’—­This day was punctiliously set apart in our house.  We had family prayers, for which there was no time on other days.  Our dinners were different, and our clothes.  We went to church.  My father put some limitations on my reading, but—­bless him for the gentleness which has left me a pleasant feeling for the day!—­he did not prescribe what was, but only what was not, to be done.  And the liberty this left was a large one.  “You must not read a novel, or a play;” but all other books, the worst, or the best, were open to me.  The distinction was merely technical.  The day was pleasing to me, as relieving me from the routine of tasks and recitations; it gave me freer play than usual, and there were fewer things occurred in its course, which reminded me of the divisions of time; still the church-going, where I heard nothing that had any connection with my inward life, and these rules, gave me associations with the day of empty formalities, and arbitrary restrictions; but though the forbidden book or walk always seemed more charming then, I was seldom tempted to disobey.—­

’This Sunday—­I was only eight years old—­I took from the book-shelf a volume lettered Shakspeare.  It was not the first time I had looked at it, but before I had been deterred from attempting to read, by the broken appearance along the page, and preferred smooth narrative.  But this time I held in my hand “Romeo and Juliet” long enough to get my eye fastened to the page.  It was a cold winter afternoon.  I took the book to the parlor fire, and had there been ’seated an hour or two, when my father looked up and asked what I was reading so intently.  “Shakspeare,” replied the child, merely raising her eye from the page.  “Shakspeare,—­that won’t do; that’s no book for Sunday; go put it away and take another.”  I went as I was bid, but took no other.  Returning to my seat, the unfinished story, the personages to whom I was but just introduced, thronged and burnt my brain.  I could not bear it long; such a lure it was impossible to resist.  I went and brought the book again.  There were several guests present, and I had got half through the play before I again attracted attention.  “What is that child about that she don’t hear a word that’s said to her?” quoth my aunt.  “What are you reading?” said my father.  “Shakspeare” was again the reply, in a clear, though somewhat impatient, tone.  “How?” said my father angrily,—­then restraining himself before his guests,—­“Give me the book and go directly to bed.”

’Into my little room no care of his anger followed me.  Alone, in the dark, I thought only of the scene placed by the poet before my eye, where the free flow of life, sudden and graceful dialogue, and forms, whether grotesque or fair, seen in the broad lustre of his imagination, gave just what I wanted, and brought home the life I seemed born to live.  My fancies swarmed like bees, as I contrived the rest of the story;—­what