The budget of Perikles can be reconstructed only by studying numerous pieces of evidence, of varying importance and varying reliability. Neither the importance nor the reliability of any piece of evidence can beproperly assessed except by a scholar who can carry all the evidence in his head, which I am far from capable of doing, but it is safe to say (a) that the cost of Perikles's building programme forms an important element in the total budget, and (b) that considerable uncertainty exists about the cost of these buildings. When we find Cavaignac estimating the cost of the Propylaea at 400 talents, whereas Kolbe, Wilamowitz, and Busolt put it at over 2000, it is clear that the target area is large; and I hope it may be of some service if a figure for the Parthenon can be arrived at whose margin of error is at any rate less than 400 per cent.

An obvious starting point is the Parthenon building accounts, of which considerable fragments survive. These fragments show various sources of income, the treasury of the Goddess, the Hellenotamiai, the Trieropoioi, the baths, the Xenodikoi, the Teichopoioi, the mines at Laureion, and (towards the end of the work) the sale of surplus materials. But in no case do the actual sums involved survive with sufficient fullness to prove what the total expenditure was, even for one year. The most that can be proved is that in 444/3 the income was at least 38 talents, and that the out-going board handed over to their successors something more than 33 talents in 446 and a similar sum in 441.

This article examines two funerary monuments associated with the battle of Chaironeia in 338: first, the mound, covering a mass cremation, by the Kephissos; second, near the town of Chaironeia, the mass burial surrounded by a stone enclosure and topped by a colossal stone lion. The accepted identifications are confirmed (the mound is that of the Macedonian dead, the lion monument that of Theban dead, in all probability the Sacred Band), and two propositions developed: the mound does not relate to the tactical dispositions of the battle, and hence the generally accepted reconstruction of the battle must be discarded; the lion monument must date to much later than 338. In developing these propositions, I examine material which has been long known, but never considered in depth; I notably present what I believe are the first photographs of some of the osteological material from the mass burial under the lion monument. More generally, the two monuments, located at different points of the battlefield, set up by different actors and at different moments, offer the opportunity for considerations on the different functions of ‘memory’ surrounding an historical event: the Macedonian mound reflected the needs and self-imagining of the victorious army, imposing a trace in the landscape; the lion monument embeds itself in preexisting topographies, for a more reflective, and more troubled, effect.

These hours of backward clearness come to all men and women, once at least, when they read the past in the light of the present, with the reasons of things, like unobserved finger-posts, protruding where they never saw them before. The journey behind them is mapped out, and figured with its false steps, its wrong observations, all its infatuated, deluded geography.

Henry James, The Bostonians, ch. xxxix

This paper is intended to contribute to the study of both Homer and Greek tragedy, and more particularly to the study of the influence of the epic upon the later poets. The current revival of interest among English scholars in the poetic qualities of the Homeric poems must be welcomed by all who care for the continuing survival and propagation of classical literature. The renewed emphasis on the validity of literary criticism as applied to presumably oral texts may encourage a more positive appreciation of the subtlety of Homeric narrative techniques, and of the coherent plan which unifies each poem. The aim of this paper is to focus attention on a number of elements in Greek tragedy which are already present in Homer, and especially on the way in which these poets exploit the theme of knowledge—knowledge of one's future, knowledge of one's circumstances, knowledge of oneself. Recent scholarship on tragedy has paid much more attention to literary criticism in general and to poetic irony in particular: these insights can also illuminate the epic. Conversely, the renewed interest in Homer's structural and thematic complexity should also enrich the study of the tragedians, his true heirs.

This paper is really the first part of a report on the results attained in 1883 by the Asia Minor Exploration Fund. Besides some minor excursions, I then made two long journeys in the interior of Asia Minor, June to October. I was accompanied almost the whole of the time by Mr. J. R. S. Sterrett, a Virginian student at the American School of Athens. Our usual practice was to ride by separate roads, and in this way the expedition surveyed a much wider country than if I had been alone: the results were so good that I am anxious to arrange the expedition of 1884 in a similar way. Our chief aim was to construct the map of ancient Phrygia, and our method was to examine each district thoroughly enough to be able to say, not only where there were, but also where there were not, ancient sites. The discovery of monuments and inscriptions was a secondary object, and we did not aim at completeness in this regard; but even here our results are important. We copied more than four hundred and fifty inscriptions, which is at the rate of one hundred per month, and I incorporate in this paper those which have most direct bearing on the antiquities of each district. Most of them have passed under the eyes of both of us: where only one of us actually copied the inscription from the stone, I give his initials at the head of the text: where no initials are attached, it is to be understood that we have both verified the text on the stone. I shall speak at another time of the monuments which we found.

The vividness of Homeric poetry has been admired since antiquity, but has been difficult to pin down with precision. It is usually thought to come about because readers are prompted to visualize the storyworld in the form of mental images seen with the mind's eye. But this cannot be right, both because there are serious scientific problems with the concept of ‘pictures in the head’ and because Homer does not offer many detailed descriptions, which are a prerequisite for eliciting detailed mental images. This article presents a different, and cognitively more realistic, take on the imageability of Homeric epic, which is based on recent reader-response studies inspired by the enactivist theory of cognition. These studies make a compelling case for readerly visualization as an embodied response, which does not depend on bright or detailed mental images. An analysis of the chariot race in Iliad 23 identifies specific features of what may be called an ‘enactive style’, notably the description of simple bodily actions. The final part of the article demonstrates that an enactivist take on Homer's vividness is not incompatible with the ancient concept of enargeia, the chief rhetorical term with which Homer's vividness is characterized in ancient criticism.

Fundamental questions have recently been raised about the way hoplites fought and about reason for the survival of this curious form of warfare over a period of some three centuries. The present paper seeks to examine the grounds on which traditional views have been assailed.

The traditional view is that in the fully-developed hoplite line the soldiers were packed closely together, each man relying on his right-hand neighbour for protection because his own shield, on his left arm, could not adequately cover his right side. A famous consequence of this situation was the tendency for the man on the extreme right of the line to edge further to his right in order to outflank the enemy and protect his own vulnerable side. This process is attested in Thucydides and elsewhere.

This article re-evaluates the significance attributed to Hecataeus' encounter with the Theban priests described by Herodotus (2.143) by setting it against the evidence of Late Period Egyptian representations of the past. In the first part a critique is offered of various approaches Classicists have taken to this episode and its impact on Greek historiography. Classicists have generally imagined this as an encounter in which the young, dynamic and creative Greeks construct an image of the static, ossified and incredibly old culture of the Egyptians, a move which reveals deeper assumptions in the scholarly discourse on Greeks and ‘other’ cultures in the Mediterranean world. But the civilization that Herodotus confronted in his long excursus on Egypt was not an abstract, eternal Egypt. Rather, it was the Egypt of his own day, at a specific historical moment – a culture with a particular understanding of its own long history. The second part presents evidence of lengthy Late Period priestly genealogies, and more general archaizing tendencies. Remarkable examples survive of the sort of visual genealogy which would have impressed upon the travelling Greek historians the long continuum of the Egyptian past. These include statues with genealogical inscriptions and relief sculptures representing generations of priests succeeding to their fathers' office. These priestly evocations of a present firmly anchored in the Egyptian past are part of a wider pattern of cultivating links with the historical past in the Late Period of Egyptian history. Thus, it is not simply the marvel of a massive expanse of time which Herodotus encountered in Egypt, but a mediated cultural awareness of that time. The third part of the essay argues that Herodotus used this long human past presented by the Egyptian priests in order to criticize genealogical and mythical representations of the past and develop the notion of an historical past. On the basis of this example, the article concludes by urging a reconsideration of the scholarly paradigm for imagining the encounter between Greeks and ‘others’ in ethnographic discourse in order to recognize the agency of the Egyptian priests, and other non-Greek ‘informants’.

A swell of recent books on Greek athletics has resurrected, often no higher than a footnote, an old question: when did Greek athletes begin to exercise nude? Bronze Age archaeology and the Homeric poems make it fairly certain that athletic nudity was not practiced before the late eighth century. The evidence for its introduction is, however, contradictory. A complex, confused, and predominantly late tradition crediting the innovation variously to the Olympic victor Orsippos of Megara (or of Sparta), Akanthos of Sparta, or to an unnamed Athenian athlete, places it in the eighth or seventh centuries. But both Thucydides and Plato report that it was only shortly before their time that Greeks stopped wearing the zoma and began to compete nude.

There have been found in Samos boundary-stones, horoi, of the temene of Athena, Ἀθηνῶν μεδέονσα, and of the Eponymoi and Ion, both Ἀθήνηθεν. All come from the great plain of Khora which runs between Tigani, the ancient city, and the Heraion. On the ground of these inscriptions alone it has been suggested, and it is commonly believed, that Athens made her conquest of Samos in 439 the occasion for seizing all or part of the plain, and that a tithe of the land seized was assigned for the benefit of the three Athenian cults represented, the remainder being occupied by a party of cleruchs from Athens. The plain of Khora is both the largest and the richest in the whole island. No doubt it was the property of the aristocratic Geomoroi, descendants of the early settlers and presumably to be identified with the oligarchs who had revolted from Athens in 441/0. That their lands should have been forfeit upon their own flight into sanctuary at Anaia would not be surprising in the context of the harsh terms which Athens imposed. Moreover, we have an obvious parallel in the confiscation and division of Lesbian territory after the revolt of Mytilene in 427, and in the allotment of a tithe of the divided kleroi to the gods on that occasion (Thuc. iii 50). Epigraphical evidence for temene confirms that similar measures were taken when a cleruchy was sent to Chalkis in 446.

Gorgias, le sophiste, le raisonneur, ľincrédule Gorgias, lorsqu'il veut montrer la puissance irrésistible de la parole, se réfère à deux formes de paroles, qui sont les moins rationnelles de toutes. La première pourrait, à cet égard, laisser un doute, puisqu'il s'agit de la poésie; mais la seconde n'en laisse aucun, car le texte désigne bien clairement la parole magique et les sortilèges: «Les incantations sacrées qui se font par la parole apportent le plaisir, emportent le chagrin; en effet, le pouvoir de ľincantation, se mêlant à ľopinion de ľâme, ľensorcelle et la fait changer ďavis de façon magique. Car on a trouvé deux arts de magie et de sorcellerie, qui sont les fautes de ľâme et les erreurs de ľopinion trompée» (Hélène, 9). Ľaccumulation de mots comme ἐπῳδαί, θέλγείν, γοητεία, μαγεία, montre assez qu'il s'agit de magie au sens propre du terme; elle confirme aussi que la parole poétique, mentionnée en même temps, ľest, elle aussi, pour son effet puissant et mystérieux. La rencontre ďun tel thème dans un tel contexte et chez un tel auteur pourrait avoir de quoi surprendre et offre un sujet ďétude qui semble assez approprié pour un hommage adressé à ľillustre auteur de The Greeks and the Irrational. Il le paraît plus encore si, au lieu de considérer le texte lui-même, on regarde en arrière, du côté des poètes qui ont vécu avant Gorgias: un bref examen suffit alors à montrer que la tentative du sophiste pour utiliser rationnellement ces pouvoirs irrationnels de la parole est, en fait, ľaboutissement ďune longue évolution, qui a permis et facilité cette prise de position spectaculaire.

En effet, pour que le pouvoir miraculeux de la poésie et de la magie pût se trouver annexé à parole humaine en général, il fallait que celui-ci eût profondément changé de sens. Ľexemple de la magie peut servir à illustrer cette différence de valeur: c'est pourquoi il mérite ďêtre évoqué ici, dans la mesure où il éclaire ce qui concerne la poésie.

In a former number of this periodical (Vol. XXX., pp. 85 f.) I brought out a revised text of the νόμος γεωργικός, In this article I propose to discuss some of the problems which it raises and to add a translation. The account which Zachariä von Lingenthal gave of the law in his Geschichte des Griechischrömischen Rechts, 3rd ed., pp. 249–57, has formed the basis of most later studies on the subject and his opinion of its origin and scope has been generally followed. To take only one example, Albert Vogt in his work on Basil the First (Paris, 1908) accepts all the views of Zachariä and deduces from them various interesting but, in my opinion, ill-grounded conclusions. For I have the misfortune to differ from Zachariä in three important particulars. We differ first, as to the origin of the Law, secondly, as to the legal position under it of the agricultural classes, and thirdly, as to the economical character of the two forms of tenancy which it refers to. It will facilitate the discussion of these points if I preface it by an analysis of the Law and a sketch of the state of society which, as I read it, it presents.

The nature of the census figures produced by Demetrius of Phaleron, crucial evidence for the size of the Athenian population, has been misunderstood. The census categories were not ‘native Athenians, foreign residents and slaves’, but ‘citizens above the property qualification, residents without political rights and members of households’. The property qualification of 1,000 drachmas associated with Demetrius' regime was the requirement for holding the highest offices; the property requirement for citizenship rights was lower, as it was in the spurious constitution of Draco described in Athenaion Politeia 4, which was probably invented and inserted during Demetrius' reign. In the light of this reinterpretation of the evidence for the structure of the Athenian population under Demetrius, a reconsideration of the evidence for the size of the Athenian population in 322 BC suggests that there were ca. 30,000 adult male citizens and far fewer metics than generally assumed, probably ca. 5,000. The distribution of property among the citizen population was very uneven, with the richest 30% of the population owning about 80% of the wealth. According to Demetrius’ census as reinterpreted here, slaves outnumbered free residents by ‘only’ about 3:1, which still seems an implausibly high figure, but needs to be taken seriously as a government estimate rather than a rhetorical exaggeration.

One of the most familiar traits of the part-horse, part-man creatures known as silens is their keen interest in women. In Athenian vase-painting, the female companions of the silens are characterized by a variety of attributes and items of dress, and exhibit mixed feelings toward the attentions of silens. The complexities of the imagery have resulted in disagreement in modern scholarship on several points, including the identity of these females, the significance of their attributes, and the explanation of a change in their receptivity to the advances of the silens. One of the reasons for the lack of consensus in the scholarship is the fact that the imagery raises not one question but many: questions concerning iconographical method, mythology, ritual, and poetry. In what follows I have attempted to separate some of these entangled issues. I hope to show that the companions of the silens are nymphs and not maenads, and that a major change in the iconography of silens and nymphs, occurring in late sixth-century red-figure Attic vase-painting, reflects in some way developments in the Athenian dramatic genre of satyr-play.

At Protagoras 316b8 Socrates introduces Hippocrates to Protagoras, and explains why Hippocrates wishes to be his pupil; and for the next twelve pages of the dialogue the sophist, encouraged by Socrates, expounds his views and methods, and explains what Hippocrates may expect to learn from him. The passage is a confused and confusing piece of Greek, and forms the philosophical introduction to one of Plato's more baffling dialogues. The confusions are, I believe, present in the Greek: we are not here concerned merely with problems created for the modern reader by his misunderstanding of Greek words. In translation, however, and in the light of the intervening centuries of philosophy, Protagoras' position may well appear much less plausible than it must have appeared to a Greek of Protagoras' (or Plato's) own day. My purpose in this article is to try to explain why a Greek might have found it more plausible; what type of Greek was most likely to be convinced; and the motive of Protagoras in presenting his case in the manner in which he does present it. (‘Protagoras’ throughout, of course, is to be understood as ‘the Protagoras of Plato's dialogue’. I should not myself distinguish sharply between Plato's Protagoras and the historical Protagoras; but the question is not relevant to the present discussion.)

In the Greek writings of the first millennium of the Christian era we find our earliest evidence of that remarkable body of doctrine known as Alchemy. Arising perhaps in the traditional knowledge of the Egyptian priesthood, it flourished as a living science and creed for seventeen centuries. The earliest alchemical works that have survived are all written in Greek, and the extant Greek alchemical writings run to more than eighty thousand words. The bulk of these documents is evidence of the attraction which the science possessed for the philosophers of the Byzantine age. Alchemy was then no mere by-way of thought, but one of the major departments of knowledge.

The alchemical writings have affinities with other contemporary works. It is, therefore, well to decide on the meaning we shall attach to the word Alchemy before discussing its methods and origin.

According to this account, the original name of the festival was Ἀθηναῖα, but this name had already been replaced by Παναθήναια in what we can regard only as having been still mythical times. Since Harpocration does not attempt to explain the nature or the purpose of the reforms which he ascribes to Erichthonius, the questions who really founded the Panathenaea and why do not arise on his account. All that need be said here is that the name Παναθήναια may mean one of two things: (a) a festival celebrated by ‘all-Athenians’ (cf. Πανιώνια) or (b) a festival in honour of Panathena (cf. Πάνδια). The most important point in Harpocration's statement, however, is the care with which he distinguishes between the two types of Panathenaic festival, that καθ' ἕκαστον ἐνιαυτόν and that διὰ πενταετηρίδος, ‘which they also called μεγάλα.’ The accuracy of his information on this point is demonstrated by official inscriptions, which speak of Παναθήναια τὰ μεγάλα (first in the Erythrae decree of 453–2—ATL ii. D10.3) and of Παναθήναια τὰ κατ' ἐνιαυτόν (IG ii–iii2. 334.31); the epithet μικρά describing the annual festival is found only in literature (Lysias 21.2, 4, referring to the celebrations of 409 and 403; Menander fr. 428 Körte). Even in official documents Παναθήναια can be used alone; but this usage is not so ambiguous as it appears, since, with the possible exception of IG i2. 302.58 (= Tod 75.61) of 415, which will have to be discussed later in this paper, I have not found a single case in which Παναθήναια alone necessarily, or even probably, refers to anything but the great Panathenaea.

The wandering philosopher is best known to us as a Romantic ideal that projects one's longing for physical and mental withdrawal. Rousseau's ‘promeneur solitaire’ does not cover great distances to bring a message to the world. His wanderings, most often in the immediate surroundings, rather convey spiritual alienation. But the ‘promeneur solitaire’ is not the only kind of wandering philosopher known in Western culture. Itinerant philosophers existed already in antiquity. During the Roman empire, many sages wandered all over the Mediterranean world. They went about for the sake of intellectual and spiritual enrichment, but essentially to spread their teaching and to intervene in local quarrels as religious consultants. Wandering connoted their ambiguous status in society—both in and out—and thereby enhanced their charisma and endowed them with an aura of superior power.

The Supplices was the first play of a trilogy. It was followed by the Aegyptii and the Danaides, and the satyr-play was the Amymone. Single plays that formed part of trilogies are at once tantalising and challenging, and it is natural that scholars should use their ingenuity in the attempt to recover at least the general trend of the lost plays. But their speculations often diverge widely. The most prudent course is doubtless to refrain from speculation altogether. Yet, in the case of the Danaid trilogy, one is haunted by a feeling that the necessary evidence is at our disposal, if only we could use it rightly. In what does the evidence consist?

There are the fragments attributable to the missing plays. With one important exception, these do not amount to much. But fr. 44 N from the Danaides gives us seven famous lines on the universal power of love in nature, and we know that they were spoken by Aphrodite herself. There is the mythographical tradition—Apollodorus and Hyginus; Pausanias; certain scholia. The constant feature—that the Danaids killed their bridegrooms—is known to us already from the Prometheus Vinctus. Apart from this, it is clear that both before and after Aeschylus there were different versions of the story in circulation. We must have independent reasons for saying that any particular late account depends upon him; and it is only Aeschylus himself who can give us these reasons. It is Aeschylus who provides the primary evidence.

In the first provisional reports of the Excavations in the Palace at Knossos, published by Mr. Evans after each season's work, the general accounts of the distribution and stratification of the pottery play a part in accordance with the importance of this kind of evidence in its bearing on the history of the site. From these accounts it will be seen that there exist on the Palace Site of Knossos and its neighbourhood three distinct strata of deposit.

I. A prehistoric, neolithic stratum, first of all verified in the preliminary pits on the E. slope of the Knossos Hill and successively afterwards in the W. and N.E. regions of the site, then in test-pits sunk within the palace boundaries in the region N. of the S. Propylaea in the Central Court, in the Third Magazine and in the West Court. These test-pits all reached a depth of from seven to eight metres before virgin soil was reached. This gives a thickness of neolithic deposit starting from the virgin soil and extending upwards to the beginnings of the painted series averaging about six metres. This formidable depth of pure neolithic deposit is very much greater than any yet verified in the Aegean region, and in its gradual formation is in itself evidence both of the extreme longevity and of the unbroken continuity of development of the civilization represented by it.

André Aymard, in a pair of articles now more than twenty years old, directed his attention to a thorough collection and evaluation of not only Macedonian, but of all hellenistic royal titulature. The conclusions of the impressive structure of fact and theory which he propounded in those articles have been widely accepted. But it seems likely that in the case of Macedonia he has been misled by pre-existing constitutional theory (despite his sensible rejection of its most outrageous aspects) into overvaluing the constitutional significance of the evidence from Macedonian royal style. This article is concerned with re-examining and re-interpreting the evidence for Macedonian titulature, and with testing the conclusions which Aymard drew from it.

There are two basic questions to be considered in this connection, the second dependent on the first: (i) is it correct, in any sense, to speak of ‘official’ titulature of the Macedonian kings (and therefore, a fortiori, of ‘false’ or ‘correct’ titles)? (ii) if so, what, if anything is the significance of variants, and what, if anything, can be learnt from them about the nature of the Macedonian monarchy? If we are to find an answer to (i), we must obviously look at the usage which the kings of Macedon themselves chose to use, particularly in their administrative and political public acts, and if any usage occurs with overwhelming frequency this should clearly be sufficient to establish a prima facie case that that usage is the normal one, though we might still retain doubts as to whether it could legitimately be called ‘official.’