d area. Hence a horror of unsightly
dormitories, spawning unpredictable inhabitants upon the ambling, muddy
lanes.

There have been, in the history of this Assembly, a few salutary
fires,--as a result of which new buildings have been erected which are
comparatively easy on the eyes. The Hall of Philosophy is really
beautiful, and is nobly seated among memorable trees at the summit of a
little hill. The Aula Christi tried to be beautiful, and failed; but at
least the good intention is apparent. The Amphitheatre (which seats six or
seven thousand auditors) is admirably adapted to its uses; and some of the
more recent business buildings, like the Post Office, are inoffensive to
the unexacting observer. A wooded peninsula, which is pleasantly laid out
as a park, projects into the lake; and, at the point of this, has lately
been erected a _campanile_ which is admirable in both color and
proportion. Indeed, when a fanfaronnade of sunset is blown wide behind it,
you suffer a sudden tinge of homesickness for Venice or Ravenna. It is
good enough for that. But beside it is a helter-skelter wooden edifice
which reminds you of Surf Avenue at Coney Island. Indeed, the Settlement
as a whole exhibits still an overwhelmment of the unaesthetic, and appalls
the eye of the new-comer from a more considerative world.

On the way back from the lovely _campanile_ to the hotel, I stumbled over
a scattering of artificial hillocks surrounding two mud-puddles connected
by a gutter. This monstrosity turned out to be a relief-map of Palestine.
Little children, with uncultivated voices, shouted at each other as they
lightly leaped from Jerusalem to Jericho; and waste-paper soaked itself to
dingy brown in the insanitary Sea of Galilee.--Then I encountered a wooden
edifice with castellated towers and machicolated battlements, which called
itself (with a large label) the Men's Club; and from this I fled, with
almost a sense of relief, to the hotel itself, now sprawling low and dark
beneath its Boston-brown-bread cupola.

Thus my first impression of Chautauqua was one of melancholy and
resentment. But, in the subsequent few days, this emotion was altered to
one of impressible satiric mirth; and, subsequently still, it was changed
again to an emotion of wondering and humble admiration. I had been assured
at the outset, by one who had already tried it, that, if I stayed long
enough, I should end up by liking Chautauqua; and this is precisely what
happen