I found the new Institution torn by internal schisms even before it was opened to the public.  Two factious governed it—­a grave faction and a gay faction.  Two questions agitated it:  the first referring to the propriety of celebrating the opening season by a public ball, and the second to the expediency of admitting novels into the library.  The grim Puritan interest of the whole neighborhood was, of course, on the grave side—­against both dancing and novels, as proposed by local loose thinkers and latitudinarians of every degree.  I was officially introduced to the debate at the height of the squabble; and found myself one of a large party in a small room, sitting round a long table, each man of us with a new pewter inkstand, a new quill pen, and a clean sheet of foolscap paper before him.  Seeing that everybody spoke, I got on my legs along with the rest, and made a slashing speech on the loose-thinking side.  I was followed by the leader of the grim faction—­an unlicked curate of the largest dimensions.

“If there were, so to speak, no other reason against dancing,” said my reverend opponent, “there is one unanswerable objection to it.  Gentlemen!  John the Baptist lost his head through dancing!"’

Every man of the grim faction hammered delightedly on the table, as that formidable argument was produced; and the curate sat down in triumph.  I jumped up to reply, amid the counter-cheering of the loose-thinkers; but before I could say a word the President of the Institution and the rector of the parish came into the room.

They were both men of authority, men of sense, and fathers of charming daughters, and they turned the scale on the right side in no time.  The question relating to the admission of novels was postponed, and the question of dancing or no dancing was put to the vote on the spot.  The President, the rector and myself, the three handsomest and highest-bred men in the assembly, led the way on the liberal side, waggishly warning all gallant gentlemen present to beware of disappointing the young ladies.  This decided the waverers, and the waverers decided the majority.  My first business, as Secretary, was the drawing out of a model card of admission to the ball.

My next occupation was to look at the rooms provided for me.

The Duskydale Institution occupied a badly-repaired ten-roomed house, with a great flimsy saloon built at one side of it, smelling of paint and damp plaster, and called the Lecture Theater.  It was the chilliest, ugliest, emptiest, gloomiest place I ever entered in my life; the idea of doing anything but sitting down and crying in it seemed to me quite preposterous; but the committee took a different view of the matter, and praised the Lecture Theater as a perfect ballroom.  The Secretary’s apartments were two garrets, asserting themselves in the most barefaced manner, without an attempt at disguise.  If I had intended to do more than earn my first quarter’s salary, I should have complained.  But as I had not the slightest intention of remaining at Duskydale, I could afford to establish a reputation for amiability by saying nothing.