The figure of Alexander inevitably dominates the history of his reign. Our extant sources are centrally focussed upon the king himself. Accordingly it is his own military actions which receive the fullest documentation. Appointments to satrapies and satrapal armies are carefully noted because he made them, but the achievements of the appointees are passed over in silence. The great victories of Antigonus which secured Asia Minor in 323 BC are only known from two casual references in Curtius Rufus, and in general all the multifarious activities in the empire disappear from recorded history except in so far as they impinge upon court life in the shape of reports to Alexander and administrative decisions made by him. Moreover, the sources we possess originate either from high officers of Alexander's court, such as Ptolemy and Nearchus, or from Greek historians like Callisthenes and Cleitarchus, whose aims were literary or propagandist and whose interests were firmly anchored in court life. Inevitably Alexander bestrides that narrow world like a colossus and monopolises the historical picture. But even the figure of Alexander is far from fully fleshed. No contemporary history survives, and for continuous narratives of the reign we are dependent upon late derivative writers who saw Alexander through the filter of centuries of rhetoric and philosophy. The king had long been a stock example of many contradictory traits; he was at once the conqueror and the civiliser, the tyrant and the enlightened king. Cicero and Seneca saw him as the type of unbridled license, Arrian as the paradigm of moderation. The result is that the sources present a series of irreconcilable caricatures of Alexander but no uniform or coherent picture.

This paper is chiefly concerned with the circumstances in which early Greek elegy was performed. Section II argues that for our extant shorter poems only performance at symposia is securely attested. Section III examines the related questions of the meaning of elegos and the performance of elegies at funerals. Finally (IV) I try to establish the existence of longer elegiac poems intended for performance at public festivals.

The aim of this paper is to establish the existence of a significant difference, in a number of respects, between the style of the narrated portions of Homer and that of the speeches which are recorded in the two epics; and to offer some explanations for this fact. It will require the presentation of some statistics: I suspect that not all of the figures are absolutely accurate, but I feel confident that such inaccuracies as they may contain will not affect the validity of the inferences drawn from them. The mere fact of differences in vocabulary, while not without interest, is not extremely interesting or surprising. The hope of this paper is that patterns will appear, and that the ‘reticence’ or ‘objectivity’ of Homer, more often praised than investigated, will be illuminated by them; that particular passages in the poems will be shown to be stylistically interesting or unusual; and that some general considerations will emerge which suggest that the difficulties confronting the oral theory of Homer are rather more complex than is often supposed.

The British Museum possesses, and displays as a group, three elegant white-ground kylikes potted around the middle of the fifth century by Sotades, and painted by that skilled, inventive and intelligent miniaturist dubbed by Beazley ‘The Sotades Painter’. First impressions suggest, and further investigation confirms, that the three make up a coherent set, designed and executed according to a pre-conceived plan. This paper will have something to say about the nature of that plan, but most of it will necessarily be occupied with a prior, and fundamental, problem: for the dramatic and very individual scene illustrated on one of the cups has so far resisted all attempts at interpretation, and I have a new proposal to make. The acid test of that identification will be whether it turns out to form an appropriately complementary element to the other two scenes, and whether all three taken together make sense as a mid-fifth century cultural ensemble.

The first part of this paper briefly reviews current theories as to the origins of the Classical style, and proposes an alternative approach. The second part, making use of some rather neglected pieces of literary evidence, attempts to reconstruct the circumstances in which this distinctive sculptural style was created, and presents it in a new light: as the ingenious solution to a specific artistic problem which confronted fifth-century Greek sculptors as a result of their final rejection of archaic stylization.

It has been said that ‘the history of Pindaric criticism is the history of the cardinal problem, unity’; but this history has yet to be fully explored. Young's pioneering study passes dismissively over the centuries preceding the publication, in 1821, of Boeckh's commentary—a landmark, indeed, but Boeckh's approach to the poet did not spring into being from nothing; it was the product of a long tradition of careful study, in which Pindar had been widely admired and diversely understood. This paper attempts to document that claim; its primary purpose is therefore historical. But the study of the history of scholarship is of most value when it helps us to understand our own place in that history, disclosing and encouraging us to think critically about our tacit or ill-considered assumptions. I shall therefore conclude by pointing briefly to a possible implication of this history for some more recent work on the poet.

The scene carved in relief on a Middle Minoan III-Late Minoan I serpentine footed conical cup or chalice from Ayia Triada has attracted the attention of numerous scholars since its discovery and initial publication. The cup is 11·5 cm in height with a maximum diameter of 9·9 cm. Two male figures are depicted facing each other (Plate VIIa). The figure on the right (hereafter, figure A), stands before a rendering perhaps of a pillar with even, horizontal, divisions to indicate stone blocks. His hair is arranged in tresses that hang to his waist, one of which is pulled in front of his ear. He wears three necklaces, several arm bands and bracelets, and around his waist, a short belted kilt into which is inserted a dagger. On his feet he wears boots which reach up to his mid-calf and are decorated with horizontal incisions. In his extended right hand he holds a straight staff; his left hand is empty and is thrust back, bent at the elbow. The facing figure (hereafter, figure B), is shorter and more simply attired. His hair appears short and gathered in a top-knot. In his right hand he holds a long sword and in his left, a long-handled object with a curved top, interpreted by some scholars to be a ritual sprinkler. Around his neck he wears a simple collar, a short kilt is wrapped around his waist, and on his feet he wears undecorated boots which reach to his mid-calf. On the back of the cup are three male figures carrying large flattened animal skins, usually identified as ox hides or shields. Only the heads of these males are visible above the ‘hides’. Their hair is worn short in the front and hangs freely behind their ears.

In his critical study of Speusippus Leonardo Tarán (T.) expounds an interpretation of a considerable part of the controversial books M and N of Aristotle's Metaphysics. In this essay I want to consider three aspects of the interpretation, the account of Plato's ‘ideal numbers’ (section I), the account of Speusippus’ mathematical ontology (section II), and the account of the principles of that ontology (section III). T. builds his interpretation squarely on the work of Harold Cherniss (C.), to whom I will also refer. I concentrate on T. because he has brought the ideas in which I am interested together and given them a concise formulation; he is also meticulous in indicating the secondary sources with which he agrees or disagrees, so that anyone interested in pursuing particular points can do so easily by consulting his book.

The Hellenistic temple of Apollo at Didyma presents several unique features in its plan. In its exterior it resembles the typical large Ionic temple of Asia Minor with a double colonnade surrounding it, no opisthodomus, and a pronaos containing three rows of four columns each. But at this point the plan of the temple was modified in the strangest manner. For the pronaos does not lead by a great central doorway into the cella, but where the doorway should come, the worshipper entering the building found himself faced with a blank wall 1·495 rn high with above it a colossal opening 5·63 m wide (PLATE VIIa). Consequently the worshipper in the pronaos could not even look directly into the sanctuary. Instead, just above his eye-level beyond the embrasure of this ‘window’ stretched the floor of a large room, 14·04 m by 6·73 m with its roof supported on two columns. Through this room's central door (which was opposite the window) the spectator on ground level outside could catch a glimpse of the upper part of the naiskos in the inner court (the adyton).

‘Only the naïve or innocent observer’, says Sir Moses Finley in his book Politics in the ancient world, ‘can believe that Pericles came to a vital Assembly meeting armed with nothing but his intelligence, his knowledge, his charisma and his oratorical skill, essential as all four attributes were.’ Historians of the Roman Republic have been assiduous in studying clientelae,factiones and ‘delivering the vote’, but much less work has been done on the ways in which Athenian politicians sought to mobilise support. There have been studies of family connections and of links between individual politicians; there have been studies of the associations known as hetaireiai; but many questions remain unanswered. W. R. Connor in The new politicians of fifth-century Athens contrasted an old style of politics, based on ties of philia within the upper classes, with a new style, which spurned philia and appealed directly to the people. Even in his old style, the votes of the ordinary, middling-to-poor citizens counted for more in the straightforward Athenian assembly than in the Roman comitia with their complex systems of block votes. Connor limits political friendship to the upper classes; he pours cold water on Sealey's suggestion that rich families might have brought pressure to bear on their tenants and other dependants (saying, ‘The proud and independent Athenian might be expected to resist intimidation’); but apart from general references to largesse he does not really explain how an old-style Cimon or a new-style Cleon would ensure that the assembly was full of voters willing to elect him as general or approve a motion which he proposed. J. K. Davies has tried to take the matter further in Wealth and the power of wealth in classical Athens.

The ancient critics are well known—some might say notorious—for their readiness to read literature, and particularly Homer, through moral spectacles. Their interpretations of Homeric epic are philosophical, not only in the more limited sense that they identified specific doctrines in the speeches of Homer's characters, making the poet or his heroes spokesmen for the views of Plato or Epicurus, but also in a wider sense: the critics demand from Homer not merely entertainment but enlightenment on moral and religious questions, on good and evil, on this life and the after-life. When they fail to find what they seek, they follow Plato and find him wanting.

At the very end of Plato's Symposium our narrator awakes to find Socrates still hard at it, and making Agathon and Aristophanes agree that the composition of tragedy and comedy is really one and the same thing:… προсαναγκάӡειν τὸν Σωκράτη ὁμολογεῖν αὐτοὺс τοῦ αὐτοῦ ἀνδρὸс εἷναι κωμωιδίαν καὶ τραγωιδίαν ἐπἰсταϲθαι ποιεῖν, καὶ τὸν τέχνηι τραγωιδοποιὸν ὄντα καὶ κωμωιδοποιὸν εἷναι. ταῦτα δὴ ἀναγκαӡομένουϲ αὐτοὺϲ … the two playwrights succumb to sleep, leaving Socrates triumphant. Socrates had to ‘force’ his case; and it is a fact that, though we know of well over 100 fifth-century playwrights, we do not know of a single one who produced both tragedy and comedy. In a famous fragment the comedian Antiphanes (fr. 191K) complains that the tragedians have an easy time—familiar stories, the deus ex machina etc.—ἡμῖν δὲ ταῦτ' οὐκ ἔсτιν … It is a matter of ‘them’ and ‘us’. Furthermore, there was an entire separate genre besides tragedy and comedy. As Demetrius put it (de eloc. 169), τραγωιδία χάριταϲ μὲν παραλαμβάνει ἐν πολλοῖϲ, ὁ δὲ γέλωϲ ἐχθρὸϲ τραγωιδίαϲ· οὐδὲ γὰρ ἐπινοήϲειεν ἄν τιϲ τραγωιδίαν παίӡουϲαν, ἐπεὶ ϲάτυρον γράψει ἀντὶ τραγωιδίαϲ.

The first strophe opens with a wish and a syntactical problem:

εἴ μοι ξυνείη φέροντι μοῖρα τὰν εὔσεπτον ἁγνείαν λόγων ἔργων τε πάντων,…

The sentence is often interpreted as though φέροντι were φέρειν: ‘may it be my destiny to possess’. However, for this meaning the infinitive is clearly required; there is no valid parallel for the use of the participle supposed here. Burton offers: ‘may a share of life be my companion provided that I win or possess purity’; purity is a precondition for life. This interpretation is possible but improbable, for the use of μοῖρα as a synonym for βίος would be obscure in this context. It is altogether easier to interpret with Kamerbeek: ‘would that Destiny were with me when I (“so long as I” or the like)’; the chorus hopes for the favour of fate, provided that this is earned by purity of word and deed. The hope thus embraces an intention to avoid all impurity of word or action. Against this interpretation it has been objected that μοῖρα is a constant presence, not a helpful power which might desert. However, συνεῖναι is attested with the sense ‘favour’ (Aesch. Sept. 671, Soph. OT 275); and the notion that fate may favour individuals or groups is attested (Pindar O. 2.35 ff., P. 3.85 f).

The Periplus Maris Erythraei, written probably in the latter half of the first century ad, is a guide for merchants trading with eastern Africa, Arabia, and India. The anonymous author lists the various ports along the routes, indicating for each the facilities to be found and the objects of trade to be bought or sold there.

A few of the ports are well known and can be identified with certainty. Many which are also mentioned in other writers, such as Strabo or Ptolemy, can be identified with varying degrees of certainty. The most difficult are those that occur only in the Periplus. One such is Tabai, on the African trade route.

As part of his recent study of ‘Narration and allusion in Archaic Greek Art’, Professor A. M. Snodgrass has cause to treat of the famous Attic black-figure vase which depicts Circe handing a cup containing her sinister brew to one of Odysseus’ sailors. She is stirring it with her wand the while, and yet this sailor, and three companions besides, have already been transformed into various animals (or at least his head, and their heads and arms have been). Professor Snodgrass has no difficulty in explaining the apparent simultaneity of separate events here and elsewhere on this vase-painting as relating to what he calls the ‘synoptic’ technique of early Greek Art, that familiar device whereby several successive episodes in a narrative are presented together within the same picture. And he is inclined towards a similar line of explanation as regards the partial transformation of Odysseus’ ἑταῖροι: the artist ‘wished to express the passage of time by indicating a half-way stage in the transformation’.

Laispodias was general in 414/3 and was evidently from a prominent family. Indeed the latter fact is stressed by the first citation in his entry in PA (no. 8963), from Theognostos' Kanones as in J. A. Cramer, Anecdota graeca e codd. manuscriptis bibliothecarum Oxoniensium II (Oxford 1835), 9.22 f.: Λαιποδίας (sic) Ἀνδρωνύμιος ἑνὸς τῶν Ἀθήνῃσιν ἐπιφανῶν. Kirchner was evidently, and reasonably, puzzled by Ἀνδρωνύμιος. The only other Laispodias in PA is no. 8962, who appears on a dedication, IG i2 616. A. E. Raubitschek included this as no. 87 in Dedications from the Athenian Akropolis (Cambridge, Mass. 1949); he restored Laispodias in the genitive as a patronymic and properly supposed that the two men of the name were of the same family. As for the addition ἀνδρονύμιος (sic—with omikron) he asks us to compare ΣAr. Wasps 1239 and the lexicon in order that we should believe that it ‘means only that Laispodias was a proper name’. Indeed, in LSJ we find two references under ἀνδρωνύμιον as a noun meaning ‘proper name’, namely Theognostos and the scholiast.

In the 1903 season of excavations at Naucratis two sherds of Athenian pottery, inscribed with the name of a Herodotus, were found. They were subsequently presented to the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford by the excavator, D. G. Hogarth. In this note I would like to question the supposed relationship between these two ‘signatures’ and the historian Herodotus, who dedicated part of his work to a study of Egypt.

‘There is surely more than geography involved in the extraordinary stress laid in the play on the importance of the branching road.’ So writes the latest editor of Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus, R. D. Dawe, who proceeds to mention the ‘sexual significance … (the junction of the human trunk and legs)’ which ‘people tell us’ is to be discerned behind the references to the cross-roads where Oedipus met and killed his father. Dawe finds it difficult to make up his mind whether quasi-Freudian symbolism is properly to be attributed to Sophocles, and in adopting an equivocal position he cites only one further factor, that ‘the imagery of crossroads is common enough representing a point where a crucial decision has to be made’.

Prometheus, having lamented the burden of his brother Atlas, speaks of earthborn Typhos and his punishment by Zeus. The text and apparatus of lines 351 to 357 are given in Sir Denys Page's edition thus:

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.