she told what she had dreamed, her father sharply bid her “leave off thinking of such nonsense, or she would be crazy,” never knowing that he was himself the cause of all these horrors of the night. [Sidenote: Latin at six.] I was taught Latin and English grammar at the same time, and began to read Latin at six years old, after which, for some years, I read it daily. [Sidenote: Influence of her father’s character.] [My father] demanded accuracy and clearness in everything.... Trained to great dexterity in artificial methods, accurate, ready, with entire command of his resources, he had no belief in minds that listen, wait, and receive. He had no conception of the subtle and indirect motions of imagination and feeling. His influence on me was great, and opposed to the natural unfolding of my character, which was fervent, of strong grasp, and disposed to infatuation and self-forgetfulness. [Sidenote: Her first taste of Shakespeare.] Ever memorable is the day on which I first took a volume of Shakespeare in my hand to read. It was on a Sunday. This day was particularly set apart in our house.... This Sunday--I was only eight years old--I took from the book-shelf a volume lettered Shakespeare. 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. “Shakespeare,” replied the child, merely raising her eye from the page. “‘Shakespeare’! 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 doesn’t hear a word that’s said to her?” quoth my aunt. “What are you reading?” said my father. “Shakespeare,” 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.” [Sidenote: Home of the Fullers.] [Sidenote: Margaret in the garden.]