Five years ago, in these pages, I ventured to suggest the ‘urgent need of a finely illustrated new book on Greek art before 460’. The new appreciation of the earlier Greek masters, so fervent among young people whose perceptions belong to their own age, and who have had the luck to see ‘archaic’ Greek sculpture at first hand, has long demanded some adequate presentment from the vastly enlarged resources of modern photography for the benefit of the general public. This aspiration is now being gradually realized. The remarkable work produced in Paris (1934) by Christian Zervos, and entitled L'Art en Gr`ce, laid stress on aspects of Greek sculpture which appeal to twentieth-century taste, and supplemented admirably what had already been done for Parthenon and Erectheum art by the Berlin publication, Die Akropolts. The photography of L'Art en Grèce was actually too good for some critics. I have heard it described as tendencious, and its producers have been charged with the serious crime of manipulating light and vision so successfully as to upset the still prevailing academic standards of judgement. They had the audacity to photograph, direct from Greek vases of the fifth century, large-scale details of drawing which might readily be mistaken for products of twentieth-century Paris, distortion and all. That Pericles and Picasso should kiss each other is a notion revolting to staid minds, and the indignation it caused is not surprising to those who know our universities.

The legend of Aeneas grew up in the fifth century b.c. among Greeks. In the fourth it was adopted at Rome, and developed. Then it remained static for a century, until the Julii further developed it in the interest of family policy.

This is roughly the result to which the criticism of the Italian foundation legends has led. No single early and original form of them can be defined. They are confused and self-contradictory. Archaeology gives little if any direct confirmation of them, as they stand. Before the end of the nineteenth century few believed that they represented any historical reality. They were supposed to be a poetic invention, by which Greeks in the west sought to adorn the history of their new homes by connecting it with the poetry of their old. At the end of the century a kind of principle could be stated: that peoples naturally tend to claim false origins in lands far from their historical home. Even now pre-historians of Italy can almost disregard the possibility that the legends may have truth in them; for much of the early archaeological evidence is coherent without assuming infiltrations by sea.

Theocritus sings of eighty-seven different trees, shrubs, flowers, grasses, and ferns. Practically all the references are in the Pastoral Idylls: that is to say, that in the small compass of about 1,200 lines he mentions nearly twice as many plants as Homer does in the whole Iliad and Odyssey. Many of these plants are mentioned several times, and some many times, so the number is impressively great, and implies a great interest: an interest not shown by any other Greek poet. The selection, too, is unprecedented. The Comic Poets may write of things to eat (kitchen-garden produce); the Tragic and Lyric poets, of ceremonial adjuncts; garlands for gods, athletes, feasters (nursery-garden produce). Theocritus' plants are none of these: they are the plants of the mountains, foot-hills, meadows, and shores of the place in which he lived:

αίγίπυρος καί κνύЗα καί εύώλης μελίτεια.

He Writes of plants for their own sakes, and it is this that makes his attitude modern and interesting. Fourteen hundred years before him Minoan painters looked at plants with his eyes: except for them he is unique in Greek history.

The rain was falling in torrents and there seemed to be no prospect of its stopping. Publius had already exhausted all his favourite wet-weather games and, after games, all his favourite forms of mischief. He had teased the slaves out of their lives. He had set Davus to look for Stichus and, at the same time, Stichus to look for Davus. If you started them in different parts of the house, you could get a good deal of fun out of their wasted exertions, before they met and discovered the trick. Then he had begged all the titbits from the cook that he was likely to get. Then he had played with the monkey, until it got tired of his exactions and escaped to the roof. And still the rain went on. What was he to do with himself? All amusements exhausted and still several hours to bedtime. A happy thought! He would find Syrus and get him to play their favourite game of story-telling. Syrus was a good listener and helped out Publius' own amateur efforts by his close attention. But when it came to his turn, he was a very prince of story-telling. He must have had a wonderful life before he came to Rome as a slave. He could tell you stories for hours of the life in the desert, of the raids of nomads who came and went so quickly on their camels; of the powerful genies, who would come to you out of a storm of sand and might either destroy you or become your devoted servants, according as you had or had not the word of power to tame them. Publius could never understand how, after such a life, Syrus could put up with being a slave as readily as he did. Rome, at the best, must be very dull after such an existence. Anyhow, Syrus was the man he wanted; the next thing must be to find him.

Since the character and achievement of Euripides form one of the most interesting studies in classical literature, it is not surprising to find that the most varied estimates have been made both of his poetic and dramatic ability, but whatever conclusion we may reach we cannot be blind to the great influence which he had on his successors. It was an influence which such shrewd critics as Aristophanes dreaded, but in spite of his censures and warnings the Euripidean outlook gained the day.