Within the enclosure of Chautauqua one does not drink at all; and I infer that this regulation is well-advised.  I base this inference upon my gradual discovery that all the regulations of this well-conducted Institution have been fashioned sanely to contribute to the greatest good of the greatest number.  That is my final, critical opinion.  But how we did dash for the swinging doors at Bemus Point!—­we four or five simple-natured human beings who were not, in any considerable sense, drinking men at all.

Then the congregated School of Expression tripped ashore with nimble ankles; and there ensued a general dance at a pavilion where a tired boy maltreated a more tired piano, and one paid a dime before, or after, dancing.  One does not dance at Chautauqua, even on moon-silvery summer evenings:—­and again the regulation is right, because the serious-minded members of the community must have time to read the books of those who lecture there.

And this brings me to a consideration of the Chautauqua Sunday.  On this day the gates are closed, and neither ingress nor egress is permitted.  Once more I must admit that the regulation has been sensibly devised.  If admittance were allowed on Sunday, the grounds would be overrun by picnickers from Buffalo, who would cast the shells of hard-boiled eggs into the inviting Sea of Galilee; and unless the officers are willing to let anybody in, they can devise no practicable way of letting anybody out.  Besides, the people who are in already like to rest and meditate.  But alas! (and at this point I think that I begin to disapprove) the row-boats and canoes are tied up at the dock, the tennis-courts are emptied, and the simple exercise of swimming is forbidden.  This desuetude of natural and smiling recreation on a day intended for surcease of labor struck me (for I am in part an ancient Greek, in part a mediaeval Florentine) as strangely irreligious.  All day the organ rumbles in the Amphitheatre (and of this I approved, because I love the way in which an organ shakes you into sanctity), and many meetings are held in various sectarian houses, the mood of which is doubtless reverent—­though all the while the rippling water beckons to the high and dry canoes, and a gathering of many-tinted clouds is summoned in the windy west to tingle with Olympian laughter and Universal song.  How much more wisely (if I may talk in Greek terms for the moment) the gods take Sunday, than their followers on this forgetful earth!

But we must change the mood if I am to speak again of what amused me in the pagan days of my initiation at Chautauqua.  Life, for instance, at the ginger-bread hotel amused me oddly.  To one who lives in a metropolis throughout the working months, the map of eating at Chautauqua seems incongruous.  Dinner is served in the middle of the day, at an hour when one is hardly encouraged to the thought of luncheon; and at six P.M. a sort of breakfast is set forth, which is denominated