ore or less mixed as the hour of departure from our
native city drew near. We were very much hugged and very much kissed and
not a little cried over; and then at last, in a half, dazed condition,
we left Rochester, New York, for New York city, on our way to San
Francisco by the Nicaragua route. This was away back in 1855, when San
Francisco, it may be said, was only six years old.

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