CAMBRIDGE, MAY-JUNE 1886.

Cambridge rises in flat country on the banks of the Cam: the railroad approaches it from a distance, with respect, as if not to deflower it, and no cloud of coal obscures its atmosphere. Statistics show that its population is as large as Oxford's, but the visitor finds it tighter, its streets narrower, its perfume more patriarchal (...) Its monuments, instead of being scattered throughout the city, have come together as if to be better admired, and they have formed a surprising vanguard whose sudden appearance elicits an enthusiastic exclamation from arrivals. King's College, with its gleaming belfries, then the Senate Palace and the Caius and Gonville buildings, appear at a bend in the road; other colleges follow, opening their majestic courtyards onto the street and, on the other side, overlooking the parks through which the river flows. The best way to appreciate what we call here: The backs of the colleges (oh! shocking), is to climb into one of these seductive little canoes with their comfortable cushions and follow the flow of water between the grassy banks; you can see the monumental façade of Saint-John coming towards you through the ancient trees; the river bathes its walls and passes under a delightfully sculpted "bridge of sighs" pierced by grilled windows. Then you leave the town, and the Cam widens as you turn right: a dam stops you; beyond that, serious navigation, the domain of the eight-oars. In the other direction, the landscape is greener; bridge after bridge is covered with ivy and wisteria; small transverse canals lose themselves under the foliage; at the entrance to one of them, a friendly canoeist informs me that I'm going to a swamp near which you can't turn without difficulty.

- You are a stranger in Cambridge? 
- Not only in Cambridge but in England.
- German, perhaps? 
- Frenchman. 
- Frenchman, oh! 
And, raising his hat with a courteous half-smile, he said:
- Vive la république!
I reply:
- God save the Queen!
And we part. (...)

Towards evening, the streets come alive: first, at half past six, the stream of students returning to get dressed; most of them come back from tennis in true harlequin costumes: white flannel pants, jackets of the same fabric, striped in bright colors, straw hats with matching ribbons; they walk quietly, wearing their rubber shoes, calling to each other, strolling, entering the stores. Others, in squads, emerge in the opposite direction: these are the oarsmen! In a rather sorry state, these ones, all sweaty, with work clothes, stained with water; their only clean thing is the white jacket braided in the college colors, with the crest embroidered on the pocket. All the crews are there: there's the black crescent of Trinity Hall, the blue lion of Emmanuel College and the three roses of King's.