita?) while it fails to mention their

discharge of arrows while in flight, which so obsesses the Roman poets (1045 n.). On the

other hand, the topos of Massagetae drinking mare’s milk mixed with blood is found mostly

in Latin poets and in only one other Greek source (745 n.), while the idea that specific rivers

carry gemstones in their waters is one that particularly pleases Seneca.

32

If 321 is a referenceto iron-working in Noricum, that too is a Latin topos. There is a rash of references to the

Alani, one of Dionysius’ most up-to-date references, in Neronian literature, although

locations vary.33 In 576, if the reference to the Bistones is metonymic, the parallels are in

Roman poets, but there may of course be lost Greek sources; so too, although Dionysius is

the only Greek poet before Agathias and then Tzetzes to mention Thule, Mela seems to know

of earlier Greek poetic treatments;34 and while the Tanais section (659 – 79) has several

similarities with Virgil’s ethnography of northern herdsmen, none is so compelling that it

could not have been drawn from the common pool of tradition on which both tableaux draw.

Two or three noun-epithet combinations find their best parallels in Roman poetry (532 u9gra\

ne/fh, 1171 a0metrh/toio qala/sshj; cf. also 1052 Au0soni/ou basilh=oj), but the first two

have Greek precedent, and in the second case it is particularly clear that the Latin parallels

are calques. Finally one might register certain stylistic touches: the nicety noted on 921 – 2; a

(limited) cultivation of alliteration (440, 1071 nn.35); a predilection for verbal arrangements

and verse-patterns (pp. 73-4) which suggests comparison with Latin poetry; and a fondness

for enallage, especially in its classic form, the transference of an epithet from a genitive noun

to the noun which governs it (37, 131, 168, 392, 513, 556, 655, 734 v.l., 878, 909, 1171), but

also in contexts involving prepositional phrases (845, 878). Critics who have registered

Dionysius’ other stylistic tics have not noted this one, although it is all the more striking in

that enallage is not a conspicuous feature of Hellenistic (let alone archaic hexameter) poetic

32 Sen. Med . 725 Hydaspes gemmifer , cf. Heracl. Oet . 628 dives . . . Hydaspes; [Sen.] Heracl.

Oet . 622 – 3 omnis plaga gemmiferi . . . Histri; Stat. Theb. 8.237 gemmiferum . . . Hydaspen;

Claud. III Cons. Hon. 4 Hydaspeis . . . gemmis. For the river topos in Posidonius, see pp. 153-

4.

33 305 n. Lucan, BC 8.223 puts them beyond the Caspian Gates; Martial, 7.30.6, combines

them with the Sarmatians of southern Russia.

34 581; Mela 3.57; Agathias, AP 6.54, Tzetz. Chil . 8.215.672, 8.218.714 – 15.

35 A possible token of Latin influence in a poet of this date, and recognised as such by I.

Opelt, ‘Alliteration im Griechischen? Untersuchungen zur Dichtersprache des Nonnos von

Panopolis’, Glotta 37 (1958), 205 – 32 (see also remarks on ps.-Oppian on 216). Systematic

research is lacking, but after its exploitation in early Greek hexameters poetry it seems not to

have been much cultivated as a literary technique. Isolated claims have been made for its

revival by certain Hellenistic poets: Theocritus (J. Defradas, ‘Le rôle de l’allitération dans la

poésie grecque’, REA 60 (1958), 36 – 49); Aratus (B. A. van Groningen, La poésie verbale grecque (Amsterdam, 1953), 79); Euphorion (van Groningen ibid. 31 – 2; Magnelli 2002, 51).



193

style.36 It could be that it imitates the effect of a conspicuous outlier: Nicander seems to stand

out in his liking for the figure,37 but he also points the way towards later Latin epic, Oppian’s

Halieutica and Nonnus’ Dionysiaca, where, as Bers suggests, ‘the influence of Latin usage is

surely at work’.38

If we can no more prove that Dionysius had first-hand acquaintance with Roman poetry than we can for other imperial Greek authors, he nevertheless seems to bear witness to

a sort of common poetic geographical culture. My forthcoming commentary will illustrate the

gratifying precision and nicety with which Dionysius has engaged with its several aspects.

36 Bers, 44 – 5 (with three examples from Apollonius and a single example each from

Callimachus, Theocritus, and Lycophron). It is of course characteristic of Pindar and tragedy:

see K. – G. i. 263 (Anm. 2); E. Williger, Sprachliche Untersuchungen zu den Komposita der

griechischen Dichter des 5. Jahrhunderts (Cologne, 1928), 9 – 16.

37 Jacques, ii, p. civ and n. 219; id. iii, p. cvi (nine examples in the Alexipharmaca).

38

Bers, 45; for Oppian and Nonnus, see bibliography in Jacques, ii, p. civ n. 219. Parallelsfor the transference in 319 yuxroi=j 0Agaqu/rsoij are in Latin poetry (318 – 19 n.).



194

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