ever fell into
moodiness--it was partly constitutional with him--the shadow fled away
at the first approach of that "loveliest weight on lightest foot." The
sweet Veronese had nestled in his empty heart, and filled it with music.
The ghosts and visions that used to haunt him were laid forever by
Juliet's magic.

Happy Juliet!

Her beauty had taken a new gloss. The bud bad grown into a flower,
redeeming the promises of the bud. If her heart beat less wildly, it
throbbed more strongly. If she had given Hamlet of her superabundance of
spirits, he had given her of his wisdom and discretion. She had always
been a great favorite in society; but Verona thought her ravishing now.
The mantua-makers cut their dresses by her patterns, and when she wore
turquoise, garnets went ont of style. Instead of the groans and tears,
and all those distressing events which might possibly have happened if
Juliet had persisted in loving Romeo--listen to her laugh and behold her
merry eyes!

Every morning either Peter or Gregory might have been seen going up
Hamlet's staircase with a note from Juliet--she had ceased to send the
Nurse on discovering her lover's antipathy to that person--and some
minutes later either Gregory or Peter might have been observed coming
down the staircase with a missive from Hamlet. Juliet had detected his
gift for verse, and insisted, rather capriciously, on having all his
replies in that shape. Hamlet humored her, though he was often hard put
to it; for the Muse is a coy immortal, and will not always come when she
is wanted. Sometimes he was forced to fall back upon previous efforts,
as when he translated these lines into very choice Italian:--

"Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt Truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love."

To be sure, he had originally composed this quatrain for Ophelia; but
what would you have? He had scarcely meant it then; he meant it now;
besides, a felicitous rhyme never goes out of fashion. It always fits.

While transcribing the verse his thoughts naturally reverted to Ophelia,
for the little poesy was full of a faint scent of the past, like a
pressed flower. His conscience did not prick him at all. How fortunate
for him and for her that matters had gone no further between them?
Predisposed to melancholy, and inheriting a not very strong mind from
her father, Ophelia was a lady who needed cheering up, if ever poor lady
d