king over such an unreal kingdom as this seems to us. Not many years before, when his daughter Miranda, who was now a lovely young maiden, was an infant of two or three years, he had been ruler over a powerful realm,—nothing less than the Duchy of Milan. But though he was a good prince, and loved his people very dearly, he was too fond of the study of magic, and all sorts of occult arts and sciences. He thought, meanwhile, that his kingdom was taken good care of, for he trusted all his affairs in the hands of his only brother, whom he believed a good and loyal minister of his will. One would have imagined that Prospero’s inquiries into all the mysteries of magic might have taught him how to read the designs of men, but it seems they did not; for while he was deep in his books, and suspected no harm, this bad brother Antonio took possession of his throne, seized Prospero and the little Princess Miranda, thrust them into a leaky boat, and pushed them off into the wide ocean, all alone by themselves.
But it sometimes happens that the winds and waves, and all the great forces of Nature, though they seem so pitiless, are more kind than men. It proved so in this case, for the waves gently tossed, and the winds blew them on, to the shores of this enchanted island, where Prospero dwelt when the story commences.
