The political unification of the Mediterranean world in the last epoch of the Roman Republic doubtless provided the stimulus for the composition of world histories. One of these is the only universal history written in Latin, under the title Historiae Philippicae, by Pompeius Trogus in the time of Augustus. The original work is lost, but we have an Epitoma produced around the year A.D. 200 by Iustinus. The prologi, which contain summaries of the original work, have been preserved, but there is no indication of authorship.

Does it matter that all fifth-century staged performance was masked? Modern discussions of fifth-century drama focus almost exclusively on the words of the text, for that is what survives to us, and there is a sound methodology in this, since in a theatre that held over 15,000 people aural appreciation was central. I wish to isolate the amount of information that was communicated to the audience by masks, and so discover what then can be incorporated into modern studies of ancient staging, and in particular to determine what visual details existed for the ancient audience to help them understand ‘character’. Direct evidence is slight, and this must remain a brief overview. Nevertheless, reasonable deductions from the plays allow for a clear appreciation of what was the essential information conveyed by fifth-century masks.

Helen Waddell, in her charming Medieval Latin Lyrics, surely a book which inspired many a young person, trained in the classics, to become a ‘convert’ to the middle ages, described the collection of poems known as the Appendix Virgiliana, as coming ‘down through the Middle Ages bobbing at a painter's end in the mighty wash of the Aeneid’. This same description can, I think, be prettily applied to the Virgil scholia, the humble and often nameless attempts of innumerable scholars to elucidate the master's poems; notes and glosses sometimes wise and often banal, which exist, not like other literature as an end in themselves, but solely as a means towards a better understanding of Virgil.

It is not perhaps generally recognized that the description of the coast of Latium in the seventh book of the Aeneid, in the passage which is often called ‘The Gathering of the Clans’, is in the form of a periplus—literally, ‘a sailing round’. The places and natural features are named in order from the mouth of the Tiber as far as Tarracina (modern Terracina) as if they were seen from the sea by one coasting along the shore. Accounts of this kind are frequent in ancient geographers. Virgil followed a familiar pattern in the six Unes in which this stretch of coast is described:

‘Those who plough thy glades, Tiberinus, and the sacred shore of the Numicus, and work the Rutulian hills with the ploughshare, and Circe's ridge, the fields over which Jupiter Anxurus holds sway, and Feronia rejoicing in her green grove; where lies Satura's unhealthy marsh, and cool through sunken valleys Ufens seeks his way, and is lost in the sea.’

One of the disadvantages of specialization is that other scholars often wish to make use of, but cannot evaluate, work in other fields. Moreover, it usually takes some time for a new theory to spread beyond the confines of a narrow specialist circle. The purpose of the present article is to summarize in English, and comment on, a new theory of the relationships of the Greek dialects and the historical facts to be deduced from them. The theory is mainly the result of the application to the ancient Greek dialects of the new technique of linguistic geography, which was first devised for the study of the Romance languages. The basis of what follows is an important article by E. Risch, following on a remarkable study by W. Porzig. The latter, though only recently published, was written some time ago, and some of its conclusions are disproved by the new evidence made available by the decipherment of the ‘Minoan’ Linear B script. Risch has been able to make some use of this, and it provides a valuable check on the soundness of the new theory.

This paper is written to give some account of the part played by secret agents against foreign states. Only in the most incidental way will it mention secret agents who tried to detect internal dissent and conspiracy. Plato thought that all Greek states were in a permanent state of war, declared or undeclared. Even in modern times no two independent states have totally identical interests, and when negotiating about clashes of interests, in peacetime just as in war, any government will seek a position in which it can keep its own secrets and discern those of the opposing side. We know very little of Greek spying in time of peace. When diplomacy failed, Greek states could have recourse to war to attain their objectives. War requires some strategic plan of intended operations. In modern conditions many experts must have a hand in devising the plan, and it must be prepared well in advance. In the ancient world things were simpler. One wonders how many Carthaginians knew, or had to know, that Hannibal intended to march round the Mediterranean and attack Italy. Certainly he took the Romans by surprise. The execution of the plan is best entrusted so far as possible to a single commander, even in modern times. We know next to nothing about how military policy was determined in peacetime, but we have a little more information about conditions in times of war.

My title is an ambitious one, and defines a field which is more suitable for a book than for a single lecture, and which has the added disadvantage that it crosses the boundaries between a number of disciplines: history, science, philosophy, and technology. Anyone who chooses such a theme is in danger of being told by those well-versed in the individual disciplines that his knowledge of each of them is inadequate; which may well be true, and is certainly true of me. But cross-disciplinary exploration is in itself a desirable activity; and if a few explorers perish in the process no great harm is done, and others may follow their example more successfully. I should not, however, in saying this, like it to be thought that I am claiming any great novelty for what I shall say to you today. Little of my material is new; all I can hope to do is to suggest to you a particular interpretation of it.

In 424 B. C. or thereabouts, an oligarchically-minded critic of the Athenian democracy observed:

And if account is to be taken of more minor matters, it is as a result of their mastery of the sea that the Athenians have mixed with various peoples in different areas and discovered a range of festive practices. In consequence, what is sweet in Sicily, Italy, Cyprus, Egypt, Lydia, Pontus, the Peloponnese or elsewhere has all been brought together in one place because of [sc.the Athenians'] mastery of the sea. (The Old Oligarch, 2.7)

Though critical of the democracy in principle, the Old Oligarch is strikingly positive here in one sense. This is no denunciation of the baleful and corrupting influence of luxuries imported from overseas. Rather, it is an explicit statement of an advantage of sea-power to the Athenians. A minor advantage, on this assessment, but evidently considered worthy of attention. Moreover, here as throughout his work, the Old Oligarch has in mind not a narrow elite, but the Athenian demos at large, the masses. On his analysis, the demos, through its sea-power, rules Athens and its empire effectively and in its own interest, which includes the acquisition and enjoyment of the best produce of the Mediterranean and Black Sea worlds. Under the democracy, it is claimed, the masses enjoy what may be termed luxury-goods.

The subject of this article is the appearance in archaic Greek literature of the two basic principles of aristocracy as a form of government—republicanism and noble rule—and how they were upheld, augmented, qualified, idealized, and justified against the alternatives of monarchy and the aspirations of non-nobles either to join or disestablish the nobility as the ruling class. When Greek states emerged from the Dark Ages into the clearer light of history in the eighth and seventh centuries b.c., monarchy had almost everywhere given way to aristocracy. More or less exclusive groups of noble families had learnt, in Aristotle's phrase, ‘to take turns in ruling and being ruled’. The formation of the first republics required no change in the ideological climate of the unquestioning acceptance of the noble monopoly of wealth and privilege which we find in Homer and Hesiod, and similarly no change in this climate was required before republican governments were likely to be challenged. The Homeric nobleman's primary obligation, simply expressed in Hippolochus' parting injunction to his son ‘always to be best’, runs contrary to the principle of equals taking turns in ruling and being ruled, and it would not be surprising if many a Greek aristocrat acquiesced in being equal best only because he lacked the opportunity to make himself single best. And where there were narrow aristocracies which by their exclusiveness made permanent political inferiors of noble families which were the socio-economic peers of the politically privileged, as in Corinth under the Bacchiads or Mytilene under the Penthilids, there was likely to be a greater incentive for an ambitious nobleman to usurp for his own family the corporate constitutional superiority of his privileged rivals; and there might be correspondingly less ideological opposition from noble republicans so far as other politically unprivileged nobles would be constitutionally no less deprived under a tyrant, and might have much to gain in power and wealth from supporting the overthrower of the exclusive regime. The disappearance of Dark Age kingship of the Homeric primus inter pares type is nowhere likely to have generated all at once an ideology which made monarchy an anathema. The Homeric king is not even distinguished from the other nobles by a title which is not also enjoyed by the heads of other great houses, and the lack of traditions about the disappearance of kingship suggests that it was undramatic. On the other hand, because tyranny (in the basic sense of an autocracy established in a state which had been a republic) necessarily meant permanent constitutional inferiority for social equals, acquiescence in even a benign and initially popular autocracy was likely to wane once the possibility of constitutional equality had been discovered (however narrow the ruling circle of equals had been).

It is now time to deal with the much-discussed and much-abused passage of Isidore, Orig. xviii. 60 ff. The account begins: ‘De Tabula. Alea, id est lusus tabulae, inventa a Graecis …; tabula luditur pyrgo, calculis tesserisque.’ After explaining the meaning of pyrgus (dice-box), calculi, and tesserae, Isidore continues with a section entitled De Figuris Aleae, a description of the board; then follow the names of the throws, remarks on the best way of throwing, and a description of the movement of pieces; the account ends with the statement that owing to its immoral tendencies the game was forbidden by law. Now, if this passage is read as a whole and without bias, it is clear that Isidore is giving a methodical account of one particular game, which he calls ‘Alea’ or ‘Tabula’.

‘Classical’ Greece? The very term exudes stability, permanence, confidence, authority, excellence, perfection (in a teleological sense), even possibly glory – as in ‘The Glory that was Greece’. Consider, for instance, the following paean of eulogy pronounced in 1914: ‘The Greeks were explorers in every field of knowledge and art, where they showed in the highest degree the desire for truth and the love of the beautiful’. All of them, always? In any case, to quote that well-known philosopher Pontius Pilate (John 18. 37–8), what is Truth, and is not Beauty in the eye of the beholder?

This article is chiefly concerned with a well-known passage of that extraordinary miscellany, the Deipnosophistae of Athenaeus, in which the author follows his usual habit of illustrating a thesis by quoting from comedy. In the pages considered here (vi. 267e–270a) he draws his examples from a series of plays now lost—the Plutuses of Cratinus, the Beasts of Crates, the Amphictyons of Telecleides, the Miners and Persians attributed to Pherecrates, the Sirens of Nicophon, and the Thurio-Persians of Metagenes. This string of quotations, full of cookery-book vocabulary, constitutes our main evidence about the comic poets' treatment of the theme of the land of Cockaigne, Schlaraffenland, the idler's or glutton's paradise. On the basis of this evidence many sweeping generalizations on this subject have been made, some of them so wide of the mark that it may perhaps be worth while to attempt one more review of a passage already often discussed, in the hope of arriving at a fresh assessment of its true significance.

Discussion of such a passage usually involves study of the extracts cited, and leads on to the hazardous business of trying to form some conception of the plays from which they are drawn. But before one follows this well-trodden path there is a more general question to be considered, the answer to which may give some guidance on the way. What is it that Athenaeus' quotations illustrate? The speaker in this part of the symposium, the philosopher Democritus of Nicomedia, has been discoursing about servants, and has already cited the Savages of Pherecrates to show that there was a time when people had no slaves, but did all their own work (263 b).

Along with the Oedipus Tyrannus, the Oresteia is perhaps the most discussed literary work of classical Greece. In recent years a substantial part of this interpretative effort has been devoted to various ongoing controversies, such as Agamemnon's guilt, or more generally, the interplay of necessity and freedom in the trilogy, but despite these numerous Streitfragen what is particularly striking about the criticism of the Oresteia is its relative unanimity on certain fundamental questions. This will no doubt sound strange to the classical scholar, all too finely attuned to the various important particulars over which he and his colleagues differ in their reading of the plays, but it none the less seems to me to be undeniable that in their assessment of the general movement of the trilogy, most interpretations are, with some variation and shading, cut from the same cloth. By this I mean that in regard to the fundamental questions of the justice of Zeus, and the resolution of the conflicts developed in the first two plays by means of the famous trial which concludes the trilogy, most critics agree as to Aeschylus’ dramatic intention. In what follows, I will argue that this unanimity arises out of certain shared preconceptions concerning Aeschylus which, in my view, are not supported by the text. I will first discuss the main traditional views concerning Aeschylus’ presentation of what is commonly called the Justice of Zeus, and then try to demonstrate that, in reality, Aeschylus portrays a cosmic and political order which is neither moral nor just, but rather tyrannical, in the sense that its ultimate foundations are force and fear.

Before the Persian Wars the Greeks did not rely on public finance to fight each other. Their hoplites armed and fed themselves. But in the confrontation with Persia this private funding of war proved to be inadequate. The liberation of the Greek states beyond the Balkans required the destruction of Persia's sea power. In 478 bc Athens agreed to lead an alliance to do just this. It already had Greece's largest fleet. But each campaign of this ongoing war would need tens of thousands of sailors and would go on for months. No single Greek city-state could pay for such campaigns. The alliance thus agreed to adopt the Persian method for funding war: its members would pay a fixed amount of tribute annually. This enabled Athens to force Persia out of the Dardanelles and Ionia. But the Athenians also realized that their military power depended on tribute, and so they tightened their control of its payers. In so doing they turned the alliance into an empire.

There are many ways of classifying dreams. This paper is concerned with only one, perhapsthe most fundamental: one which also – we are told – captures the most important difference between modern and ancient dream-interpretation. Ancient audiences were primed to expect dreams to be prophetic, to come from outside and give knowledge, however ambiguously, of the future, or at least of the otherwise unknowable present. This sort of dream is hard to distinguish from the ‘night-time vision’, and indeed it is sometimes hard with dreams in ancient literature to tell whether the recipient is asleep or not. For moderns, especially but not only Freudians, dreams come from within, and are interesting for what they tell us about the current psychology of the dreamer: for Freudians, the aspects of the repressed unconscious which fight to the surface; for most or all of us, the way in which dreams re-sort our daytime preoccupations, hopes, and fears. This distinction between ancient and modern was set out and elaborated a few years ago by Simon Price; it was also drawn by Freud himself. At the risk of oversimplification, we could say the first approach assimilates dreams to divination, the second to fantasy - with all the illumination that, as we increasingly realize, fantasy affords into the everyday world, as it juggles the normal patterns of waking reality at the same time as challenging them by their difference.

Historians' judgements about the evidential value of anecdotes have oscillated over the past decades. In the early part of this century authors of German textbooks on historical method warned students against using anecdotes on the grounds that their form was not fixed and their contents fluctuated since the narrators exercised their imaginations to improve stories with each telling. J. Vansina, an anthropologist studying the value of oral traditions for reconstructing African history, concluded in his more recent work that the anecdote is among the least reliable types of oral tradition. Nevertheless, recent scholarly works on Roman imperial history have utilized anecdotes for the sorts of social, economic, and administrative details which the available political narratives ignore. No systematic analysis has been undertaken to justify this use. I shall attempt to fill the gap by asking three basic questions: in what social contexts were anecdotes generated and transmitted; what changes in content were likely to occur during transmission; and what are the implications for the use of anecdotes as historical evidence?

In very general terms, the physical scientist is concerned to identify and define certain regularities in the material world, and to embody them in laws or theories which both furnish an explanation of them and enable him to predict and to some extent to control particular kinds of future event. It is noticeable at once that the elements of prediction and control are largely absent from Greek speculation, and this is due partly to certain of its inherent characteristics (to which I return in a moment), and partly to its lack of three further particular features which are an essential part of the natural sciences today. These are briefly that they are experimental, quantitative, and laboratory-based. This generalization is, of course, at once too wide and too narrow. Not all scientific theories rely on experiment in the narrow sense or on laboratory operations; the observations of the astronomer and the activities of the field-biologist can, up to a point, dispense with both. But it remains true that the experimental test and the laboratory and its instruments are essential elements in modern science, and neither the astronomer nor the biologist can in the last resort dispense with them. Similarly, quantitative measurement plays an indispensable role in the physical sciences and is the basis on which they have been built up, even though the theoretical physicist may spend little time measuring or experimenting and be mainly concerned with the mathematical analysis which is so vital an element in modern physical theory.