Xenophon participated in the March of the Ten Thousand, but in the Anabasis, instead of parading his autopsy, he keeps his narratorial persona separate from his character. This separation, however, is subtly blurred when, on the one hand, the narrator adopts the perspective of the character, who is by far the most prominent focalizing instance in the narrative, and, on the other hand, the character appropriates narratorial functions: Xenophon the character comes to the fore as embedded narrator and commentator of the events. Furthermore, his references to the past can be read as meta-historical, i.e. they shed light on the commemorative act of the Anabasis. While the choice of a hetero-diegetic narrator helps Xenophon to enhance the credibility of the account of his deeds, the intricate entanglement of narrator and character contributes to the characterization of himself as the privileged agent in the March of the Ten Thousand.

We have been fortunate enough to witness in our own time the launching of a reconstruction of an ancient trireme. Questions about the trireme's architecture that had been debated for centuries were definitively resolved by the research that preceded the building of the reconstruction. However, certain aspects of the care and handling of triremes remain to be examined. Among them is the notion that triremes in commission were customarily hauled up onto the beach at night.

R. M. Cook has recently pointed out that the transport of warships across the Isthmus of Corinth was not the normal use of the diolkos since there was no regular need for such transport. Rather, the diolkos from its inception served a commercial function and its use provided the Corinthian state with a source of revenue.

One hundred years ago, in 1842, the Lycian Marbles were exhibited for the first time in the British Museum. Sir Charles Fellows had discovered them at Xanthus, the capital of Lycia, and succeeded in procuring them for the Trustees of the British Museum. Since that time, the Lycian Marbles have formed one of the main parts of the collection of Greek sculpture in London. But their London home seems to have had the strange effect of making them more and more reticent: these Lycian sculptures have indeed been extremely successful in withstanding all attempts at explaining them or even understanding them. In spite of the immense sensation caused at the time of their arrival in England and all through the nineteenth century, there is nobody who can even nowadays assign to any of them an accurate date or supply an adequate commentary.

The Harpy Tomb provides us with an excellent example for these (I admit) rather sweeping statements. Its place was in the middle of the Archaic Room of the British Museum. Everybody walked round it, looked at it, tried to explain it, and gave it up. Much has been written about it during these last hundred years, but the only solutions offered were of a vague mythological or symbolic character. However, I believe the time has come to attempt an explanation from a different angle altogether. It seems hopeless to continue on the well-trodden track, and to consider it simply as a piece of architecture or a piece of sculpture, in which we try to puzzle out the religious views expressed in the reliefs. In the interpretation offered in this paper, it is regarded primarily as the tomb or heroön of a certain family and as a monument of a certain historical character.

The hymn to the Greatest Kouros from Palaikastro, Crete, has occasioned considerable debate among students of choral lyric and ancient Greek religion since its discovery in 1904. The god invoked as the greatest kouros has been identified with Zeus Diktaios in whose sanctuary at Palaikastro the hymn was discovered. The hymn as we have it is a second or third century AD copy of a late fourth or third century BC composition. As is so often the case in Cretan studies, Minoan antecedents for the cult of Zeus Diktaios at Palaikastro and for the hymn have been suggested and explored.

In the summer of 1884 I was permitted to accompany Professor Ramsay on his journey in Asia Minor, assisted by the Senate of the University of Cambridge with a grant from the Worts Fund. To my great regret, however, a fever compelled me to return home after spending only two months in the country, during which time I had been a novice in the various arts required for scientific travel. Hence, therefore, so far as my personal share in the expedition is concerned, the results obtained are limited both in number and in value. Such as they are, they are embodied in the following pages, and in the accompanying map; I have also introduced matter, as will be seen by the references, of which the credit belongs entirely to Professor Ramsay.

It will be seen from a study of the map, that our route during the part of the journey to be discussed in these pages, lay in the upper valley of the Maeander, with its tributary the Karasu (Morsynus); in the upper valley of the Gerenis Tchai (Indus); in the valleys of the Gebren Tchai and of the Istanoz Tchai, and in the district west of the Lake of Buldur. As regards the political divisions, it lay in the border lands of Caria, Phrygia, and Pisidia. The whole journey occupied about five weeks, as we left the railway at Kuyujak on May 28, and rejoined it near Denisli on July 5.

The Persian army, moving on Athens after Thermopylae, found the city deserted, but the Acropolis held by temple servants and ‘a few poor men’: who, remembering the oracle of the ‘wooden walls,’ ‘for a long time’ defended wooden breastworks against the Persians, but were in the end overpowered.

Dr. G. B. Grundy, having recounted thus far the Herodotean story, writes (The Great Persian War, p. 357):

‘But the strangest part of the whole story is the account of the impression created in the fleet by the news of the capture. The inconsistency between the description of the garrison and its defensive works, and the alarm created by the capture of the fortification, is so glaring as to be irreconcilable, and modern historians have naturally been led to form conjectures as to what actually took place.’

The structure and composition of the Iliad have been discussed often: usually, however, rather with the object of identifying the component parts and tracing their antecedents, than of apprehending and interpreting the design of the poem as a whole.

I. Homeric Epics as Works of Art

Some critics have argued, or assumed, that there was in fact little or no design; that the cantos or lays somehow fell into their present places like the books of the Old Testament, or at most, as Anaximander might have said, κατὰ τὴν τοῦ χρόνου τάξιν in accordance with a traditional sagatheme, which may, or may not, have had historical background or mythical meaning. As to that historical background, again, opinions differ; and whether the myth was solar or sociological.

In his article on The Sickness at Athens Mr. Watson Williams gives strong reasons for identifying the sickness with bubonic plague, and then goes on to say regretfully, ‘Thucydides, it is true, does not mention buboes’. But are we so sure that he does not? What are the ἕλκη which he mentions along with φλύκταιναι (ii. 49.5) as the outward manifestations of the disease? We have had no adequate explanation of these. Liddell and Scott render them as ‘plague-ulcers’, but this is obviously a conventional translation not based on any serious study of the symptoms of the sickness. Professor Page has given us a detailed discussion of Thucydides' medical vocabulary, but has shed no light on the word ἕλκος. He begins by telling us that ‘ἕλκος is a term of general reference, most commonly signifying a lesion of the soft parts of the body (the context must decide whether “sore”, “ulcer”, “wound”, or what else is intended)’; then, without any discussion of its context, we find him translating the word as ‘sores’ and finally he seeks to persuade us that the phrase ϕλυκταίναις μικραῖς καὶ ἕλκεσιν ἐξηνθηκός is equivalent to ‘crimson or dusky red spots covering the greater part of the body’. Sir William MacArthur, arguing persuasively for typhus, and Professor Shrewsbury, pressing the claims of measles, approach the problems from the medical standpoint, without any serious discussion of vocabulary, and neither offers any comment on the meaning of ‘ἕλκος. Other theorists appear to ignore it completely and concentrate on those symptoms which may be made to fit any infectious fever and particularly on those which are sufficiently vaguely described to allow of a little discreet distortion of the evidence. But surely we cannot hope to identify the sickness until we have decided what the ‘ἕλκος are, for, in the absence of laboratory tests, it is after all mainly by the skin eruptions and other external manifestations that we distinguish one infectious fever from another.

The aegis is Athena's most intimate and widely-discussed attribute, yet one of its vital aspects has so far been largely neglected: its colour. We shall argue that the nature and the role of the aegis and of its bearer are reflected not only in its shape and decoration, but also in its colour and luminosity. As with Athena's glaukos eyes, the key to chromatic characterization and meaning lies in brightness rather than hue. Most often in literature and art, Athena's aegis is characterized by a yellow or gold reminiscent of the gleam of the sun or of metal, which expresses a general divine gleaming brightness but also Athena's specific charis, namely the beauty, vitality and sparkling (or cunning) attractiveness that she can bestow on mortals under her protection. The dark or even black aegis (kyanaigis or melanaigis), by contrast, expresses the dark, wrathful and furious side of the goddess. Brightly shimmering or darkly obscuring, the aegis refers to Athena's protective, yet also potentially destructive, power. Its variable characterization in terms of ‘colour language’ constituted one tool among the many that were available to the Greeks for the construction of her divine personality.

Greeks, unlike Romans, gambled with five not four knucklebones (astragaloi) in their dice games. As Pollux explains, the high number of an individual knucklebone was sometimes eight rather than six, and so when a dicer rolled ‘all eights’ they attained a sum of 40. This roll was called the ‘Euripides’. The confusion about this throw is due to a report found in Byzantine sources and attributed to Suetonius, where it is claimed that dicers of Greek antiquity used four knucklebones. Suetonius may have confused the Roman custom with the Greek one, but there are good grounds for questioning whether the report is from ‘Suetonius’ at all. Elsewhere ‘Suetonius’ reports that Greeks played with three rather than two cubic dice, but such a report cannot have been made before the seventh century AD.

A great advance in this subject was made by A. J. V. Fine, who studied the extant ὅροι and some of the literary evidence, but the general tendency in recent writing about Solon has been to dwell on the views of other scholars rather than to assess the ancient evidence. In seeking to redress the balance in this paper, I acknowledge my debt to the authors of the books and articles which I have used and cited. Our chief task is to discover the conditions under which various forms of property and especially landed property were held in seventh-century Athens; for this is essential, if we are to shed any light on Draco's laws of debt and Solon's Seisachtheia.

Many explanations of Solon's work have been based on the axioms that land in Attica had passed into the possession of individuals long before the time of Solon and was therefore available in his time for mortgage, seizure and sale. This axiom was expressed thus by Swoboda: ‘one thing is quite certain, that private ownership is of high antiquity among the Greeks and the persistence of clan- or family-ownership till Solon's day appears absolutely excluded’; and Glotz drew the logical deduction that during the seventh century land in Attica was changing hands more and more from day to day. The purpose of this paper is to show that this axiom is incorrect in respect of one kind of land and that a new explanation may be advanced. It is divided into five parts: the organisation of society in early Attica, the tenure of property, the Seisachtheia, fourth-century explanations of Solon's reform, and a summary of conclusions.

It is sad that Acharnians is so rarely produced on stage; it is also strange, for, visually as well as verbally, the play is immensely inventive and funny, and has deservedly engaged a great deal of critical and interpretative attention. One cannot but hesitate to add to the abundant literature. However, Mr E. L. Bowie's theory, recently propounded in this journal, that Dicaeopolis represents Eupolis would, if correct, have interesting consequences both for our interpretation of the play and of some of the surviving fragments of Eupolis, as Mr Bowie shows.

The argument in the Protagoras which starts with an analysis of giving in to pleasure in terms of ignorance, and leads into a demonstration that courage is knowledge, is certainly one of the most brilliant in Plato and equally certainly one of the trickiest. My discussion deals mainly with three problems: (I) Precisely what absurdity is detected in the popular account of moral weakness, and where is it located in the text? On the basis of largely formal considerations I believe that the absurdity is a much less subtle affair than has been thought, and that it is located at 355c-d. (II) What is the connection between knowledge and belief in 358b-d, and how do these two concepts figure in the arguments which precede and follow this passage? Here I want to comment on differences between the Protagoras and other Socratic arguments. (III) How good is the argument at 356–357e which analyses moral weakness as ignorance? There are several problems here, including a fundamental puzzle of the dialogue, namely that, apparently, Plato uses a non-Socratic hedonism to establish the Socratic thesis that virtue is knowledge. Here I agree with those critics who see irony at the expense of the sophists—sophistic teaching is shown to be grounded in hedonism—but in addition I suggest that Plato also offers an oblique criticism of hedonism itself in the course of which basic points of real substance are made. This interpretation fits in with various other features of the dialogue, including the curious fact that, though the main argument proceeds on a thorough-going hedonistic basis, Socrates is subtly but distinctly not committed to that basis. Hence the unity of the dialogue is supported, and as well an attitude to hedonism is given which is more consistent with that of other dialogues, while we are able to see the Socratic paradox in its regular role as a tool of ethical exploration.

This paper is intended as a contribution towards the study of only certain Ionian pot fabrics found at Naucratis. I have, therefore, merely drawn attention to the presence of the Bucchero from Lesbos, which demands a much fuller treatment than I am able to give it. I have also only briefly referred to the Clazomenian Black-faced and Pale Slip Ware because this must be studied in connexion with the fragments of the same ware from Daphnae. Throughout the paper in using the name ‘Naucratite Fabric’ I am referring only to the White Slip ‘Chalice Style,’ which may or may not have been made at Naucratis.

In the early eighties of last century, when Professor Flinders Petrie and Professor Ernest Gardner published their account of the first excavations at Naucratis, any strictly systematic classification of the pottery found on the site was practically impossible, owing to the lack of material and data for comparison and identification. Since that date and even since the early years of this century, when Dr. Hogarth made the last excavation of the site, there has been a vast increase in archaeological knowledge and much material is now available. It is in the light of some of this material and this knowledge, especially of that gained from recent excavations either partially or wholly published, that I have ventured to attack the problems presented by the numerous and varied fragments of pottery which were found during the course of both excavations at Naucratis. My studies have had to be limited, practically, to the collections of fragments in the British Museum, the Ashmolean and the Fitzwilliam; but I can safely say, especially in reference to the Naucratite ware proper, that not one single piece of evidence of any real importance derived from accounts of other finds, or from photographs of fragments from other collections, has in any degree refuted, but rather on the contrary has established the conclusions which I had already drawn.

The purpose of this article is twofold: primarily to draw attention to the evidence for a hitherto unrecognised plot against the throne of Alexander the Great; and incidentally to re-examine the evidence for the regency of Philip II on behalf of his nephew Amyntas son of Perdikkas—a subject which has important repercussions on the main theme.

Until the end of the nineteenth century students of the reign of Philip II of Macedon, on confronting the question of Philip's regency, had simply to make a choice between the circumstantial (but at least partly incorrect) notice of Justin—who says he was regent—and the contrary indication or implication of Diodorus and all other sources, contemporary or later, including of course Demosthenes.

On the death of Perdikkas III in battle against the Illyrians Philip ‘became king of Macedonia, in the archonship of Kallimedes, the first year of Olympiad 105’ (359 B.C.). So says a scholiast on Aischines iii 51. Philip ‘was king over (ἐβασίλєυσєν) the Macedonians for 24 years’, says Diodorus—that is, from 359 to 336. On the other hand, Justin claims that on Perdikkas' death Philip became regent; he remained for a long time—diu—non regem sed tutorem pupilli. His pupillus, his ‘ward’, was Amyntas, son of the late king and nephew of Philip. As Macedonia was threatened, continues this author, with serious wars and required the leadership of more than a mere boy, Philip compulsus a populo regnum suscepit.

Although the papyrologist and the palaeographer have by now made the study of books in the ancient world a preserve almost peculiarly their own, it may yet be helpful to indicate literary evidence for the reading and writing habits of the educated classes in periods and places in which such modern studies have as yet been able to provide little or no material. A case in point is Antioch in the fourth century A.D., where there is considerable information embodied in the little appreciated works of Libanius, by which light is shed on the question of the writing and publication of books of various kinds. Except for some recent remarks upon copyists and book distribution in Antioch made by Paul Petit, this body of evidence has remained virtually untouched, despite its value. There are limitations, of course; Libanius has no use for any other culture than that of the Hellene and the rhetor. Syriac is mentioned only once in all his writings, and then in a contemptuous aside (Or. xlii 31); Latin, which he realised was increasingly in competition with his own educational system, he met with determined opposition (e.g. Or. i 214, 234; x 14), while he looked upon Christian literature with all the rancour of a confirmed pagan (e.g. Or. xxx 21; xviii 178).

To him, as a schoolmaster, and to his students in rhetoric, books were essential, but it is clear that some restrictions were imposed both on master and pupil by the availability of texts. The ordinary school text seems to have been obtainable, subject to the rules of supply and demand, but other works were correspondingly harder to obtain. One must not look to him for indications of purchase price. It may have been necessary for the parents of his pupils to purchase books—it certainly appears as a normal item in their budget—but he never descends to the mundane question of cost. He himself usually got his books by presentation rather than by purchase, and in any case he maintained his own copyist. His fellow rhetors, Acacius and Demetrius, did the same, and the lending of a text for the purpose of taking a copy was normal practice (e.g. Or. liv 68). There was, however, in addition to the demand which these private copyists satisfied in the establishments of professional sophists or the wealthy families, some market for books for which the professional copyist catered. That there was also some traffic in second-hand books is indicated by Libanius' account of the repeated attempts to burgle his library and of the theft and subsequent misadventures of his prized text of Thucydides. This turned up in the possession of a freshman who had purchased it on the open market (Or. i 148). The ordinary student found the purchase of books a necessity, and Libanius reproves those parents who keep their sons so short of money that they are unable to buy the texts they need (e.g. Ep. 428.3).

The Greeks had a proverb which compared talkative persons to ‘the gong at Dodona.’ Menander (342–291 B.C.) in his Arrephoros made one of his characters remark:

‘Give this creature Myrtile the merest touch or simply call nurse, and there's no end to her talking. To stop the gong at Dodona, which they say sounds all day if a passer-by lays a finger on it, would be an easier job than to stop her tongue; for it sounds all night as well.’

A fragment of Kallimachos (c. 310–c. 240 B.C.) implies the same proverb:

… ‘lest it might be said that I was but awakening the echoes of the bronze at Dodona.’

Fig. 1 gives the picture on the front of an Attic red-figured bell-krater which was formerly in the Roman market: about 1831 the vase belonged to the dealer Rosi, at another time to the dealer Campanari: it has since disappeared. The reproduction is taken from the lithograph (made from a drawing in Gerhard's apparatus) which was published by C. von Paucker, with a commentary, in AZ 1852, pl. 42 and pp. 450–8.

Two small pieces are marked in the drawing as restored. There may be a little restoration besides this: the cheekpieces of the helmets, part of the shield, and one or two small particulars, were either retouched in the original, or copied carelessly by the modern artist. The faces, too, especially those of the two left-hand figures, cannot be quite as they were in the original.

The date is about 450 B.C. As to the artist, there is much that recalls the Eupolis Painter, and the vase is almost certainly his work (ARV. p. 670 no. 3). Compare the drapery, especially, with that on his name-piece, the bell-krater in Vienna (1772: A, WV. E pl. 12, 1, whence Robert Herm. p. 65 fig. 52: A, von Lücken pl. 113: ARV. pp. 668–9 no. 1).

The Teian inscription CIG 3064, published by Boeckh from copies by Pococke and Guérin, is followed in the Corpus by a long explanatory commentary and has since been the subject of much discussion and controversy. It consists of a list of proper names, to each of which is added the phrase τοῦ (or ἐκ τοῦ) --- πύργου and a family name. I give a representative extract: