at had
befallen somebody else. There was something incredible, too, in his
present situation. Was he dreaming? Was he really in Italy, and in love?

He hastily bent forward and picked up a square folded paper lying half
concealed under the others.

"How could I have forgotten it!" he exclaimed.

It was a missive addressed, in Horatio's angular hand, to the Signior
Capulet of Verona, containing a few lines of introduction from Horatio,
whose father had dealings with some of the rich Lombardy merchants and
knew many of the leading families in the city. With this and several
epistles, preserved by chance, written to him by Queen Gertrude while
he was at the university, Hamlet saw that he would have no difficulty in
proving to the Capulets that he was the Prince of Denmark.

At an unseemly hour the next morning Mercutio was roused from his
slumbers by Hamlet, who counted every minute a hundred years until he
saw Juliet. Mercutio did not take this interruption too patiently, for
the honest humorist was very serious as a sleeper; but his equilibrium
was quickly restored by Hamlet's revelation.

The friends were long closeted together, and at the proper, ceremonious
hour for visitors they repaired to the house of Capulet, who did not
hide his sense of the honor done him by the prince. With scarcely any
prelude Hamlet unfolded the motive of his visit, and was listened to
with rapt attention by old Capulet, who inwardly blessed his stars that
he had not given his daughter's hand to the County Paris, as he was on
the point of doing. The ladies were not visible on this occasion; the
fatigues of the ball overnight, etc.; but that same evening Hamlet
was accorded an interview with Juliet and Lady Capulet, and a few days
subsequently all Verona was talking of nothing but the new engagement.

The destructive Tybalt scowled at first, and twirled his fierce
mustache, and young Paris took to writing dejected poetry; but they both
soon recovered their serenity, seeing that nobody minded them, and went
together arm in arm to pay their respects to Hamlet.

A new life began now for Hamlet---he shed his inky cloak, and came out
in a doublet of insolent splendor, looking like a dagger-handle newly
gilt. With his funereal gear he appeared to have thrown off something
of his sepulchral gloom. It was impossible to be gloomy with Juliet,
in whom each day developed some sunny charm un-guessed before. Her
freshness and coquettish candor were