Although imagery from music and song is not uncommon in Greek poetry as a whole, it is usually of no more than superficial significance. In Aeschylus, however, its roots strike deeper, and for that reason I have chosen to concentrate on him here. For the sake of comparison, a briefer survey of its uses in Sophocles and Euripides will be added.

Aeschylus' method of using key images to sustain and develop a dramatic theme has for some time now been recognised as an important feature of his style. Whether he expected the subtleties of his technique to be appreciated by his audience—even by a perceptive minority—is another question. His painstaking craftsmanship would tend rather to suggest that he wrote with more in view than the immediate appeal of the spoken word, deliberately shaping his work as a κτῆμα ἐς αἰεί. A number of dominant images in his drama, such as the yoke in the Persae, the ship in the Septem and the alternating light and dark in the Oresteia, have already received their fair share of attention. But this has not been so with his musical symbolism which, although less apparent, is employed with greater consistency. In no drama is it entirely absent, and it permeates the substance of the Septem and the Oresteia.

I think that we all know about the Colossus of Rhodes—one of the Seven Wonders of the World. We remember him from our childhood's days. Was there not some story of a great statue standing astride the harbour of that old-world port—Rhodes, somewhere among the Isles of Greece? And if we look up a Classical Dictionary we shall find him described as being a bronze figure of the sun god, Helios, and as standing 70 cubits, that is, more than 100 feet in height. We read that in the year three hundred and three before Christ, Demetrios Poliorketes, King of Macedon, becoming tired of his long-protracted Siege of Rhodes, returned to Greece, leaving his siege-train behind him. The citizens of Rhodes sold the weapons for 300 talents, and devoted the money to the erection of a statue of their god: a statue, moreover, which they hoped would compare favourably with those of their great ally, Egypt. The citizens of Rhodes called upon the sculptor Chares of Lindos: a town on the island of Rhodes not far from the capital. He was a pupil of the Greek sculptor, Lysippos, who had just constructed at Tarentium a bronze statue of Zeus, about 70 feet in height. Chares undertook the work. The colossus took twelve years to erect, from 292 to 280 B.C. It was thrown down by an earthquake some sixty years later, and remained on the ground, as one of the sights of Rhodes, for nearly 900 years. When the Saracens conquered the island in A.D. 653, their general broke up the figure and sold the bronze to a Jewish dealer. Not a fragment of the Colossus remains to-day, and no complete copy of the figure exists.

Considering the attention now paid to the geography ot Asia Minor, it has struck me that a collection of the notices relating to the Arabic invasions of that district, which are scattered here and there in the Arabic annalists and must be sought through thousands of pages of Arabic print, would serve a very useful purpose. These extracts not only throw light on geography and the Arabic nomenclature of the localities, but, when compared with the accounts of the same events in Greek and Syriac writers, are of great value for the study of chronology.

The writers from whom extracts are given under years are the following:—

In 1938 Sir William Max Muller of London, son of the Oxford philologist Max Müller, lent me a volume containing some seventy letters by Schliemann to use in my publications of Schliemann's correspondence. In January 1945 I deposited these in one of two suitcases, full of original letters, copies, and photographs, in the official bunker at Schwerin, for safety from air-raids. In the next three years all my efforts, and those of the museum staff, to recover the suitcases were of no avail, and on March 5, 1948, the administration of Mecklenburg replied to my renewed queries that they had both been lost. In the summer of 1958 an agent from Schwerin discovered this collection, all that has survived from the two suitcases, in a book-shop in West Berlin. It was recovered and returned to the widow of its previous owner in London. Agamemnon Schliemann (the son) and Sir William Max Muller had at the time given me permission to use the letters as a supplement to my two books, Schliemann-Briefwechsel i (1953) and ii (1958) and a selection of them is published here.

Ten other letters from Schliemann to Müller of the years 1874–83 which were not in the collection have been found after renewed study of several volumes of Schliemann's letter-books.

At the close of the Cyclops adventure Odysseus piously sacrifices to Zeus the ram that has carried him out of Polyphemus' cave. Yet the god spurns his offering and ponders instead the destruction of Odysseus' ships and their crews (ix 553–5):

These lines need explaining, as they present two difficulties, one formal, the other thematic. How can Odysseus know what Zeus is pondering? As a first-person narrator Odysseus assumes temporarily the role of the epic poet, yet without being given the latter's omniscience. He retains therefore the restricted perspective of an epic character which precludes any precise knowledge of supernatural processes.

The Old Academy developed in an unplanned fashion and, as its structure evolved, changes in leadership and institutional culture were mirrored by shifting Academic historical traditions. As the Old Academy became an institution that presented a systematized philosophy, its leadership placed increased emphasis upon traditions about Plato and other Academic leaders that illustrated the power and practical application of this Academic teaching. This suggests a conscious attempt by the scholarchs of the Old Academy to craft a distinctive institutional identity centred as much upon the character and exemplary lifestyle of its leadership as upon its specific doctrinal teaching.

As long ago as 1893, Dieterich, in a famous article on the ‘initiation’-scene in Aristophanes' Clouds, pointed out that there are a great many echoes of ritual hidden in ordinary works of Greek literature, especially in comedy and tragedy. His hint was followed up in 1900 by F. Adami, whose paper remains a storehouse of such echoes, but who has by no means exhausted the subject. G. Thomson's article in a recent issue of this Journal collects a number of instances in the Oresteia of Aeschylus in which similar echoes can be heard. The purpose of the present contribution is partly to criticise the interpretation put by Thomson on certain of the references to mystic rites which Headlam and he have noted, and partly to attempt to carry the search a stage farther.

The point in Thomson's valuable paper on which most doubt will be raised in his readers' minds is his tendency to attribute to the Eleusinia all allusions to mysteries in the Oresteia. In his zeal for the exclusive glory of Eleusis, he assumes that its mysteries involved both rites and doctrines which the general consensus of scholars has denied to them. In one place he dismisses this general agreement by lumping modern authorities together as ‘archaeologists’ (p. 22, n. 13), a title which most of them, probably, would humbly deprecate. His procedure raises an important problem in method, and for this reason I may be excused for discussing some of his conclusions.

Through the generosity of the descendants of Robert Wood (1716–71) the Society for the Promotion of Hellenic Studies now possesses a number of note-books, diaries, sketch-books, etc., the records of a long tour which he made in 1750–51, in the company of John Bouverie and James Dawkins, and which bore fruit in Wood's publications of the ruins of Palmyra (1753), of Baalbec (1757) and in his Essay on the Original Genius of Homer (1767).

Little is known of Wood's history before this tour; according to Horace Walpole he was originally a travelling tutor, and from scattered references in his published works and in his note-books we learn that between May 1742 and the spring of 1743 he had made a long tour which embraced Constantinople, many of the islands in the Aegean Sea, Egypt and some towns in Syria and Mesopotamia. He himself tells us it was for this reason that Messrs. Bouverie and Dawkins, with whom he had travelled in Italy, invited him to accompany them. The diaries and note-books shew that he was a bom traveller with a quick eye for the salient features of a landscape and a keen appreciation of its natural beauties. He was also an excellent classical scholar, and, as such, interested in the identification of ancient sites and in the inscriptions found there, but this interest was literary rather than antiquarian; his real interest lay in comparing the statements of ancient geographers and modern travellers with the physical conditions as he found them, above all in identifying any river he crossed and, wherever possible, tracing it to its source.

The red-figure plate in the Ashmolean Museum bearing the inscription Μιλτιαδες καλος (Fig. 1) has been ascribed, by the scholar to whom these pages are dedicated, to the Cerberus Painter; and dated to 520–510 B.C.

We ask ourselves inevitably: is this the great Miltiades? and he who tries to answer is unusually incurious if he does not ask the second question: is the beardless mounted archer, here depicted, Miltiades himself? He looks to be under twenty, Marathon was fought twenty to thirty years later. What age was Miltiades at Marathon in 490? what age was he between 520 and 510 B.C.?

Type-scenes have been studied and analysed for over seventy years. This paper presents a more detailed analysis of one type-scene, the ‘recognition scene’, than has previously been attempted, with the aim of moving towards a better-structured understanding of the ‘syntax’ of type-scenes generally. The structure of the recognition scene is dissected into motifs and ‘moves’, all of which are tabulated; this is the core of the analysis. The ensuing points of clarification elaborate on the definitions and assumptions built into the analysis. Following this is an assessment of the ‘syntax’ and quantifiable elements of the recognition scene. The discussion closes with a general assessment of the more literary face of recognition scenes, discussing them in the context of the plan of the second half of the Odyssey.

Seven years ago nothing was known in Egypt which could be attributed to a Greek origin before the Alexandrine times; the early notices on the monuments, which seemed to refer to the peoples of the Mediterranean, stood alone, and their relation to what was known on Greek soil appeared vague and unreal. But now the main light on the chronology of the civilizations of the Aegean comes from Egypt; and it is Egyptian sources that must be thanked by classical scholars for revealing the real standing of the antiquities of Greece. Without the foreign colonies on the Nile, they would still be groping in speechless remains, which might cover either a century or a thousand years, for aught that could be determined in Greek excavations. Egypt has done for the pre-historic ages the same great office of conservator which she has performed for the historic period. To Egypt we are indebted for the manuscripts, the paintings, and the textiles of the Greek and Roman times; from Egypt have just come the fragments of Plato and Euripides which show the original text, and the letters and private papers which tell of the daily life of the Greeks dwelling there.

Those who have written upon the Greek Oracles in this country have been content, for the most part, to accept without criticism the traditional accounts of the procedure at these institutions. Where the meaning of a custom appears entirely strange and unsympathetic, there seems to be little to choose between one account of its details and another. Truth is hard enough to discover when the subject is intelligible; when the whole sphere of enquiry is dark its claims yield to those of the picturesque. This has been the fate of the oracles; their place in the life of the Greeks cannot be explained to the satisfaction of our reason and therefore they demand that they should be represented to our imagination with all possible violence. But the very reason which makes us prone to accept any account of the oracles and their procedure if it be sufficiently lurid and effective, should make us exercise the greatest caution before we endorse any traditional account as a fact. We are not the first to refuse our approbation to the oracles, and to demand in the place of intellectual conviction a striking appeal to the imagination.

1. P. Amh. 11 and P. Berol. 7504: History of the Problem of their Relationship.

‘Too small to have more than a palaeographical interest’: thus marked, the Amherst Papyrus 11 was published by Grenfell and Hunt in 1901; they assigned it to cent. I B.C. For all its smallness, however, Wilamowitz remembered this text when he found a similar one in the Berlin Papyrus 7504, which he edited in 1907, dating the hand ‘spätgriechisch.’ But in quoting from the Amherst Papyrus he relied too much on his memory; that, and some mistakes which he made in editing the Berlin Papyrus, prevented him from making full use of his discovery.

A considerable step forward was taken by Adam Abt in 1910. He supplemented convincingly ll. 8–12 and 17–18 of the Berlin Papyrus from the text of the Amherst Papyrus. He even envisaged, and for excellent reasons, the possibility that the two papyri were parts of the same roll, but eventually decided against it because he thought that ll. 13–16 of the Berlin Papyrus could not be made to fit on to the Amherst Papyrus. Here he was wrong, as will be shown presently.

The centuries before the Greeks began to write history are of the greatest interest and significance, but they are also for the historian full of uncertainty, obscurity and dispute. The reason is mainly the simple inadequacy of the information with which the historian has to work, and it is partly because of that inadequacy that the colonising movement is uniquely valuable. Part of this value lies in the revealing nature of colonial activity in itself. Think what it tells us about geographical knowledge, seafaring, if not seapower, military achievements, state organisation, economic conditions—to mention only a few broad and obvious categories. But in a period so inadequately known the colonising movement is also extremely important to the historian as a source of a relatively large amount of clear and unequivocal facts. In the context of the eighth and seventh centuries B.C. the fact that such and such a city sent a colony to such and such a place constitutes a rare piece of definite and valuable knowledge. Since it is also possible to assign dates to large numbers of colonial expeditions, we can say that the colonising movement provides a large amount of extremely significant historical information, which is in general terms clear and definite and relatively well dated.

My business is with a poem preserved on two wax tablets from Egypt in Berlin (Inv. no. 14283), dating from about the first century A.D., and first published by Hermann Diels in 1898. Here is a bibliography:

(1) H. Diels, S.B. der Berl. Akad. 1898 847 f. (with photographs of both tablets).

(2) R. Ellis, American Journal of Philology xxi (1900) 76 f. (irresponsible conjectures on the text; utterly worthless).

(3) W. Crönert, Archiv für Papyrusforschung i (1901) 517 f. (brief general comments).

(4) W. Schubart, Papyri Berolinenses (1911) no. 17; photograph of the first tablet with transcript of that part of the text which it contains (all except the last five lines).

(5) W. Schubart, Symbolae Philologicae O.A. Danielsson octogenario dicatae (1932) 290 f. (new transcript, account of the manuscript, brief commentary and critical discussion).

(6) D. L. Page, Greek Literary Papyri i (Loeb Classical Library, 1942; reprinted 1950) no. 114, p. 470 f. (brief discussion, text and translation).

(7) C. A. Trypanis, Classical Review n.s. ii (1952) 67–8 (note on authorship with brief remarks on text).

(8) W. Peek, RE xxii 1 (1953) 430, 440 f., s.v. ‘Poseidippos’ (general discussion).

(9) E. Heitsch, ‘Die griechischen Dichterfragmente der römischen Kaiserzeit’, Abh. der Ak. der Wiss. in Göttingen, phil.-hist. kl., dritte folge no. 49 (1961 1) 21 (text and apparatus criticus based on Schubart).

By 446/5 the Delian League had become the Athenian empire. Peace had been made with Persia, but Athens had firmly retained her hold over the allies. More important, Sparta recognised the Athenian claim in the Thirty Years' Peace. ‘We will allow the cities their independence,’ Pericles could say on the eve of the Peloponnesian War, ‘if they were independent when we made peace.’ So much is clear, but the chronology and nature of the development of Athenian imperialism are both uncertain. We are coming to know or reasonably to guess considerably more of the decisive transition to empire following the Peace of Callias, but the imperial measures of those crowded years can only be appreciated in true perspective if we have a right understanding of the preceding period. The main purpose of this study is to re-examine the development of Athenian imperialism in the fifties.

In his concise summary of Athens' rise to power, Thucydides emphasises the significance of the reduction of Naxos: to contemporaries Athenian action may have seemed less questionable. The Persian danger was still serious, and history had shown that the largest of the Cyclades might be a menace to the Greek cause, if it got into the wrong hands. Certainly the League was still popular after the collapse of Naxos, as Cimon's Eurymedon campaign clearly shows. From Caria to Pamphylia the Greek cities welcomed freedom from Persia and gladly entered the League: only at Phaselis was the show of pressure needed.

Plutarch (probably following Aristotle's lost Constitution of the Megarians) associates several episodes of riotous behaviour with the existence of a radical democracy in Archaic Megara (Moralia 295c-d, 304e-f). Modern historians, in turn, have accepted that Megara was ruled by a democracy in the mid sixth century BC. I suggest that this conclusion is unjustified because the connection between riotous behaviour and democracy in Plutarch is based on fourth-century anti-democratic political thought. I propose instead that anecdotes describing the insolent behaviour of the poor towards the rich are better interpreted in terms of customary rituals of social inversion and transgression. Drawing on comparative examples from the ancient world and early modern Europe, I show that popular revelry involving role reversal and transgression of social norms was an important locus for the negotiation of relations between élites and masses. I argue that such rituals provided temporary release from the constraints of the social hierarchy, and served to articulate symbolically the obligation of the powerful to protect the weak. The comparative examples show that such rituals were usually non-revolutionary, but could turn violent in times of rapid social and economic change. I argue that the violent episodes reported by Plutarch reflect the escalation of ritual revelry into real protest and riot in response to the breakdown of traditional relations of reciprocity between rich and poor in Archaic Megara. I suggest that élites in Archaic Megara successfully warded off more far-reaching rebellion and political reform by enacting new measures for the economic relief of the poor (e.g. the return of interest legislation). In conclusion, I address the broader historical question of why subordinate groups use ritual forms to express discontent.

This paper examines the evidence for the life and career of the Lesbian tyrant Myrsilos. Following an examination of the ancient testimonia for Myrsilos in the text of Alcaeus and later sources, the name Myrsilos is then considered in relation to the Hittite royal name Muršiliš, Myrsilos as an alternate name for the Lydian king Kandaules and various toponyms in Lydia and Caria that appear to be derived from the same underlying name or title. The consequences of the distribution of these names is then considered in the cultural and historical context of the Aegean-Anatolian interface, with implications for early Lesbian history and cultural continuity from the Late Bronze Age down to the Archaic period.

A complete collection of the known Phrygian inscriptions belonging to the Roman Imperial period was published by Professor [Sir] W. M. Ramsay in vol. viii. of the Jahresh. d. Oest. Arch. Inst. (1905), pp. 79–120. On that occasion Professor Ramsay reprinted all the Phrygian texts which he had already collected in Kuhns Zeitschrift für Vergl. Sprachf. xxviii. pp. 381 ff., and added nineteen new inscriptions. The discovery in 1908 and 1910 of a score of fresh inscriptions, many of considerable interest, affords a suitable opportunity to revise the text of the older series. In a large majority, of cases, the new discoveries confirm Professor Ramsay's interpretations. In some cases they suggest or impose modifications. An account of other literature on the subject will be found in Ramsay's later paper. As I shall have occasion to refer constantly to Ramsay's papers in Kuhns Zeitschrift and the Jahresh. d. Oest. Arch. Inst., it will be convenient to call those papers R (a) and R (b) respectively. Professor Ramsay's numbering does not correspond exactly with the number of Phrygian texts published, because his earlier collection contains a few Greek inscriptions.

The controversy as to the arrangement of the oars in ancient warships has been, in one aspect and with the due exceptions, a controversy between the scholars and the sailors, in which, while the sailors cannot well be wrong on their own ground, the same impossibility hardly applies to their opponents. When the practical seaman points out that superposed banks of oars, in the accepted sense, are a frank impossibility, it is hardly a conclusive reply to tell him that his acquaintance with the authorities leaves something to be desired. It follows, that for anyone who, like the present writer, is convinced that the sailors are right, the real interest of the question is this: does the evidence compel me, or even invite me, to believe in a practical impossibility? If it does, the fact obviously has a very real bearing on the question of the degree of credibility to be attached to ancient history generally; and this seems to me to be the true importance of what has become known as the ‘trireme-problem.’ The object of this paper is simply to examine evidence, and to try to ascertain primarily what quinqueremes and triremes were not, with a view to clearing the ground: the period to be considered ends in effect with Actium, which closes an epoch in naval warfare.