But the picture.—­In the midst of a stormy sea, on which night seemed fast settling down, a helmless, mastless, sailless bark lay weltering giddily, and in it sat a man in the full flower of vigorous manhood.  His attitude was one of miserable dejection, and, oh, how I did long to remove the hand with which his eyes were covered, to see what manner of look in them answered to the bitter sorrow which the speechless lips expressed!  His other hand rested on the fair curls of a girl-baby of three years old, who clung to his knee, and, with wide, wondering blue eyes and laughing lips, looked up into the half-hidden face of her father.—­“And that,” said the sweet voice at my side, “was the good Duke of Milan, Prospero,—­and that was his little child, Miranda.”

There was something about the face and figure of the Prospero that suggested to me those of my father; and this, perhaps, added to the poignancy with which the representation of his distress affected my childish imagination.  But the impression made by the picture, the story, and the place where I heard the one and saw the other, is among the most vivid that my memory retains.  And never, even now, do I turn the magic page that holds that marvellous history, without again seeing the lovely lady, the picture full of sad dismay, and my own six-year-old self listening to that earliest Shakspearian lore that my mind and heart ever received.  I suppose this is partly the secret of my love for this, above all other of the poet’s plays;—­it was my first possession in the kingdom of unbounded delight which he has since bestowed upon me.

* * * * *

THE GREAT ARM-CHAIR.

Shall I not to-day, Estelle, give you the history of this great arm-chair, the only historical piece of furniture in our house?  The heavy oak frame was carved by an imprisoned poet.  They took away his pen, and in larger lines he carved this chair.  Heavily moulded Sphinxes form its arms; the strong legs and feet of some wild beast its support; the crest, a winged figure with bandaged eyes,—­a Fate or Fortune we might call it,—­that mild look not to be resisted in its gentle strength.  But blind Fortune could not so master him:  his prison made for him only a secure room, in which to study, to work out, the mysteries.

The rich covering was wrought long years ago, in some ancient convent, by a saintly nun.  Holy, pious tears dropped on it as she wrought.  She pricked out brave bright flowers with her needle, though her own life was pale and sad.  I cover this sacred work with housewifely care; but it makes our rest there more hallowed.

This old chair we call our dreaming-chair,—­to borrow a name, our Sleepy-Hollow.  It is so simple and grand in workmanship, it should be the seat of honor in a king’s palace; and yet it is in place in our small parlor.  Perhaps some day I may tell you of the ancient dames and knights who once possessed it; but they have long since slept their last sleep,—­no summer-afternoon’s nap, but a sleep so long to last, now their long day’s work is done.