In the Platonic Phaedo, just as Socrates has closed his long speech with the sublime words about the journey of the soul after death, and its ultimate goal, Crito, his old friend — who does not seem to understand very much of the higher aspects of the matter, but is the more versed in worldly affairs, somewhat abruptly breaks the serene atmosphere with some practical questions, among them in what manner Socrates wishes to be buried. After his wont, Socrates answers, alike courteously and ambiguously, “Just as you please, if only you can catch me, and I do not escape from you.” He adds, with a smile, that he cannot convince Crito that he is the Socrates who is then conversing with his friends, and who will not remain after having drunk the poison. “Crito,” he says, “thinks that I am he whom he will shortly behold dead, and asks how he should bury me. But that which I some time since argued at length, that when I have drunk the poison I shall no longer remain with you, but shall depart to some happy state of the blessed, this I seem to have urged to him in vain, though I meant at the same time to console both you and myself. Be ye then my sureties to Crito,” he said, “in an obligation contrary to that which he made to the judges; for he undertook that I should remain; but do you be sureties that, when I die, I shall not remain, but shall depart, that Crito may more easily bear it, and when he sees my body either burnt or buried, may not be afflicted for me, as if I suffered some dreadful thing, nor say at my interment that Socrates is laid out, or is carried out, or is buried.” It is improper to speak of Socrates' dead body as if it were Socrates himself.

Some time ago I wrote a little book on Roman religion which was favored with a courteous and thoughtful review by a scholar from whom I have learned much, S. Weinstock. My central contention was that the Romans had an idea corresponding closely to the Melanesian and Polynesian mana, the North American orenda or wakanda, and similar notions elsewhere, and that they denoted it by the word numen; that is to say, that numen signifies a superhuman force, impersonal in itself but regularly belonging to a person (a god of some kind) or occasionally to an exceptionally important body of human beings, as the Roman senate or people. This force, I argued, the Romans supposed could be to some extent directed to serve their own ends; a god could be induced to employ his numen for such things as giving fertility or victory to his worshippers, and on occasion an inanimate object, such as a boundary-mark, could have numen put into it by the appropriate ceremonial. Also, the numen of a god could be and was increased by offering him a sacrifice of the proper kind.

You ask me to list the positive gains in the science of Greek and Roman religion during my lifetime. As I was born in 1874 this time covers three-quarters of a century, or if you count from my first publication on Greek religion in 1900, half a century.

From its earliest beginnings Christianity has always believed itself to be the religion of a book, or to phrase it perhaps a bit more exactly, has had a Bible which it regarded as unique and directly inspired, if not actually written, by God himself. This confidence has always been central and unwavering. But the book has gone through many editions and has shown amazing differences.

The leaden tablet, on which this defixio is written, was presented to the University of Reading by Dr. W. H. Buckler, F.B.A., who bought it in Constantinople from an antique-dealer, who gave Claudiopolis in Bithynia (the modern Bulu) as its provenance. The number of defixiones from Asia Minor is comparatively small (K. Preisendanz in his ‘Die griechischen und lateinischen Zaubertafeln,’ Archiv f. Papyrusforschung, ix, 1930, 119–154, mentions thirteen from Caria, two from Phrygia, and one from Pontus), and, if this tablet really comes from Claudiopolis, it is the first, so far as I know, to be reported from this region.

Antigonus of Socho, who flourished in the first decades of the second century B.C., was ranked among the “Fathers” of the Synagogue by the later Pharisaic teachers, but they had no recollection of his words and deeds. A solitary maxim kept his memory alive and passed his name on to posterity.

“The feeling against ikon-worship suddenly burst out in the earlier part of the eighth century when the iconoclastic (ikon-smashing) emperors of Constantinople tried to suppress the practice by force.” So wrote Edwyn Bevan in an admirable essay on Idolatry. And from modern accounts of the iconoclast movement one does generally get the impression that after the violent challenge of Epiphanius in the fourth century — when he tore down a pictured curtain which hung in a church — the East Roman world had accepted without protest and without question the widespread cult of the icon, while the policy of iconoclast emperors appears as a sudden breach with a universally recognized tradition. But is such an impression justified? When we put together such fragmentary pieces of evidence as we possess is it not rather probable that there was a continuous questioning of the legitimacy of the cult? May not the part played by the icon in the life and religious usage of the Byzantine world have been subjected to the constant criticism of pagans, Jews and even of Christians? And if this is so, it may help us to understand somewhat more clearly the primary motives which inspired the policy of the iconoclast rulers. It may be worth while to consider the evidence afresh since it has been increased by two recent publications.

This is a chapter of unique importance for the understanding of the prophey of Second Isaiah. The interpretation of this poem of 29 verses — or, specifically, of its verses 1–3 and 25 f. — carries with it the entire conception of “the Prophet of the Exile”; his quality, his message, the amount of the prophecy that can be assigned to him, and indeed the theory of the origin of chapters 34–66. Two widely different interpretations, the one incompatible with the other, are well established in the history of Old Testament exegesis.

Although traditionally regarded as an austere clergyman, rigidly circumscribed by narrow doctrinalism, Jonathan Edwards has the distinction of being America's pioneer esthetician. In a Dissertation concerning the Nature of True Virtue he brings together nearly all the theories prevalent in the early eighteenth century concerning the relation of beauty to virtue, and discusses the moral aspects of human passions and conduct. Francis Hutcheson is the philosopher whose influence is most pronounced. In the Dissertation he is mentioned by name three times; the general plan of his theory of moral sense is constantly suggested for comparison, contrast or illustration; fundamental doctrines and corollary principles from his system are specifically stated and attacked; and others of his notions are cited in support of Edwards' own views. It has long been known that Edwards read Hutcheson's work, but the close parallels in his own treatise, making it literally a commentary on Hutcheson, have not been generally recognized. Evidence of the extent of Hutcheson's influence may be found by comparing Edwards' dissertation with his earlier work on The Mind, a discussion of the essence of beauty or harmony in the realms of spirit and of sense. Written while its author was engaged in studying Locke, the discussion contains nearly all of Edwards' original ideas on natural and divine beauty. In the expanded and polished treatise some of the original ideas are modified as a direct result of Hutcheson's concepts, and a complete ethical and aesthetic system is developed to supplant the systems of Hutcheson and other moralists popular at the time.

A good deal of attention has centered of late on those sections of Samuel and Kings which are often said to constitute a biography of David. In particular, this ‘biography’ was recently singled out by Professor R. H. Pfeiffer, in his Presidential address to the Society of Biblical Literature, as an example of the almost complete absence of religious motivation in the school of which it was representative: Its showed history almost independent of religion, as the work of the Chronicler showed religion almost independent of history.

In a note, “Abraham and the Quest for God,” in the Harvard Theological Review, XXVIII (1935) 55–60, Wilfred L. Knox makes the illuminating point that Diaspora Judaism and Rabbinic Judaism diverge in the matter of what called forth Abraham's call from God. The rabbis, Knox points out, stress that Abraham was pre-destined for the call, while the hellenists of the Diaspora credit Abraham with a voluntary abandonment of astrology, and thereby Abraham merits the call. The rabbis, then, not faced with the need of explaining Abraham's call to proselytes, simply have recourse to pre-destination; the hellenists, confronted by prospective proselytes, stress Abraham's reward for his search. “The Judaism of the Dispersion was concerned to make converts; it had to recognize that cosmic and astral interpretations of Gentile cults which tended towards monotheism were nearer to the truth, if only they were harder to convict of error, than the Olympian theology or the cruder forms of Polytheism.” The reward which Abraham received for abandoning astrology would similarly be held out as within the potential grasp of Gentile inquirers who would also abandon error. So far Knox.

In a recent issue of the Bulletin of the John Rylands Library, in Manchester (XXI, 1948, pp. 224–40), Professor T. W. Manson writes of “St. Paul's Letter to the Romans — and Others,” arguing that Paul must have sent what we know as Romans out in two forms, one, our chapters 1–15, to Rome; the other, the same, with the addition of chapter 16, which would introduce Phoebe, to the church at Ephesus. Professor Manson is of course well aware of the perplexing problem of the rightful place of the great doxology, 16:25–27, which some manuscripts place at the end of chapter 14, most at the end of chapter 16, but the oldest manuscript, the P46, a papyrus from the early third century, places at the end of chapter 15. This location is in striking accord with the internal evidence, and confirms the theory advanced by David Schulz, more than a hundred years ago, that chapter 16 is no part of Romans, but part of a separate letter to Ephesus. Professor Dodd, however, concludes that chapter 16 is an integral part of the Letter to the Romans, inasmuch as “the burden of proof rests upon those who would set aside the tradition in favor of the conjecture,” p. 237.

It was not without trepidation that I set out to supplement and slightly to correct the discussion of an amulet by that expert on the subject Professor Campbell Bonner, whose excellent book has recently come into my hands. Among the many curious specimens contained therein is one which is listed as D 144 and figured on Plate VII, described on p. 276 and discussed on pp. 87–89. It has on the obverse a pterygoma, that is to say an inscription written first in full, then without its first letter, then without its first two letters and so on, thus forming a conventional wing. In the space left by the tapering of this is shown a warrior in full equipment, who may or may not be Ares. Above him is a thunderbolt. On the reverse is a curious erection, perhaps a very oddly formed altar, above which is something like a jar, in the shape of a recurrent object on some of these amulets, which Bonner, plausibly at least and probably rightly, interprets as the human uterus, but in an unusual position, for its neck (the os uteri?) is turned upwards, not, as commonly, downwards. On either side is a snake, above “a disk with eight radii — whether a wheel or a conventional sun is uncertain.” Around the margin runs some magic jargon ending in “Sabaoth.”

With his Studies in Magical Amulets Professor Campbell Bonner has rendered a great service not only to collectors and museums, but also to the history of religion in Late Antiquity. His sound criticism has removed over-hasty interpretations, especially those which have given the name of “gnostic gems” to those amulets of which he writes. He says somewhere that his criticism will lessen the religious interest in the gems. But there is a great truth in his words: “Nothing is more important in these studies than to recognize the limits of our knowledge” (p. 195). If this is properly done we have firm ground to stand upon and are able to appreciate the value and importance of these monuments for the religious mind of Late Antiquity. The rivalry with the magic papyri is evident, but while these were the property of specialists, magical technicians, the amulets teach us what was current among the people.