It seemed a supreme condescension on the part of our maternal grandfather that he, who did not and could not for a moment countenance the theatre, should voluntarily take us, one and all, to see an alleged dramatic representation at Barnum’s Museum—­at that time one of the features of New York city, and perhaps the most famous place of amusement in the land.  Four years later, when I was sixteen, very far from home and under that good gentleman’s watchful supervision, I asked leave to witness a dramatic version of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” enacted by a small company of strolling players in a canvas tent.  There were no blood-hounds in the cast, and mighty little scenery, or anything else alluring; but I was led to believe that I had been trembling upon the verge of something direful, and I was not allowed to go.  What would that pious man have said could he have seen me, a few years later, strutting and fretting my hour upon the stage?

Well, we all saw “Damon and Pythias” in Barnum’s “Lecture Room,” with real scenery that split up the middle and slid apart over a carpet of green baize.  And ’twas a real play, played by real players,—­at least they were once real players, but that was long before.  It may be their antiquated and failing art rendered them harmless.  And, then, those beguiling words “Lecture Room” have such a soothing sound!  They seemed in those days to hallow the whole function, which was, of course, the wily wish of the great moral entertainer; and his great moral entertainment was even as “the cups that cheer but not inebriate.”  It came near it in our case, however.  It was our first matinee at the theatre, and, oh, the joy we took of it!  Years afterward did we children in our playroom, clad in “the trailing garments of the night” in lieu of togas, sink our identity for the moment and out-rant Damon and his Pythias.  Thrice happy days so long ago in California!

There is no change like a sea change, no matter who suffers it; and one’s first sea voyage is a revelation.  The mystery of it is usually not unmixed with misery.  Five and forty years ago it was a very serious undertaking to uproot one’s self, say good-bye to all that was nearest and dearest, and go down beyond the horizon in an ill-smelling, overcrowded, side-wheeled tub.  Not a soul on the dock that day but fully realized this.  The dock and the deck ran rivers of tears, it seemed to me; and when, after the lingering agony of farewells had reached the climax, and the shore-lines were cast off, and the Star of the West swung out into the stream, with great side-wheels fitfully revolving, a shriek rent the air and froze my young blood.  Some mother parting from a son who was on board our vessel, no longer able to restrain her emotion, was borne away, frantically raving in the delirium of grief.  I have never forgotten that agonizing scene, or the despairing wail that was enough to pierce the hardest heart.  I imagined my heart was about to break; and when we put out to sea in a damp and dreary drizzle, and the shore-line dissolved away, while on board there was overcrowding, and confusion worse confounded in evidence everywhere,—­perhaps it did break, that overwrought heart of mine and has been a patched thing ever since.