The examination of the cleroterium by Sterling Dow left few questions connected with it untouched. His publications on this ingenious device are as follows: ‘Allotment Machines', Prytaneis: A Study of the Inscriptions Honoring the Athenian Councillors, Hesperia, Suppl. i (1937) 198–215, with photographs (hereafter referred to as P); ‘Aristotle, the Kleroteria, and the Courts’, HSCP 1 (1939) 1–34 (hereafter referred to as H); ‘Kleroterion’, in PW, Suppl. vii (1940), col. 322–328 (hereafter referred to as PW). G. Klaffenbach summarised Dow's analysis in ‘Antike Losungsapparate’, Die Antike xiv (1938) 353–355. Prior to Dow, notice of one fragment of a cleroterium was published by B. Tamaro, ‘Pianta Epigrafica dell’ Acropoli', ASAA iv/v (1921–22) 63 nr. 124. P has clear photographs of all remains then known. There are drawings in PW based on the drawing of I and photographs of I, II, III, X, and XI in P—Dow labelled the remains with roman numerals; I follow his labelling. Drawings in P are found opposite the photographs of I and of VI; in H, as frontispiece. Since Dow's publications appeared, there has been no reconsideration of his work nor any re-examination of his reconstruction. This is proof of the quality of his work.

In 1960 when I first studied Dow's reconstruction, I relied on the excellent and revealing photographs in P. My own mechanical aptitude made me feel uneasy over certain small details in the reconstruction.

The lines come from the messenger's speech describing the attack of the Delphians on Neoptolemus, a passage which I have discussed elsewhere in connexion with the tradition of Neoptolemus as inventor of the armed Pyrrhic dance. LSJ seem to be in several minds about the meaning and connexion of some of the words describing the missiles used by the Delphians. S.v. ‘σφαγεύς’, they give ‘sacrificial knife, spit’ uniquely of a word elsewhere meaning ‘slayer, murderer’, etc. (elsewhere Euripides uses σφαγ-ίς, -ίδος in this sense). S.v. ‘βουπόρος’, they cite ἀμφωβόλοι σφαγῆς … βουπόροι ‘spitst fit to pierce an ox's throat’—i.e. taking σφαγῆς as gen. sing., rather oddly dependent on βουπόροι. S.v. ‘ἔκλυτος’, they quote this passage, again uniquely, in the sense ‘easy to let go, light, buoyant, of missiles’. This last seems even less likely than Wecklein's ohne Riemen or the Budé's doubles dards sans poignée, which presumably invoke a rather frigid contrast of the true javelins fitted with thongs (μεσάγκυλα) and the spits, sharp at both ends, which were pressed into service of a similar sort, but of course had to be thrown without this attachment: but these implements could hardly be described as ἔκλυτοι of thongs which they never had at all in the first place!

With Murray's punctuation (a comma after ἀμφώβολοι), since a combination of a, b, c τε, d is scarcely credible, σφαγῆς βουπόροι is presumably not to be taken as the description of a separate type of weapon, but as an explanatory appositional phrase with ἀμφώβολοι. This interpretation is found in the schol, ὀβελίσκοι σφάττειν δυνάμενοι and followed by Hermann and Paley (‘These same spits might be called exegetically “beef-piercing cutters”’).

Chaeremon is a shadowy figure in early fourth century tragedy, but one of considerable interest. I attempt here an appraisal of his work, in so far as the fragments and the ancient testimonia allow.

I. Bibliography

Text of the fragments: Nauck, TGF 781–92; P. Hibeh ii 224.

The only general assessments of Chaeremon of any extent date from the nineteenth century with its more expansive approach. Best is G. Bernhardy, Grundriss der griechischen Literatur ii 2 (Halle 1859) 61–3, who there refers to the ‘sorgfältige Monographie’ of H. Bartsch, De Chaeremone poeta tragico (Mainz 1843) (inaccessible to me). Older literature is listed by A. Dieterich s.v. ‘Chairemon’, PW iii 2, 2025 (published 1899).

Since Bernhardy the space accorded Chaeremon not just in general works but even in detailed studies of tragedy diminishes sharply. He still warrants a page or so in A. and M. Croiset, Histoire de la littérature grecque (Paris 1913) iii 402 f.; in Lesky he gets a brief mention, Geschichte 680. He is not mentioned by name in Lesky's Tragische Dichtung, and only in connection with fr. 2 by Pohlenz, Griechische Tragödie (Göttingen 1954) 407; he is ignored, for example, by Kitto, Greek Tragedy (London 1961).

I propose to demonstrate the clinical plausibility of the ‘psychotherapy scene’ of the Bacchae, which is subjected here to a purely psychiatric analysis: all my interpretations and conjectures are based on clinical data and psychiatric theory only. Euripides' objective and rational treatment of the irrational, the accuracy of his descriptions (not theories) of abnormal behaviour, which are compatible, down to the last detail, with descriptions found in modern psychiatric texts, and his capacity to present not simply a partial list of symptoms, but a coherent clinical picture (syndrome) are taken for granted and will not be discussed further in the present context. The focus of my enquiry is exclusively the psychiatric plausibility of Euripides' description of the psychotherapeutic process.

It goes without saying that, since ‘instant cures’ are impossible, Euripides condensed a normally fairly long procedure into a single scene, selectively high-lighting only what would be the crucial moments of a real psychotherapy. His summary of the psychotherapy is as satisfactory as that of a modern psychiatrist. In fact, Euripides' masterly selectivity actually facilitates the understanding of the psychodynamics of Agave's recovery. This enables me to comment on the Euripidean text in exactly the same way as I commented on the verbatim transcript of the psychotherapy of one of my Plains Indian patients.

The first stage of the break-up of the empire of Alexander the Great has not been a popular subject in recent years. Yet despite this lack of attention, a wholly satisfactory exposition of the source material relating to the political events of the period has not yet been written. Earlier writers, with rare exceptions, have been hamstrung in their interpretations by an over-rigid or static view of Macedonian Staatsrecht, elucidation of which was thought to be the key to the problems. This article returns to the sources. And while the condition of our sources may preclude a final definitive interpretation, I hope to show that a more realistic account can be written than has been produced so far.

The last stand of the Greeks against Rome before Greece sank into the limbo of the Roman Empire is to some a truly patriotic rising, to others a misguided attempt at the impossible. Whatever their general estimation, most scholars have recognised social traits in the Achaian War and in the events which immediately preceded it.

To Kahrstedt it was ‘bolschewistisches Fahrwasser … Massenmord der Besitzenden und Gebildeten … Ausrottung der Bourgeoisie … eine reine Proletarierrepublik, ein Kampf gegen die eigenen Bourgeois und gegen die kapitalistische italische Grossmacht’. Colin sees in the events of 147/6 B.C. traits of ‘une révolution sociale’. According to Fustel de Coulanges, ‘ils abolissent les dettes, ou tout au moins en diffèrent le payement. Ils affranchissent et arment les esclaves.’ To Oertel, it was ‘sozialistische Bewegung … die Ziele sind die alten’. According to Pöhlmann, ‘selbst in die letzte grosse politische Krisis der Nation … spielt die sozialdemokratische Bewegung mächtig hinein’. In the view of Benecke ‘the masses in the Greek cities were encouraged by promises of a social revolution, and the … Achaean general Critolaus did not dare to disappoint them’. According to Rostovtzeff, the aim of Rome in the destruction of Corinth was ‘to put an end to social and economic revolution’. Other authorities, such as Niese, Mommsen, De Sanctis, Tarn, Niccolini, note social traits in their accounts of the events of 147/6 B.C. without attempting a general view of the place of the social factor in the Achaian War.

Homer is universally praised for the clarity of his style. Yet even to sympathetic or perceptive readers, if their critical remarks really express their judgments, his poetical intention has been singularly opaque: invited to leave town by Plato, as if he were a bad ethical philosopher; lauded by Aristotle for his dramatic unity, as if he were a pupil of Sophocles; criticised by Longinus for composing an Odyssey without Iliadic sublimity; abused in more recent times by Scaliger as indecorous, irrational, improper and undisciplined, as if he were seeking (like Virgil) to portray the perfect exemplar of a renaissance prince; defended by Dacier as a sublime primitive, innocent of taste and art, who achieved perfection ‘par la seule force de son genie’. Some of these judgments are no more than the stock responses of their age to epic poetry. The critic regards the poems from his own point of view; he discovers what he expects to find; and he passes a judgment that illuminates the workings of his own mind but sheds nothing but darkness upon Homer's. The announcement, therefore, of a new criticism by Notopoulos and Lord, a criticism based on the results of comparative study and free from the old prejudices of Analysts and Unitarians, is an event of importance. It may even be the case that the despised anachronistic ‘singer’, that unwashed, mendicant figure lurking in the coffee houses of the Balkans, has something to say. But whatever he says, it will be applicable to Homer only by analogy, and will require verification.

In a somewhat polemical article on ‘Solstices, Equinoxes, and the Presocratics’ D. R. Dicks has recently challenged the usual view that the Presocratics in general, and the Milesians in particular, made significant contributions to the development of scientific astronomy in Greece. According to Dicks, mathematical astronomy begins with the work of Meton and Euctemon about 430 B.C. What passes for astronomy in the earlier period ‘was still in the pre-scientific stage’ of ‘rough-and-ready observations, unsystematically recorded and imperfectly understood, of practical men’ whose chief concern was to fix the seasons for ploughing, seed-time, sailing voyages and religious festivals. Ionian speculation, says Dicks, took very little note of such observation: ‘some of its wilder flights of fancy might have been avoided, if it had taken more’. In this account of the rise of Greek astronomy, the natural philosophers have no part to play. Their theories represent a speculative enterprise without a scientific future, a philosophic sideline with no impact on the development of observational science from Hesiod to Meton or the development of mathematical astronomy from Meton to Ptolemy.

I believe that such a dichotomy between early philosophy and early science in Greece is misguided in principle, and that it seriously distorts our picture of the initial phases of each discipline. It also imposes a considerable strain upon our credulity. Take the case of Anaxagoras who, according to Plato and Theophrastus, had given a causal explanation of eclipses of the moon a generation before Meton.

The interesting thing about the word for ‘palace’ in Homer is that there is no such word. All the words that mean ‘house’ (δόμος, δῶ, δῶμα, μέγαρον, οἶκος, οἰκία) may be applied to a royal palace, but all of them (and their plurals) may equally well be used of the house of an ordinary citizen, μέγαρον is often translated ‘palace’, or some other word with connotations of kingly majesty. But it too, when it is not more narrowly localised to the living-room, means just a house in general.

Just as there is no separate word to designate a palace in Homer (τὰ βασίλεια occurs first in Herodotus), so a qualifying adjective is never used to indicate that a particular house is ‘royal’ (the first occurrence of such a periphrasis is βασίλειοι οἶκοι Aeschylus, Ag. 157). In fact, to Homer there is no sharp distinction between a palace and a house, except that a king is likely to have a bigger and better home, more sumptuously furnished.

The Iliad and the Odyssey are much concerned with kings. So it is odd that no word serves to designate the king's palace and no other dwelling, especially when the poet so delights in describing the splendour of royal homes (for example, the description of Alcinous' palace and its grounds in Od. vii 81 ff.). The major archaeological sites of the Mycenaean period, in which the main stories of the poems are set, all contain a palace which is easily recognised, even in its ruinous state. Can one imagine a new arrival at a great Mycenaean site needing to be shown which was the palace, as Odysseus was shown at Phaeacia? It seems highly unlikely that the Mycenaeans should have had no special word for a palace, though there is so far no firm evidence for (or against) the existence of such a word in Linear B. If a ‘palace’ word existed, its special significance, if not the word itself, must have been forgotten by Homer's time, when a great many houses might be found within the city wall, as at Smyrna. There may, however, be traces of the ‘palace’ meaning still detectable.

In Table 1, which has been compiled from the concordances of Prendergast and Dunbar, I have tabulated the frequency with which each of the regular words for ‘house’ is used to denote a dwelling occupied by gods, lesser divinities, mortals or animals. Various interesting points arise from this table.

It is apparent that there is a far higher proportion of gods' houses mentioned in the Iliad than in the Odyssey. The figures for δόμος and δῶμα show this particularly clearly. But the difference is probably due entirely to the subject-matter: far more of the action is taken up with scenes among the gods in the Iliad than in the Odyssey.

For the lack of forty-nine drachmas Socrates was unable to attend the costly epideixis of Prodicus from which he would have learnt the truth about correct use of words (Plato, Cra. 384b). From Prodicus' ὥραι Socrates could also have learnt the concepts and characteristic words associated with arete and kakia: these compete in that work for the allegiance of Heracles, parading their respective characteristics. Thanks to Professor Arthur Adkins we have had for the past decade a book which not only confronts arete and kakia, but also analyses the meaning and usage of many Greek words for the evaluation of action from Homer to Aristotle. The importance of this book is generally acknowledged but it has not received the detailed discussion it deserves. Professor Adkins finds the social structure of ancient Greece inimical to the development of an adequate concept of moral responsibility. He shows, in a most interesting manner, how Greek values changed as the needs of society changed.

A curious irony hangs over the two similes of the lantern and the clepsydra which Empedocles used to describe his theories of seeing and breathing (frr. 84 and 100). Similes were a feature of Empedocles' style, and it is clear that on these two in particular he has lavished considerable care. They have been preserved in their entirety, as almost the longest continuous quotations which Aristotle makes from any author. Despite such auspicious beginnings, these two similes have proved peculiarly resistant to modern attempts at interpretation. The reason for this, I shall try to show, is that certain features in the two similes took on a spurious significance as a result of Plato's remodelling of Empedocles' theories. Difficulties of interpretation have been caused by trying to read back these innovations of Platonic theory into details of the similes that in their original context were fortuitous and inessential.

In Plato vision occurs when fire leaves the eye and joins fire outside to form a single compacted body, along which movements from the visible object are communicated as sensations to the eye.

According to Theophrastus, Empedocles explained vision as the result of effluences which are given off from objects and enter the appropriate pores of the eye. Dark effluences enter the watery pores of the eyes, and bright effluences enter the fiery pores of the eye. As I have tried to show in an earlier article, Empedocles distinguished good and bad vision, by day and by night, for eyes with a predominance of fire and for eyes with a predominance of water. Good vision results when the dark and light elements which enter the eye are equally balanced. Poor vision results either when there is too much fire in the eye, so that we are dazzled, or when there is too much water in the eye, so that our vision is dimmed. In the whole of his detailed and one would have thought exhaustive account, Theophrastus says nothing about fire leaving the eye as a factor in the act of vision.

This paper focuses on two problems connected with our sources for Athenian politics between 510/09 and 488/7 B.C.:

(i) In the Athenaion Politeia attributed to Aristotle (henceforth Ath.), ostracism is included in the laws of Cleisthenes (22.1). But later (22.3) the author of the Ath. dates the first ostracism (that of Hipparchus, son of Charmus) to the year 488/7. Depending on the date of Cleisthenes' laws, this leaves a gap of thirteen to twenty years between the institution of ostracism and its first use. Yet the very nature of the law suggests that it was passed for immediate use.

(ii) Cleisthenes' rival, Isagoras, is described in Ath. 20.1 as φίλος τῶν τυράννων. This label conflicts with two details in the political struggle. It involves Cleomenes, who had recently expelled the tyrants from Athens, in an astounding volte-face in supporting one who is known as φίλος τῶν τνράννων. Secondly, Isagoras had had the opportunity of imposing by force the kind of government he wanted—but it was an oligarchy (Hdt. v 72.1, Ath. 20.3: a council of three hundred), not a tyranny. How did the inappropriate label originate?

The reaction of most scholars to the first problem has been to reject the ascription of ostracism to Cleisthenes in Ath. 22.1 and 22.4 and date the institution of ostracism to shortly before the first recorded ostracism.

There are two possible positions with regard to the Mycenaean hegemony: that it existed or that it did not. Modern scholars who accept its existence appear to be more vocal in arguing their position than are those who question the existence of Mycenaean unity. Desborough, for example, states forcibly:

I am firmly convinced that there was one ruler over the whole Mycenaean territory, with his capital at Mycenae, although the tablets are of no assistance one way or the other in this matter, and although the overlordship of Agamemnon clearly envisaged by Homer can perhaps be explained simply as a military leadership for the purpose of waging war against Troy. The burden of proof must therefore depend on other evidence, the archaeological material taken in conjunction with the fairly frequent mention by the Hittites, in the fourteenth and much of the thirteenth centuries, of the king of a land called Ahhiyawa, which I believe to represent the entire Mycenaean orbit.

The opposite position is represented largely through hints given in a larger context. Stubbings, for example, writes of ‘the Mycenaean Greeks of the mainland and the Mycenaean rulers of Cnossus’ and of ‘the mainland kingdoms’ (italics mine). Catling speaks of ‘metropolitan Greeks grown jealous of the wealth and power which their Knossian relatives had built up’. This emphasis on plurality, it seems to me, is the best way not only to view the events of the Mycenaean Greek world but also to understand the nature and degree of change in Greece during the Dark Age period.

In my quest for Aurai in Greek art, I have been surprised by the haste of commentators to label each and every running woman as a Nereid. Surely it should depend on the evidence. I begin with two Attic pyxides in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge. The first GR 1. 1933 was given and published by Miss Lamb in CVA Cambridge ii pl. 26. In Beazley, ARV 297, this vase was said to be in the Manner of Douris. In ARV 451 this vase has lost its own reference and acquired that of GR 10. 1934 (Friends of the Fitzwilliam Museum, Reports xxvi [1934] 3, fig. 4; see the correction in Paralipomena p. 521 [Addenda II, to p. 376]).‘Nereids’ is an inadequate description of either vase; for both include different sexes.

The pyxis 1. 1933 is not in good condition. The central figure is surely not the male, as Miss Lamb says, but a running woman taking up twice as much room as anyone else. She holds one dolphin and has lost another, so she must be the heroine Thetis. On one side of her stands a man with a dark beard, but he holds an old man's crooked stick, so he must be Nereus in spite of his dark beard: and a frightened Nereid rushes by him to the left: on a third side a stationary woman has just frightened a woman with a sceptre off her chair; the sceptre holder must be Doris. Here then we have a Peleus and Thetis scene, but there is no room for Peleus.

Mrs Ure has recalled attention in recent JHS Notes (lxxxviii [1968] 140 f.; lxxxix [1969] 120 f.) to the class of fifth-century Corinthian cups and other small vases studied formerly by Sam Wide (in AM xxvi [1901] 143 ff.) and her (in JHS lxix [1949] 18 ff.). It is surely time the class had a name and, with Mrs Ure's approval, I suggest ‘The Sam Wide Group’. Mrs Ure mentions a cup of the group in Oxford and I take this opportunity to publish it. It is in private possession but at present exhibited in the Ashmolean museum, whose photographs of it are shown here (Plate II 1–2). The fabric and the outside decoration (partly painted handles, tongues on the lip, a band within the concave foot) are wholly normal for this group. The cup interior, which carries the figure decoration, measures 9.2 cm across. The paint is a reddish brown, used with varying intensity from the pale wash for hatching to heavy stippling over painted areas (as the cloak). The scene is of Oedipus and the Sphinx—with a difference which is easier to describe than explain. Oedipus sits at the left, his petasos slung behind his neck, his sword drawn and held upright over his knees. A chlamys fastened round his neck appears to be raised in a protective gesture over his head. Passing from the ridiculous to the sublime we might compare the gesture of a Niobe protecting her child. The left arm holding the drapery is not shown, but this explanation seems the most plausible. The only alternative is that this is the rock on which we might expect the Sphinx otherwise to be sitting, and which can be shown in this form. The monster is perched on a column with a volute capital which is not strictly Ionic but of the type commonly seen on vases for structures or furniture. A high plinth over the volutes serves as base for the creature, rocking back on its haunches, balancing, it seems, on a springy tail.

Through the kindness of Professor K. T. Erim of New York University I have the opportunity to offer the following note on a fragment of a Lydian inscription found recently during his excavations at Aphrodisias in Caria. The description and details of the archaeological context I owe to Professor Erim and to Miss Joyce Reynolds.

The fragment (inv. no. 68.357) came to light in July 1968, re-used in one of the ruined modern houses on the northern slope of the so-called acropolis when they were being demolished in preparation for the full-scale excavation of the Theatre there. It is of medium- to coarse-grained marble, greyish in colour, probably from the Aphrodisias quarries themselves, and measures 0·11 × 0·75 × 0·165 m.; no original edges survive, but it is likely that the original left edge was very close to the surviving left edge.

What remains of the inscribed surface is approximately trapezoidal in shape and carries traces of three lines of text; in the first only the lower tips of the letters survive and these cannot be securely interpreted, but in the second five complete letters (ave. 0·025 m. high) can be read, although they have suffered from slight surface chipping, and in the third the upper two-thirds of five letters survives and these also can be read perfectly well. The inscription was firmly and deftly, if lightly, cut, with trenches c. 0·001 deep, very slightly triangular in profile and showing some tendency to broaden a little on the base line. Judging from the position of the last letters in Il. 2, 3, it seems probable that each line ended with a completed word.

In a review in JHS lxxxix (1969) 127 Dr M. L. West gives as an example of ‘a certain innocence on matters of literary history’ the belief that seven-stringed lyres ‘came in’ in the seventh century B.C. Since the emphasis in the context is upon rigorous down-dating (the eighth Homeric Hymn is there reasonably declared not to be pre-Hellenistic), what Dr West seems to be saying is that seven-stringed lyres were not in use amongst the Greeks before about 600 B.C. I hope that I do not misunderstand Dr West's contention: the purpose of this short note is to suggest, with the greatest respect and deference, that another view of the matter may perhaps be permissible.

Let us ignore the seven-stringed musical instrument shown on the Ayia Triadha sarcophagus, because evidence from the Late Bronze Age may be thought too remote to be relevant to early Hellenic musical practice. Let us also leave aside ancient opinions associating Terpander with the seven-stringed lyre (Strabo 618) and assigning him to the first half of the seventh century B.C. (Athenaios 635E). Dr West may well regard the putting of trust in such testimonies as evidence of incorrigible amateurism. There remains, nevertheless, a contemporary witness to the existence of seven-stringed lyres amongst the Greeks of the seventh century B.C.

In JHS lxxi (1951) 248, fig. 8, there is illustrated a fragment of a Subgeometric dinos of the first half of the seventh century B.C. from the excavations at Old Smyrna. On the piece is painted a seven-stringed lyre. The lines representing strings are carefully distinguished and spaced. It would be extravagant to assert that the artist could not count, or that he was suffering from hallucinations, or that he was imagining a type of instrument never seen by himself or his customers. In short, a tentative suggestion may be made—with due deference and hesitation: scholars, including those whom in this particular matter Dr West would, it seems, classify as innocents, ‘can seriously argue’ that seven-stringed lyres were reintroduced to Greece or ‘came in’ well within the first half of the seventh century B.C.

In a searching analysis of ‘The Campaign and the Battle of Marathon’ (JHS lxxxviii [1968] 13–57) Professor N. G. L. Hammond has paid me the compliment of mentioning my discussion of the range of the ancient bow (17 n. 27). The evidence had suggested to me that the bowshot was ‘at least 160–175 metres, but not as far as 350–450 metres’. These results, in Hammond's words, fail to

‘take into account the nature of the target. For instance his lower figure is based on the firing of incendiary arrows (his T1 = Hdt. viii 52.1), which needed no power of penetration, and the higher figure is based on unarmoured horses at that distance being out of range (his T2 = Hdt. ix 22–23), which is almost equivalent to the extreme range because a horse is easily stung into action by an arrow.’

The near equivalence of ‘out of range’ and ‘within extreme range’ may raise an eyebrow; but let it pass. On the essential point we agree: in Herodotus ix 22–23, two stades is beyond effective bowshot.

So far as the terminus a quo is concerned, the Persian fire arrows shot from the Areopagus must have had some power of penetration; for they were useless unless they stuck to the wooden wall. Moreover, the target was twenty-eight metres higher than the launching-point; if the line of flight were projected downwards to the level of the archers, the cast would have been greater. Again, Herodotus says that the Persians wound hemp around their arrows. Hollow heads for incendiary arrows (JSA-A iii [1960] 22–24) were apparently a later invention; at any rate piles from this assault on the Acropolis are all typical Iranian war-heads (Hesperia ii [1933] 341–342; iv [1935] 114–117). The tinder binding—bulky enough to keep a spark through the trajectory, and then to kindle the barricade—would interfere with the smooth flow of air past the shaft and curtail the range. It follows that, if a fire arrow from the Areopagus could reach the Acropolis 155 metres away, a war arrow from the same bow would carry even further. There are uncertainties, admittedly, but it seems unwise to jettison the testimony of Herodotus viii 52.1 on these grounds.

I am sorry to have annoyed Dr Dicks by criticising two articles of his in one of my footnotes (D. R. Dicks, ‘On Anaximander's figures’, JHS lxxxix [1969] 120: the offending footnote is in JHS lxxxviii [1968] 120 n. 44, referring to Dicks, CQ n.s. ix [1959] 294–309, especially 299 and 301, and JHS lxxxvi [1966] 26–40, especially 30 and 36). I limit myself to the four specific points raised, in the hope that Dr Dicks may one day be kind enough to substantiate his more general criticisms.

Pseudo-Galen

Five separate doxographical sources attribute to Anaxagoras the statement that the sun is larger, or many times larger, than the Peloponnese. Galen, or pseudo-Galen, notes that Anaxagoras' sun is larger than the earth. I suggested that this second formula, although it may not misrepresent the substance of Anaxagoras' theory, was ‘probably in Galen simply a random error, arising from the fact that the preceding sentence, on Anaximander, twice makes a comparison of sun and earth’ (JHS lxxxviii [1968] 124 n. 62). It is hard to know what motivates Dr Dicks to omit my reasoning and to stigmatise my conclusion as ‘curious’ and ‘eccentric’.

In the Classical Museum of University College, Dublin, there is a small black glaze Attic cup (inv. no. V3020; provenance unknown) belonging to the Vienna-Cup group (Plate IV, 1–4). It is 7·7 cm high and 13·8 cm in diameter (20 cm at the handles). It has been broken and repaired at some time and parts of the handles are modern, and some of the lip is restored (apparent on Plate IV, 3 and 4). It might be as well to point out that the foot is whole and has never been broken. The cup is almost wholly black, except for the insides of the handles, the outside edge and resting surface of the foot, and the centre of the foot which are all reserved (Plate IV, 1 and 2). It looks quite normal, but if one picks it up and tilts it, one hears a rattling, almost a ringing, sound from the foot which is not only hollow, but contains three small clay pellets, as revealed by an X-ray examination (Plate IV, 3 and 4). There is no vent hole.

The cup is to be dated to some time within the period 475–450 B.C. I do not know of any parallels among the Vienna-Cup group, but there is another black glaze cup in Leningrad (Hermitage B 721; Plate V, 1) which belongs to the Kalliades-Brygos group and which has a hollow foot and rattling pellets just like those on the Dublin cup. The Kalliades-Brygos group is generally dated to between 500 and 470 B.C. This would mean that the Leningrad cup is probably earlier than the Dublin example, but they both still belong to the first half of the fifth century. The relevance to the discussion of a fragmentary foot in Toronto (Royal Ontario Museum 923.13.11) from a cup of Cup-Type C painted by Skythes c. 500 B.C., is debatable. In the case of this foot there is a hollow channel around the edge as in the Dublin and Leningrad examples, but it differs from them in that there was originally a small rectangular hole in it, the left side of which is preserved (Plate V, 2, far left). The hole was apparently never closed, so that it is unlikely that the hollow held pellets as did the others, or if it did, there might have been a temporary stopper of, say, unbaked clay. The hole is a puzzle, for it seems too big to be merely a vent hole.