I have stated that it was the theater which first stimulated my love for Shakespeare.  In my messenger days the old Pittsburgh Theater was in its glory under the charge of Mr. Foster.  His telegraphic business was done free, and the telegraph operators were given free admission to the theater in return.  This privilege extended in some degree also to the messengers, who, I fear, sometimes withheld telegrams that arrived for him in the late afternoon until they could be presented at the door of the theater in the evening, with the timid request that the messenger might be allowed to slip upstairs to the second tier—­a request which was always granted.  The boys exchanged duties to give each the coveted entrance in turn.

In this way I became acquainted with the world that lay behind the green curtain.  The plays, generally, were of the spectacular order; without much literary merit, but well calculated to dazzle the eye of a youth of fifteen.  Not only had I never seen anything so grand, but I had never seen anything of the kind.  I had never been in a theater, or even a concert room, or seen any form of public amusement.  It was much the same with “Davy” McCargo, “Harry” Oliver, and “Bob” Pitcairn.  We all fell under the fascination of the footlights, and every opportunity to attend the theater was eagerly embraced.

A change in my tastes came when “Gust” Adams,[17] one of the most celebrated tragedians of the day, began to play in Pittsburgh a round of Shakespearean characters.  Thenceforth there was nothing for me but Shakespeare.  I seemed to be able to memorize him almost without effort.  Never before had I realized what magic lay in words.  The rhythm and the melody all seemed to find a resting-place in me, to melt into a solid mass which lay ready to come at call.  It was a new language and its appreciation I certainly owe to dramatic representation, for, until I saw “Macbeth” played, my interest in Shakespeare was not aroused.  I had not read the plays.

[Footnote 17:  Edwin Adams.]

At a much later date, Wagner was revealed to me in “Lohengrin.”  I had heard at the Academy of Music in New York, little or nothing by him when the overture to “Lohengrin” thrilled me as a new revelation.  Here was a genius, indeed, differing from all before, a new ladder upon which to climb upward—­like Shakespeare, a new friend.

I may speak here of another matter which belongs to this same period.  A few persons in Allegheny—­probably not above a hundred in all—­had formed themselves into a Swedenborgian Society, in which our American relatives were prominent.  My father attended that church after leaving the Presbyterian, and, of course, I was taken there.  My mother, however, took no interest in Swedenborg.  Although always inculcating respect for all forms of religion, and discouraging theological disputes, she maintained for herself a marked reserve.  Her position might best be defined by the celebrated maxim of Confucius:  “To perform the duties of this life well, troubling not about another, is the prime wisdom.”