In many respects Delphi and its varied cults possess an interest which is not to be rivalled by that of any other Hellenic site. The lofty precipices, the dark deeply-cleft ravines, the mysterious caves, and the bubbling springs of pure water, combine to give the place a romantic charm and a fearfulness of aspect which no description can adequately depict.

Again Delphi stands alone in the catholic multiplicity of the different cults which were there combined.

In primitive times it was the awfulness of Nature which impressed itself on the imaginations of the inhabitants.

In an early stage of development the mind of man tends to gloomy forms of religion: his ignorance and comparative helplessness tend to fill his brain with spiritual terrors and forebodings. Thus at Delphi the primitive worship was that of the gloomy Earth and her children, the chasm-rending Poseidon, and the Chthonian Dionysus, who, like Osiris, was the victim of the evil powers of Nature. It was not till later times that the bright Phoebus Apollo came to Delphi to slay the earth-born Python, just as the rising sun dissipates the shadows in the depths of the Delphian ravines, or as in the Indian legend the god Indra kills with his bright arrows the great serpent Ahi—symbol of the black thunder-cloud.

Hartwig was the first writer to give a detailed account of the important painter who for the sake of convenience may be called Kleophrades. Nine vases are assigned by the author of Meisterschalen to an artist whom he terms ‘Amasis II.’; but the name under which he grouped them rests upon an untenable restoration of the fragmentary inscription

on the foot of a cup in the Cabinet des Médailles. The last and broken letter can only be a and we cannot therefore restore Ἄμασις ἔγραφαεν the choice lies between Ἀμάσιος ὑύς and Ἄμασις καλός, and of these the former, which is Six's reading, is probably preferable. In any case the manufacturer from whose workshop the cup came was called Kleophrades.

The justification for including this article in a volume dedicated to Sir David Ross must be that the tragic poets reflect the psychological terminology of educated Athenian society during a period which corresponds almost exactly with the life-time of Socrates and includes the first twenty years or so of Plato's life. Of course the tragic poets wrote in a poetic language strongly influenced by Homer and less strongly by lyric poetry, but they were also influenced by contemporary thinkers, doctors, sophists, and philosophers. The present study is confined to the words psyche, thymos, kardia (and its synonyms), phren/phrenes, nous.

It may be useful first to note the range of usage of these words and secondly to point out very briefly the historical development. The range of usages of these words is difficult to define; in fact such definition cannot produce boxes into which instances can be sorted but may usefully mark points on the scale of meaning between which any given instance falls. Of the five words, kardia and phrenes are names for parts of the body, ‘heart’ and ‘diaphragm’. It is perhaps rash to identify psyche and thymos with the cold/moist and hot/dry components of breath, but certainly in many passages of Homer they have some such physical meaning. Nous, however, is a verbal abstract and verbal abstracts in Greek mean not only a process but also the agent or the result of the process; as a process, it means ‘appreciating the situation’ in the military sense in which appreciate involves also making a plan; as an agent, it means ‘the appreciating mind’; as a result, it means ‘the plan or thought’ which results from the appreciation. By analogy, I suspect, with nous the other words also can be used for mental processes and results as well as for agents; thymos can already mean ‘thought’ in Homer, kardia ‘courage’ in Archilochos, and phrenes ‘intention’ in Solon. The full possible range of meaning is: (a) part of the body, (b) psychological agent, (c) psychological process, (d) result of psychological process. But these meanings fade into one another and any particular instance may be difficult to classify precisely.

This report, in which the usual arrangement is adopted, includes all the excavation-accounts which have reached me up to September 30th, 1929. Those concerning the work of the French School, the German School and the Greek Archaeological Service relate to work done in 1928; the rest mainly concern the campaigns of 1929.

American School

During the season of 1929 the American School, under Professor Rhys Carpenter, have continued their work on Old Corinth, selecting three areas for excavation:—the first, just north of the Peribolos of Apollo and east of the Lechaeum Road, revealed a large though much-destroyed Roman thermal establishment, where the well-preserved floor-piers of two hypocaust rooms and a deep marble-lined pool leave no doubt as to the purpose of the building, identified by Professor Carpenter with the famous Baths of Eurykles, described by Pausanias. The second area lies between the Temple of Apollo and the village road on the north. In antiquity the rocky hill on which the Temple stood had been cut away to a vertical rock-face, some 20 feet high, and Professor Carpenter's purpose is to restore the ancient isolation of the Temple.

Much has been written about Plato's accounts of pleasure in Republic 9 and Philebus, almost nothing about his account in Timaeus. But with respect to sense-perceptual pleasure specifically, the account in Timaeus is unique and extremely informative. This paper examines, in turn, the physiology and the psychology of sense-perceptual pleasure, focusing on the text at 64a2–65b3, but drawing on a wide range of passages from elsewhere in the dialogue. The paper concludes with a further suggestion: that Timaeus is implicitly committed to a distinction between two kinds of perceptual pleasure, sense-perceptual pleasure and ‘brute’ pleasure.

During the latter part of the summer of 1936 I spent some six weeks in Cyprus, studying the Greek and Roman inscriptions of the island, with the intention ultimately of producing a small Corpus. The following article is the first of a series in which I hope to publish the more interesting portion of my results.

The following inscriptions, with the exception of No. 7, were copied during the cruise of Mr. Allison V. Armour's yacht ‘Utowana’ in the Eastern Mediterranean in the spring of 1904. The copying was done by Mr. D. G. Hogarth, of Magdalen College, Oxford, Mr. Richard Norton, Director of the American School of Classical Studies in Rome, and myself; and in preparing the material for publication I have had the benefit of Mr. Hogarth's advice and assistance. The inscriptions Nos. 1 and 25, as well as the three stelae from Larnaca mentioned under No. 30, are now at the American School in Rome; No. 21 is in America.

A catalogue of the Greek Vases in the Royal Ontario Museum, Toronto, has recently been published. A number of vases have been acquired recently, too late for inclusion; and it seems desirable to publish here the more important of these additions as nearly as possible simultaneously with the catalogue. They are as follows:

(a) A Geometric Tomb Group from Athens (PI. VI. figs. 1–4)

All the objects in this group come from a single grave, in the neighbourhood of Athens. They consist of six egg-shaped vases, two pyxides, two ‘flower-pot’ vases, a fluted glass bead, a loom-weight, a decorated bronze ‘sail’ fibula, and two bronze pins.

The following is a description of the objects:

1. Egg-shaped vase with lid. Accession No. C. 1033. Height without lid, 0·111 m. (4⅜ ins.); with lid, 0·162 m. (6⅜ ins.). Diameter, 0·099 m. (3⅞ ins.). Two string-holes in rim, four in lid, two on either side. Decoration on lid of broad and narrow bands with double row of dots near the edge. Concentric narrow bands on knob handle. On the body, main decoration is a maeander pattern, with a chessboard pattern below, and at intervals narrow bands, zigzags, and upward-pointing ray pattern. On shoulder and point of base, a broad band.

This paper explores instances in Herodotus’ Histories where the historian or his characters engage with very large numbers by counting vast collections of people or things, establishing the dimensions of huge objects and measuring long stretches of time. In these episodes, Herodotus explores how quantifying the material traces of the past can help reconstruct antiquity. This methodological point is most evident in his calculations in book 2, and this paper focuses in particular on his persistent reckoning in three interrelated Egyptian accounts: those of the nature of the Nile valley, of the construction of the pyramids and of the genealogy of the Theban priests. I argue that Herodotus’ quantifying efforts, far from being only a rhetorical strategy to increase the narrator's credibility and authority, are an important, indeed crucial, part of his historical method.

It is, perhaps, somewhat venturesome to attempt to say anything upon a subject which demands full treatment from anyone who would write a History of Greece, and which has, therefore, been discussed at considerable length by many great historians. Still the research of the last twenty years has led to such material modifications of the views which formerly prevailed as to the exact significance of various important factors in the history of the Greek race, that the learned world has become emancipated from the tyranny of stereotyped tradition, and has ceased to regard deviation from the accustomed views as necessarily fanciful and untrue.

I should have liked to begin what I hope will be a series of essays on black-figure artists, not with the Antimenes painter, but with one of those bold congeners of Euphronios and Euthymides to whom Buschor has recently drawn attention. But these, as it turned out, presented unexpected difficulties, so I begin with the Antimenes painter.

I name him after the inscription on a vase in Leyden, a hydria with a representation of youths washing which has always seemed to me one of the prettiest of black-figure pictures. The vase has been published twice, first by Roulez in very imperfect drawings, lately by the lutrologist Sudhoff in good photographs. New photographs, which I owe to the kindness of Miss Brants, bring out some details obscure in Sudhoff (although in other points Sudhoff is superior), and give the proportions of the figures better, for in Sudhoff the lower parts are somewhat foreshortened.

Two fragments of a vase by Sophilos are remnants of the earliest extant representation of the myth of the contest between Athena and Poseidon at Athens.

The basic contention of this article is that, contrary to a widely held and influential view, the Chalkis Decree does not constitute evidence that Athens tried to impose democracies on rebellious allies after their subjugation. It contains an exchange of oaths between Athens and Chalkis, confirming an ‘agreement’ (homologia), the contents of which are lost. The oaths show Athenian concern for the protection of the Athenian democracy and its friends at Chalkis, and impose some judicial but no political restrictions on Chalkis to secure Athenian domination and assure the priority of Athenian interests. In fact, the Athenians acknowledge the right of the Chalkidians to insist on the performance of civic duties in Chalkis on the part of aliens (xenoi) resident there. The Athenians among these resident xenoi, who are exempted from these obligations, are neither colonists nor kleruchs, as is sometimes alleged, but most probably individual settlers who had been given land in Chalkidian territory by Tolmides in the 450s.

A fundamental assumption throughout this article is that the text of Homer is no different from that of other classical authors, since it has been preserved by the same kind of manuscript tradition. The difference is that while all our texts go back to the editions of the Hellenistic scholars, the gap between these and the author is relatively short for fourth and fifth century writers, but very much longer for Homer, if we assign to him a very approximate date of the late eighth, or even early seventh, century.

The penultimate scene of Euripides' Troades, lines 1123–1250, presents the dressing of a child's corpse for burial. Even as the body is being carried away for interment, firebrands are seen on the heights of Troy (1256–9). All that remains is the commencement of the final burning of the city while the remaining Trojan captives are ordered off for embarkation and exile. The end of the play, therefore, enacts the annihilation of a city and its total abandonment; in such a context the funeral which immediately precedes surely makes a crucial contribution to the significance of the play and deserves close study.

Beazley, quoted by Fraenkel ad loc., has suggested that τρίτον Άθῷον αἶπος Ζηνὁς alludes to τρίτος (Σωτήρ) Ζεύς. The role played by Ζεὺς Σωτήρ in the religious thought of Aeschylus and in his treatment of the Oresteia myth is important (cf. Fraenkel on 1387), but this is not by itself sufficient to prove the allusion here. The route Ida-Lemnos-Athos shows no signs of having been artificially contrived in order to bring Athos into the third place, and while Aeschylus evidently intends to give the signal a divine send-off, so to speak, with the triad Hephaestus, Hermes and Zeus, the importation of a particular Zeus into the context makes no useful contribution to this end. τρίτον may undoubtedly evoke thoughts Σωτήρ, but Aeschylean evocations of thought usually have point; hence, perhaps, the caution detectable in Fraenkel's approach to Beazley's suggestion. Our doubts may be resolved by the fact that even if we restrict τρίτον to the literal sense, Σωτήρ is already present in the context by implication, in the word Ἀθῷον. No audience could distinguish between Ἀθῷον and ἀθῷον, and three of the manuscripts have not succeeded in doing so either (ἄθωον MFTr). Aeschylus frequently embarks on word-play, particularly with proper names (see, e.g., Suppl. 45–7, 315; PV 732–4, 848–52; Ag. 681 ff.; Αἰτν. fr. 27 Mette), and in some of the cases is probably exercising the poet's prerogative to coin his own etymologies, but this may be an instance drawn from popular usage. Athos, rising to a height of 2033 m.

In this paper, I explore the literary aesthetics of Attalid Pergamon, one of the Ptolemies’ fiercest cultural rivals in the Hellenistic period. Traditionally, scholars have reconstructed Pergamene poetry from the city’s grand and monumental sculptural programme, hypothesizing an underlying aesthetic dichotomy between the two kingdoms: Alexandrian ‘refinement’ versus the Pergamene ‘baroque’. In this paper, I critically reassess this view by exploring surviving scraps of Pergamene poetry: an inscribed encomiastic epigram celebrating the Olympic victory of a certain Attalus (IvP I.10) and an inscribed dedicatory epigram featuring a speaking Satyr (SGO I.06/02/05). By examining these poems’ sophisticated engagements with the literary past and contemporary scholarship, I challenge the idea of a simple opposition between the two kingdoms. In reality, the art and literature of both political centres display a similar capacity to embrace both the refined and the baroque. In conclusion, I ask how this analysis affects our interpretation of the broader aesthetic landscape of the Hellenistic era and suggest that the literature of both capitals belongs to a larger system of elite poetry which stretched far and wide across the Hellenistic world.

The Homeric talent, a quantity of unworked gold, has attracted very little scholarly comment. Yet it is a conspicuous enough feature of the Homeric economy: when Agamemnon lists the gifts with which he hopes to win over Achilles, he includes ten talents of gold (khrusou talanta) in the first line of his plutocratic catalogue. The same sum also features among the gifts Achilles receives from Priam. In what follows, I argue that the talent occupies an anomalous position within the system of Homeric gift exchange, and that this anomaly has interesting implications both within and beyond the Homeric text.

Suppose that you are writing a highly eulogistic obituary notice of a well-known statesman who has recently died, and suppose further that you wish to suppress all reference to one period in that statesman's life which lasted for six years, how are you going to proceed? It is clearly a ticklish matter. But if your hero left X at the beginning of that period of six years to go to Y, and then at its close returned from Y to X, it might be possible to telescope the two residences at X into a single visit, and to cover your suppression of the six years' absence by a discreet lack of definition in your chronological statements. If you are successful, others may follow your lead, and centuries later your evasions may escape the notice of the historical student.