grave is situated, were two distinct places. I have since found good classical authorities which tell us that Chalcis was at one time the name for the whole of Euboea, and could thus be used for the district of Eretria. And from the will of Aristotle, handed down to us in Diogenes Laertius, from which I shall quote a passage, it becomes evident that Aristotle owned a large estate at Chalcis, which was not immediately in the city, but was in the country. This will is confirmed by Athenæus, and the portion which interests us runs thus:

May all be well [the will begins], but if any thing happen, then Aristotle has made the following disposition of his affairs: That Antipater shall be general and universal executor. And until Nikanor marries my daughter, I appoint Aristomedes, Timarchos, Hipparchos, Dioteles, and Theophrastos, if the latter will consent and accept the charge, to be guardians of my children and of Herpyllis, and the trustees of all the property I leave behind me. And I desire them, when my daughter is old enough, to give her in marriage to Nikanor; but if anything should happen to the girl before she has any children, then I will that Nikanor should have the abso lute disposal of my son, and of all other things, in the full confidence that he will arrange them in a manner worthy of me and of himself. Let him also be the guardian of my daughter and of my son Nikomachos, to act as he pleases with respect to them, as if he were their father or brother. But if anything should happen to Nikanor, which may God forbid, either before he receives my daughter in marriage or after he is married to her, or before he has any children by her, then any arrangements which he may make by will shall stand. But if Theophrastos should in this case choose to take my daughter in marriage, then he is to stand exactly in the same position as Nikanor. And if not, then I will that my trustees, conferring with Antipater concerning both the boy and the girl, shall arrange everything respecting them as they shall think fit; and that my trustees and Nikanor, remembering both me and Herpyllis, and how well she has behaved to me, shall take care that, if she be inclined to take a husband, one be found for her who shall not be unworthy of us, and that they give her, in addition to all that has already been given her, a talent of silver and three maidservants, if she pleases to accept them, and the handmaiden whom she has now, and Pyrrhaios [probably a slave]. And if she pleases to dwell at Chalcis, she shall have the guest-house which joins the garden; but if she likes to dwell at Stagira, then she shall have my father's house. And whichever of these houses she elects to take, I will that my executors do furnish it with all ne

cessary furniture in such manner as shall seem to them and to Herpyllis sufficient.

Then follow legacies to other people and to slaves, injunctions as to what is to be done with statues which he dedicates, etc. And then he says:

And wherever they wish to make my grave, there, taking the bones of Pythias, let them also bury them.

honors

And as regards the second doubt which I at from being a unique name, so that the inscripone time felt, namely, that Aristotle was far tion found in this tomb might refer to some other Aristotle, I can only say that it would have to be shown that such another Aristotle of a literary tendency was worthy of such signal as those conferred upon the person here interred, and that this Aristotle, unrelated to the great Aristotle, was connected with Euboea. It seems to me more likely that the other names of Aristotle, which are to be found on an Eretrian inscription of the second century B. C., are connected with this family of the philosopher, which certainly had its estates in this district; and I would finally state that in this very inscription of Eretria I have found two names which directly correspond to the names of the family of the philosopher Aristotle. These names are Nikomachos and Prokles. For we know from Sextus Empiricus, supplemented and confirmed by other authors, that Nikomachos, the son of Aristotle, died without issue, and that his daughter Pythias married three times. First she married Nikanor, who is mentioned in the will, by whom she had no issue; her second marriage was with Prokles, who was descended from the Lacedemonian king Demaratos, and by whom she had two sons, Prokles and Demaratos; and finally she married Metrodoros, a doctor, by whom she had one son, Aristotle, which later Aristotle is also mentioned in the will of Theophrastos. This younger Aristotle lived in the first half of the third century B. c. The date of the inscription, "Biote, the daughter of Aristotle," which we found, has been fixed as of the third century B. C., and thus Biote would be the daughter of Aristotle's grandson, who bore the same name as his grandfather.

We do not claim that the attribution of this grave to the great philosopher is proved beyond a doubt; but for the present we are justified in naming this grave, excavated at Eretria by the American School of Athens, the Tomb of Aristotle.

Charles Waldstein.

strove to appear very free and knowing; a Frenchman of the type that she had encountered on the train a fortnight ago; and a figure which, in spite of its novel and startling guise, she identified as the marquis who had been so serviceable at Delle. He now wore a flannel blouse and spiked shoes; on his back he carried a long coil of rope, and an ice-ax that threw off dazzlingly such sunbeams as struck their way down through the foliage overhead. His mien was very free, daring, noble, and careless, and many passers-by looked back on him with an awesome interest. Then another man, who had busied himself in fastening up the dangling end of the rope, turned his face around, and our friends recognized in him the passing guest who had honored Neuchâtel for a day or more, and had then flitted away with a carelessly civil hope that they might some time meet again. Fin-de-Siècle smiled brilliantly, and took a step toward them; but the Duchess, who had seen Aurelia West before Aurelia had seen her, laid her hand upon his arm, and detained him for a moment with a whispered phrase or two. What she said did not dim his smile, and he advanced upon our little party with effusion. He was delighted to meet them, and so soon, too. The Duchess had just told him that she was already acquainted with Mees West-charming, indeed. And she would be more than delighted to meet Mees West's friends. Ah, the Chatelaine of La Trinité, the Duchesse des Guenilles,- the Marquis of Tempo-Rubato, whom Mees West had also met already,- Lord Arthur Such-a-one, and so on, and so on.

The Duchess had straightened up her lounging Englishmen in a trice, and she met our two young ladies with her most careful manner. Her voice fell to a murmur. Her deportment became quiet almost to dejection. And when she looked up into the Governor's face with large, wistful eyes, and paid her dexterous little tribute to his worth and celebrity (she had never heard of him before, and knew but little of him except his name, even now), the flattered old gentleman had never felt more soothed or pleased. And when she turned on Aurelia West with a remorseful little smile, naïvely poking holes in the gravel, off and on, with the tip of her over-vivid parasol, and murmured that her dear mees must have found her sadly cold and unsympathetic the other day, but that really such a long, hard journey made her something quite other than herself, the Governor felt that so much refinement, sympathy, and courtesy must be properly met. He recalled certain ornate phrases from his youth, the use of which might form a suitable acknowledgment; but these old-fashioned gallantries fell curiously on the ears of the sophisticated

young men around him. They looked at one another slyly, and smiled; so the Governor's precise words I shall not give. You might smile, too.

The Duchess had no remarks to offer to the Chatelaine, and the Chatelaine had no replies to make to the Duchess. The Duchess did not once look into the Chatelaine's face, though she made one or two rather pitiful attempts to do so, knowing the eyes of her own circle to be upon her; but the Chatelaine regarded the Duchess, and all her friends as well, with a high and steady serenity, and without any sense of inconvenience. This, too, in face of the fact that she was apt to be more or less impressed by splendor, and was almost entirely at the mercy of any strong manifestation of modernity, a characteristic of which she herself had so slight a share. Indeed, it was the complete modernness of Aurelia West that had first interested the Chatelaine in this young Westerner, had afterward drawn her toward her, and, generally, had laid this poor young mountain maid under a burden of awesome deference from which she was only now emerging. But the Duchess, though fully as modern as Aurelia West, and much more splendid, did not embarrass the Chatelaine in the least; and this young girl from the Valais, as she quietly scanned the eyes that could not raise themselves to hers, was (more than anything else) congratulating herself that she could meet the great world. as personified in this brilliant figure - on its own ground, and yet not feel at any disadvantage.

Tempo-Rubato was the only one of the Duchess's followers who accompanied the Governor and his charges on board the steamer. He was committed, as it seemed, to some indefinite deed of daring-do at the far end of the lake, and he appeared disposed to appreciate, in the brief time that intervened before his impending struggle with Nature in her own stronghold, the amenities of civilized society. He seated himself aft beside the Chatelaine with the air of a connoisseur who had examined almost everything that civilized society had to offer, but who was now impartially open to any new impression that chanced his way. He would indulgently forego his absinthe for a little sip of spring-water; and Aurelia West, whose enjoyment of the Pilatus and the Bürgenstock and the rest the good Governor had made more complete by a glass of lemonade and a plate of biscuits, had her enjoyment increased by noticing that the Chatelaine's talk to Tempo-Rubato was in Italian, and that he was unmistakably flattered by it. She taxed her friend for having concealed this graceful accomplishment, but the Chatelaine did not seem to regard the command of conversational Italian

in any such light as that. As she was situated, she smilingly declared, hardly any tongue that she could employ was likely to come amiss, though English, despite her years at Neuchâtel (beloved of adolescent Anglaises), she had never mastered. The Val Trinité, she further explained, was the one valley in the High Alps where German, French, and Italian were alike spoken, and she was obliged to meet her trilingual peasants on their own ground. They enjoyed it, and so did she. Tempo-Rubato was himself enjoying her Italian, which had several endearing little peculiarities of expression, and which showed a vocabulary not altogether at one with that of Rome or Florence; but he was too tactful to compliment her other than by the one supreme compliment of carrying on the talk with the same takenfor-granted ease and freedom that he would have shown within his own native circle.

Tempo-Rubato's talk went discursively, flightily, yet dogmatically, over a rather widespread field, and developed a number of sinister and heterodox points that pricked the Chatelaine with a vague alarm. While at Neuchâtel, the note-taking Fin-de-Siècle had touched lightly on his friend's characteristics, and had once referred to the possibility of putting him, as the phrase went, into a book. It had struck the Chatelaine that the propriety of using a friend in that way might fairly be questioned-one should be allowed, she thought, undisputed possession of one's own personality; but she was hardly recent enough, as yet, to understand that notoriety was the most delicate compliment that one modern could pay another. She had listened, though, to Fin-de-Siècle's précis, and was therefore not wholly in the dark as concerned the make-up of the erratic personality now offered to her attention. His general attitude, it appeared, was that of opposition-opposition of the most refractory kind-to the old order as personified in the Duke of Largo, his father. This old gentleman was a most devoted son of the Church, more papal than the Pope; his son, accordingly, was a free-thinker of the most extreme type. The head of the house was the father of a family born under the prosaic circumstances of ordinary wedlock, as understood and practised among us Occidentals; the son, therefore, was all the more open to impressions communicated from a certain Persian friend of his, a sojourner in Paris, whose calm assumption that any man was entitled to as many wives as he could support and manage, carried with it an acute fascination. This new disciple had not yet put his theories into practice by undertaking the support and management of even one; but discrepancies between thought and deed are too common for this

particular one to be dwelt on at all lingeringly. Then, as Largo was an aristocrat of the stiffest and most exacting kind, so Tempo-Rubato's democratic propensities passed all bounds; and many of his friends had come to the conclusion that the only way to bring him to his senses on this point was to take him literally at his word, and to help to bring him into close quarters, unrestricted by forms and boundaries, with the people itself. But to this final test he had never yet submitted himself.

The Chatelaine listened to his daring discursions with considerable composure; they were quite remote from her own course of thought and action, seeming to belong to a world with which she had no special concern, nor was likely to have. She looked indifferently around over the crowd scattered about the deck, and gave an abstracted glance or two across the ruffled waters of the lake,—both the passengers and the waves giving the impression of changelessness in change proper to the Swiss season,—and her thoughts idly wandered back to the showy personage whom they had left behind on the Schweizerhof Quay. Who was she? how long had he known her? how had he probably become acquainted with her?questions that she had no thought of asking, and which he would have hazarded some impropriety in answering, but questions that may be answered here properly enough.

He had first met her in Paris some four years previous; though she was not Parisian, as she loved to claim, nor even French, as she always would strenuously insist. She was of the Riviera, and, during a childhood which had stood considerable banging about, had strayed as far south as Naples, and even beyond. In course of time she turned up in Paris to try her fortune, and her fortune had begun, I am sorry to say, in no less reprehensible a place than the-but everybody knows its name. He had been principally indebted for this introduction to the painstaking but not infallible Fin-de-Siècle, who had dragged his new friend half-way across Paris only to strand him upon the empty inanity of a one-franc night. The big, garish place was almost deserted; a dozen young flâneurs roamed about disconsolately, and two or three notable "daughters of joy" had looked in, but had disdained to exert themselves for the applause of such an audience. But a few others-beginners, amateurs, lights of the sixth magnitude -were doing what they could to keep the ball rolling, and among them was this girl, whom Tempo-Rubato eyed from the first with an absorbing interest. She had good looks; she had a grace of her own, though she was new; she showed as yet only the first faint trace of the insolent audacity that was to come later; and so, when the orchestra passed from a vulgar,

Fin-de-Siècle was instantly in an agony of apprehension, and would have drawn the rash young fellow back at once; he claimed to hold his finger on the pulse of Paris, and more than once had he seen imported originality launch itself on that treacherous floor only to struggle back through the breakers of polite contempt or open jeers. But Tempo-Rubato was not to be stayed by his faint-hearted friend, nor did his nobility feel the need of deference to the opinion of such of his contemporaries as happened just then to surround him. And he justified himself completely. On another evening the same place, in full fête, might have repudiated him altogether; but on this particular occasion anything that served to fill in the unprofitable hours stood some chance of toleration, of acceptance, or even of applause. The novelty of the tarantella attracted attention from the first. Several youths, correctly dressed in frock-coats and high hats, had been looking on in contemptuous tolerance of a dance between a certain ill-assorted pair: a crass young fellow fresh from Anjou or Languedoc, who wore a cheap, ill-fitting salt-and-pepper suit, was throwing all the exaggerated enthusiasm of a novice into the series of senseless and disjointed flingings which he was directing toward his part ner, a pale, thin, wearied young woman who wore a simple gown of brown silk, and who indulged at frequent intervals in a plainly audible sigh. There was nothing new in this, and the young men turned from the one dance to the other. A pair of merry little étudiantes who were rustling around with rich black silks on their backs, wicked little feather turbans on their heads, the ends of a skipping-rope in their hands, and evident intentions on a bulky and awkward Englishman in their faces, relinquished their middle-aged prey and crowded into the new circle too. Even a stolid ouvrière or so, such as occasionally appear at these places and dance with clumsy sure-footedness on the brink of evil, added their interest and applause to that of the others.

But to Tempo-Rubato, and to his partner as well, the onlooking circle was a matter of comparative indifference. When he had lightly thrown back the lapels of his coat he felt himself dressed out in ragged sheepskin, and the lustrous hat that he had snatched from his head

changed to a tambourine before his arm could even extend it. The hand that thrust back a straggling lock from the temples of his visà-vis had placed a striped and folded cloth above them, and the shake she had given to the disordered front of her gown had put a long apron there, wide-barred in barbaric stripes of color. As he danced around her with an indulgent and confident grace, the tired and callous musicians in shabby dress-coats became a band of blithesome, tangle-haired pipers; and when she in her turn circled about him with increasing confidence in every step, and a more open gratitude, the anemones of Pæstum burst into bloom all over the wide reach of the waxen floor, the low, painted ceiling rose to the height and semblance of the blue sky itself, the battered columns of Ceres and of Neptune advanced in stately fashion through flimsy panelings and tawdry mirrors, and the free, pure, blessed air of heaven seemed to blow abundantly and refreshingly through the tarnished atmosphere of the place. And when they had ended their performance he had given her a vogue.

That she could dance divinely was now patent, and presently it came to be discovered that she had a voice with five or six good notes in it. It was not a voice of any great strength or compass, but her articulation was particularly distinct; and she soon passed on to the "Ambassadeurs," where, in the rendition of couplets of a certain sort, a good articulation is of more importance than fine vocalization. Six months more found her at the "Nouveautés," where she began in minor parts, and where, in the course of a year, she came to create a title rôle (that of the Duchesse des Guenilles) in an operetta which a great master- great as regarded that genre-had composed expressly for her. Then for two or three years more she had enjoyed an immense vogue, and now she was taking a little outing-half work, half play—en province. There were not wanting those to hint that the rising of a new star had dimmed her luster, and that she was clever enough to see when Paris could spare her. But such gossip was heard only in dark corners, and had no place in the general hubbub of adulation which accompanied her to the Gare de l'Est, and saw her off, in her own special train, to Switzerland.

All of these facts Tempo-Rubato was obviously barred from laying before the Chatelaine; besides, none of these things had any place in his thoughts to-day. He was merely refreshing himself with a draught of some simple, cooling beverage, and if he compared it with the spiced wines which had tickled his palate these past years, the comparison was largely unconscious. It was a fresh and primitive little drink, and went