A child of five with a French governess will ask for his mug of milk with an easier Gallic grace than a man of eighty who has puzzled out the pronunciation from a text-book.  There is, apparently, no remedy for this.  Love the Faerie Queene at twelve, or you will never really love it at seventy:  or so, at least, it seems to me.  And yet the desire to learn, in gray-haired men and women who in their youth were battling hard for a mere continuance of life itself, and founding homesteads in a book-less wilderness, moved me to a quick exhilaration.

Most of the people at Chautauqua come either from the south or from the middle west.  They pronounce the English language either without any r at all, or with such excessive emphasis upon the r as to make up for the deficiency of their fellow-seekers.  In other words, these people are really American, as opposed to cosmopolitan; and to live among them is—­for a world-wandering adventurer—­to learn a lesson in Americanism.  Mr. Roosevelt once stated that Chautauqua is the most American institution in America; and this statement—­like many others of his inspired platitudes—­begins to seem meaningful upon reflection.

At one time or another I have drifted to many different corners of the world; but my residence at Chautauqua was my only experience of a democracy.  In this community there are no special privileges.  If the President of the Institution had wished to hear me lecture (he never did, in fact—­though we used to play tennis together, at which game he proved himself easily the better man) he would have been required to come early and take his chance at getting a front seat; and once, when I ventured to attend a lecture by one of my colleagues, I found myself seated beside that very waitress in the Athenaeum who had disapproved of my method of ordering a meal.  All the exercises are open equally to anybody—­first come, first served—­and the boy who blacks your boots may turn out to be a Sophomore at Oberlin.  Teachers in Texas high-schools sweep the floors or shave you, and the raucous newsboy is earning his way toward the University of Illinois.  All this is a little bewildering at first; but in a day or two you grow to like it.

This free-for-all spirit that permeates Chautauqua reminds me to speak of the economic conduct of the Institution.  The only charge—­except in the case of certain special courses—­is for admission to the grounds.  The visitor pays fifty cents for a franchise of one day, and more for periods of greater length, until the ultimate charge of seven dollars and fifty cents for a season ticket is attained.  On leaving the grounds, he has to show his ticket; and if it has expired he is taxed according to the term of his delinquent lingering.  Once free of the grounds, he may avail himself of any of the privileges of the Assembly.  Lectures, on an infinite variety of subjects, are delivered hour after hour; and a bulletin of these successive