ynical conductor called "The Holy City." A fence of
insurmountable palings stretched away on either hand; and, at the little
station, there were turn-stiles, through which pilgrims passed within.
Most people pay money to obtain admittance; but I was met by a very
affable young man from Dartmouth, whose business it was to welcome invited
visitors, and by him I was steered officially through unopposing gates. I
liked this young man for his cheerful clothes and smiling countenance; but
I was rather appalled by the agglomeration of ram-shackle cottages through
which we passed on our way to the hotel.

I say "the hotel," for the Chautauqua Settlement contains but one such
institution. It carries the classic name of Athenaeum; but the first view
of it occasioned in my sensitive constitution a sinking of the heart. The
edifice dates from the early-gingerbread period of architecture. It
culminates in a horrifying cupola, and is colored a discountenancing
brown. The first glimpse of it reminded me of the poems of A.H. Clough,
whose chief merit was to die and to offer thereby an occasion for a grave
and twilit elegy by Matthew Arnold. Clough's life-work was a continual
asking of the question, "Life being unbearable, why should I not
die?"--while echo, that commonplace and sapient commentator, mildly
answered, "Why?": and this was precisely the impression that I gathered
from my initial vista of the Athenaeum between trees.

On entering the hotel I was greeted over the desk (with what might be
defined as a left-handed smile) by one of the leading students of the
university with which I am associated as a teacher. He called out,
"Front!" in the manner of an amateur who is amiably aping the
professional, and assigned me to a scarcely comfortable room.

My first voluntary act in the Chautauqua Community was to take a swim. But
the water was tepid, and brown, and tasteless, and unbuoyant; and I felt,
rather oddly, as if I were swimming in a gigantic cup of tea. From this
initial experience I proceeded, somewhat precipitately, to induce an
analogy; and it seemed to me, at the time, as if I had forsaken the roar
and tumble of the hoarse, tumultuous world, for the inland disassociated
peace of an unaware and loitering backwater.

With hair still wet and still dishevelled, I was met by the Secretary of
Instruction,--a man (as I discovered later) of wise and humorous
perceptions. By him I was informed that, in an hour or so, I was to
le