Certain passages in Overbeck are generally supposed to refer to a statue by Scopas of Apollo Smintheus, an aspect of the god to which classical students were probably introduced in Strabo's time as they are to-day by the old priest's prayer in the first book of the Iliad. It seems at first a not very serious suggestion that one at least of these passages reads as though the mouse alone, not the statue, were the work of Scopas. But further investigation indicates that the ambiguity is a little more than apparent, indeed real enough to have sheltered a few scholars in their endeavour to escape the difficulties and confusion of reconciling the usual interpretation of the Strabo passage with coin types of Alexandria Troas, and with what can be surmised of Scopas's style.

Eleven years ago I contributed to the Journal an account of exploration in Galatia, and in summarizing the evidence which it supplied as to the civilization of Galatia, I pointed out that the Celtic conquerors assimilated the culture of the conquered Phrygians without seriously modifying its character. And more particularly in the religious sphere I observed that the evidence indicated that the religion prevailing in the Imperial period was ‘purely Phrygian: there is no trace of any Celtic cult…The new settlers perforce adopted the native cultus: for it was always necessary to “know the manner of the god of the land” (2 Kings, xvii. 26). Doubtless they identified their gods with the Phrygian, and did not keep up any separate cult: otherwise it would be incredible that no trace of it should have remained.’

A similar view was expressed in the following year by Sir W. M. Ramsay. ‘Few traces,’ he says, ‘of the old Gaulish religion can be detected in Galatia. It would be difficult to mention any except the sacrifice of captives, which was practised as late as B.C. 160, and presumably the rites at Drynemeton. It is hardly probable that the Gaulish religion was wholly disused or forgotten in the last century B.C. But certainly almost all the references—unfortunately very few—to Galatic religion point to the rapid adoption of the ancient and impressive cult of Cybele… The Galatians may perhaps have modified to some degree the character of the Phrygian ritual by their own nature and customs, as both the Phryges and the Greeks did. But we have no evidence on this point.’ His survey ends with the observation that in the inscriptions of the Roman period no allusion is made to any religion except that of the old Phrygian gods and that of the Emperors.

One would naturally expect that the standards of the Christian emperors of Rome, which are often represented on Roman coins, would be decorated with well-known Christian symbols, and that they would show the cross when not the monogram. In fact part of them do bear the emblems we expect, but certainly not all: a great number of the banners show devices we never learned to look upon as Christian. Very frequent, for instance, is a big circle, or two concentric circles; a combination of five small this matter: they do not distinguish between the various forms of the standards, but call them all labarum.

The family of Peisistratos did not indulge in strikingly uncommon names but it is noteworthy that all but one of them also appear in Chios. Neleus or Neileus (e.g. c. 150a, SEG xvii 381 A 1.2), Hippokrates (c. 420a, RE s.n. 14), Hipparchos {s. Ia, BSA lxi [1966] 199 no. 3.15), Heges[istratos?] (e.g. s. IVa, NC xv [1915] 430), Peisistratos, Hippias and Thessalos (see below): only Iophon is certainly missing. Their occurrences cover many centuries and no long filiations can be established, nor is there any positive argument that they all belonged to the same family, but for the late fourth and third centuries there is a hint. Chian social units had a family-based molecular structure. A catalogue of one of them gives us about 70 names c. 300a with an average of two additions p.a. thereafter (BSA lv [i960] 181–7 = SEG xix 580). On it there is a Hippias of the later fourth (father of the named member) and a Thessalos of the later third century. At least one Hippias appears on coins of the later fourth (NC xv [ 1915] 430) and another (or the same) on a subscription list of the mid third as father of the subscriber (SEG xix 578.12). A Chian Peisistratos dedicated in Rhodes in the second century (IG xii.i 113), a Peisistratos son of Peisistratos made a patriotic subscription in the later third (BCH xxxvii [1913] no. 27. 18—19), a Chian Peisistratos, grandson of Peisistratos, is given proxenia at Delos in the mid third or a little earlier (IG xi.4 598), a Peisistratos put his name on coins belonging to the same chronological group as those of Hippias (NC xv[i9i5]430). That the Hippias-group and the Peisistratos-group were somehow related is put beyond doubt by the name which one fourth-century Hippias and one fourth-century Peisistratos gave to their sons.

On rhythm amd metre Aristoxenus always talks the plainest common sense—which is more than one can say about certain other ancient metricians. On Time, in its rhythmical aspect, he remarks: ‘Time is articulated by each of the three ῥυθμιƷόμενα, λέξις, μέλος and κίνησις σωματική.’ The Greek choral lyric was a triple partnership of poetry, song, and dancing, and Aristoxenus here points out that they share a common rhythm. (He goes on to develop the idea, but that need not concern us here.) We could safely infer for ourselves, even if Plato and Aristotle had not told us, that the music and the dance were far from being merely decorative or casual additions to the poetry. The poetry may have been Queen, as Pratinas maintained, but the philosophers took the other two partners very seriously as ‘imitators’ of moral ideas and the like; and there is every reason to suppose that the dramatists did the same. But writers on Greek Tragedy have had much to say about the λέξις of the odes; nothing about its two partners—for the good reason that we know nothing about them. Yet it does seem possible, here and there, to say a little about the dance. Whether it is worth saying, the reader must judge.

The audience, sitting in the theatre, saw some kind of ordered physical movement in the orchestra as it listened to the singing or chanting of an ode. If in any given case we were asked what this movement was, our only answer is that we cannot possibly tell. Nevertheless, there are moments where we can infer, with more or less probability, the sort of thing that was being done by the dancers, and occasionally—notably in the Agamemnon—this dim and doubtful picture will contribute something to our appreciation of the drama.

This article argues that Pindar refers to cyclic Trojan epics as fixed poems known to his audiences and discusses why this matters for our understanding of his poetry. Section I claims that Isthmian 4 alludes to the Aethiopis as the work of Homer. Section II examines how Nemean 10 closely engages with the Cypria. Section III argues that Nemean 6 and Isthmian 8 signal an intertextual engagement with the Aethiopis and the Cypria. A conclusion assesses how far we can extrapolate from the preceding arguments to generalize about Pindar's relationship to Trojan epic and then suggests one particular way in which recognizing allusions to lost epic can enrich our understanding of his preserved lyric.

My objective in this paper is to consider the question of the mysteriousness or numinosity of the gods in the Iliad by examining first how heroes talk about and react to the gods, and second how Homer handles fate. My aim is to integrate the findings into a wider thesis about the Iliad's narrative strategy.

Griffin (1980) 152 discusses the mysteriousness and numinosity of Homeric gods, and cites Il. i 43–52, Od. iii 371–82, xix 33–42, saying ‘It is perhaps worth emphasising that in each of these … episodes, we see not only the god behaving like a real god, mysteriously, but also the characters who are present at the moment of revelation responding to it in what can only be called a religious way: adoration or reverent silence’.

The two dates which I wish briefly to discuss are those of the Argive Expedition and of the Atheno-Plataean alliance: they are of cardinal importance for the history of Greek politics in an important but very obscure period. The two questions may be considered as independent, and it is possible to adopt the earlier date for one event, and not for the other (as E. Meyer does), but in my judgment the two events are connected, and the date assigned to the one carries with it the date of the other.

First then as to the date of the attack on Argos and the battle of Sepeia. Before the time of Grote this was always placed circ. 520 B.C. on the strength of the passage of Pausanias (iii. 4), ‘when Cleomenes came to the throne, he at once invaded the Argolid’; his accession is usually placed about 520, and as this date is generally accepted, it is needless to give the reasons for it here. The date of Pausanias is in itself worth very little. It is true that he has information as to the Argive campaign which is not in Herodotus, and which may be derived from some local chronicler; but this information is given in an earlier book (ii. 20), while in iii. 4 he is mainly following Herodotus. It may be noticed, however, that he certainly is supplementing Herodotus from some other source (e.g. the name of the grove of Eleusis, ‘Orgas’), and it is not unnatural to suppose that he had reason for giving a date for the expedition of Cleomenes, which differs from that which at first sight seems to be given by Herodotus; Wernicke writes ‘perverse eum (Cleomenem) initio regni sui id fecisse (Pausanias) dicit,’ but it may well have come from some chronological table (such as the Parian Chronicle).

My address this year deals with much the same subject as the Presidential Address of 1944, but from a slightly different and, I fear, less practical point of view. Dr. Pickard Cambridge knows the schools, the universities and the whole educational system far better than I do, and was able to make practical suggestions of real value. I am falling back upon the more general and preliminary question why we should pursue Greek studies at all, and indeed why this Society should not peacefully cease upon the midnight with as little pain as may be convenient. The worst of it is that I know that I am prejudiced; and probably almost everybody in the room shares my prejudices. My appeal is really being made to-day to those who do not need it. I am an old man, and therefore probably attached to the old system. I am speaking on behalf of my own studies, and can hardly help feeling that ‘there is nothing like leather.’ To take a broader and more political line, I belong to the old peaceful world, which could afford to be cultured and liberal and to support a class whose interests were in the pursuit of the higher values, and who, while they lived for the most part industriously and modestly, were not in any feverish anxiety about salaries and wages. That cultivated middle class has been exterminated in many parts of Europe and weakened everywhere, everywhere with disastrous consequences. Even in this country a Minister of the Crown has told us that our day is over; a new and more powerful ‘governing class’ is in the saddle. We do not know how much patience it will have with pursuits that are not economically justified.

One of the most curious series of Anatolian inscriptions known to me has been published by Mr. Hogarth in this Journal, 1887, pp. 376 ff. Their importance lies in the fact that they show us the manners and religion of one district hardly affected by Greek civilisation, and almost purely native in character. As the use of the Greek language and knowledge of Greek civilisation spread, the native manners were proscribed as barbarous, and even native mythology was discarded and Greek tales adapted to suit the locality. I have frequently given instances of this. At Magnesia ad Sipylum, for example, if we may judge from the references of Pausanias, the mythology of the district was re-modelled under the influence of the Greek literary tradition of Niobe, and localities had to be found to suit the details of the story.

As to the inscriptions published by Mr. Hogarth, Nos. 12–20, probably no one who reads over the texts can doubt that Greek was strange to the writers. They were native Phrygians, speaking their own language with a smattering of Greek, quite uneducated, but impressed with the belief universal over Asia Minor that Greek was the one language of education, and trying to express themselves in Greek. In every part of the country where the inscriptions enable us to penetrate below the Graeco-Roman varnish, the same inference is forced on us. Greek did not succeed in forcing itself on the native population of Phrygia, Galatia, Lycaonia, and Cappadocia (except in the large cities which were centres of Graeco-Roman civilisation) until Christianity gave it the additional power of being the language of the Scriptures.

It will probably be a surprise, even to readers of the Journal of Hellenic Studies, to learn that there are at the present day twenty thousand persons in the south of Italy who speak Greek as their native tongue. These people form two separate groups, composed of a number of villages or townships, one of which is found in the heel of Italy or Terra d'Otranto, the other in the toe of that country, towards the extremity of the modern Calabria, in the neighbourhood of Cape Spartivento, and about twenty miles to the south-east of Reggio. The language which they speak, as might well be supposed, is not ancient Greek; nor is it in any sense a lineal descendant of that which was spoken in the colonies of Magna Graecia; but, though it is essentially modern Greek, it differs considerably from the Romaic of Greece, and these differences are of such a nature, that it must have required the lapse of many centuries to produce them. There can be no doubt that at one time it was spoken over a much wider area than at present; indeed, within the memory of man it has died out, and has been superseded by Italian, in places where it had previously been in use. Any traditions which may have existed with regard to the origin of this people and the fortunes of their ancestors they have now entirely lost; and their history, as far as it can be discovered at all, must be reconstructed from casual notices in historical documents and from intimations contained in the language.

With the publication recently of two valuable studies on Attic demes, we are now more fully aware of what we know, and do not know, of the deme. With Osborne's work, we now have some idea of the tendency of Athenians to own and maintain property in the deme of origin, but the role of marriage in consolidating property in that deme is more difficult to assess. In contrast to Osborne's focus on the ancestral deme, this brief study will concentrate on the deme into which the woman married; such a deme will be termed the deme of marriage or the marital deme. The study will focus particularly on the families who contracted more than one alliance for their kinswomen into the same outside deme and will emphasize the importance of siblings in securing and maintaining these alliances in the marital deme.

The best start in the attempt to understand Aeschylus is Professor F. M. Cornford's clearsighted explanation of his method. On the stage of Aeschylus, great forces are broadly symbolised, working, according to the Pythagorean scheme, through antagonism to a new harmony. It is also important to see the life-work of any great poet as a single process; Aeschylus solves problems in early plays, and afterwards surpasses them in more complex problems, which find their solutions in their turn. His material is a great range of political, moral, intellectual, and religious conflicts, all active in his own world. By symbolising them on the stage, he found a way from small things such as party quarrels to a sublime comprehension of the work of God and man, interacting together, within the framework of time. This is not so strange as it appears. The grandest and truest achievements of humanity often look like by-products.

I suggest that a poet may, and perhaps always does, first assimilate his world in time, and next create from that world a universe not limited to time and known actuality. A great poet's world is like ours, full of everyday things, but he likes them more, fascinated alike by the good and the evil. What he makes is not an everyday affair, but something more eternal. The transition from the poet's world to the poet's universe is like a transition from politics to religion and mysticism.

The date of Phrynichos' Satyroi is not known, but it seems fair to assume that in the late 420s a certain Philoxenos ‘enjoyed’ a vogue in comedy as an alleged effeminate and catamite (note the descriptions of him as θήλεια, καταπύγων, πόρνος, οὐκ ἄρρην. Both Dover and Henderson comment that καταπύγων in can mean just ‘worthless’, but here the more precise and homosexual meaning of the term is meant. Dover is very probably right that in Cl. 686 the poet has selected as male names those of ‘three men whose masculinity could be called in question’.

Hesiod's instructions about cutting wood for a wagon or cart (Op. 424–7) have puzzled commentators since antiquity.* The latest editor of the Works and Days, Martin West, expresses surprise that he should recommend an axle as long as 7 ft (line 424), which West thinks would be liable to break under a heavy load. In his discussion of line 426 he rejects the view of the ancient Scholia and Proclus, that ἁψίς refers to one of four segments which are joined together to make the felloe of a wheel, and that the vehicle is sized by the diameter of the wheel. Instead West accepts the view of Thraemer and Mazon, that ἁψίς refers to the whole wheel, measured across its diameter. He also assumes that it must be a block-wheel, consisting of a solid disc, and he goes on to suggest that the dimension given for the ἄμαξα of ten palms (i.e. about 2·5 ft) refers to the length of the vehicle from front to back. As he says, the result is ‘an oddly proportioned vehicle’, which would in fact be 5 ft wide and 2·5 ft long.

The two cultus monuments whose existence is bound up with the solid rock on which the Erechtheion stands have always been eagerly sought for in the hope that they might be used as fixed points from which to determine the complicated plan of the temple.

Perhaps the ‘salt spring’ has attracted less attention than the ‘trident-mark.’ Boetticher supposed it to lie at the lowest part of the middle chamber, where a hollow in the rock, communicating with a still deeper cleft, even now collects water after a shower. As Pausanias states that the ‘spring,’ was ἔνδον this is perhaps the most likely spot, unless we prefer to locate it in the West Hall, and to suppose that it was destroyed when the cistern was built. It is true that J. Fergusson placed the ‘spring’ in the north-west angle of the West Cella, but this is quite an arbitrary hypothesis, and appears untenable, because the rock has here a fall towards the outside through the opening which pierces the north wall and leads into the crypt under the north porch.

1. At Panderma: small base, broken, ̇08 m. across, letters ̇01.

2. Small fragment of cippus, diam. ̇11, letters ̇02.

3. Pediment (0·24 broad) with radiated bust of long-haired god: below (letters ̇015):