out the sky, and threw a dismal shadow over the
forlorn band of men on the steps. White
exhalations twisted and curled up stealthily from
the ground; approached the men in wreaths,
like smoke; touched them; and stretched them
out dead, one by one, in the places where they
lay. An agony of pity and fear for Walter
loosened my tongue, and I implored him to
escape. "Come back! come back!" I said.
"Remember your promise to her and to me.
Come back to us, before the Pestilence reaches
you, and lays you dead like the rest!"

He looked at me, with an unearthly quiet in
his face. "Wait," he said. "I shall come back.
The night, when I met the lost Woman on the
highway, was the night which set my life apart
to be the instrument of a Design that is yet
unseen. Here, lost in the wilderness, or there,
welcomed back in the land of my birth, I am
still walking on the dark road which leads me,
and you, and the sister of your love and mine, to
the unknown Retribution and the inevitable
End. Wait and look. The Pestilence which
touches the rest, will pass me."

I saw him again. He was still in the forest;
and the numbers of his lost companions had
dwindled to very few. The temple was gone,
and the idols were gone—and, in their place,
the figures of dark, dwarfish men lurked
murderously among the trees, with bows in their
hands, and arrows fitted to the string. Once
more, I feared for Walter, and cried out to warn
him. Once more, he turned to me, with the
immovable quiet in his face. "Another step,"
he said, "on the dark road. Wait and look.
The arrows that strike the rest, will spare
me."

I saw him for the third time, in a wrecked
ship, stranded on a wild, sandy shore. The
overloaded boats were making away from him
for the land, and he alone was left, to sink with
the ship. I cried to him to hail the hindmost
boat, and to make a last effort for his life. The
quiet face looked at me in return, and the
unmoved voice gave me back the changeless reply.
"Another step on the journey. Wait and look.
The Sea which drowns the rest, will spare me."

I saw him for the last time. He was kneeling
by a tomb of white marble; and the shadow of
a veiled woman rose out of the grave beneath,
and waited by his side. The unearthly quiet of
his face had changed to an unearthly sorrow. But
the terrible certainty of his words remained the
same. "Darker and darker," he said;
"farther and farther yet. Death takes the good,
the beautiful, and the young—and spares me.
The Pestilence that wastes, the Arrow that
strikes, the Sea that drowns, the Grave that
closes over Love and Hope, are steps of my
journey, and take me nearer and nearer to the
End."

My heart sank under a dread beyond words,
under a grief beyond tears. The darkness closed
round the pilgrim at the marble tomb; closed
round the veiled woman from the grave; closed
round the dreamer who looked on them. I saw
and heard no more.

I was aroused by a hand laid on my shoulder.
It was Laura's.

She had dropped on her knees by the side of
the sofa. Her face was flushed and agitated;
and her eyes met mine in a wild bewildered
manner. I started up the instant I saw her.

"What has happened?" I asked. "What
has frightened you?"

She looked round at the half-open door—put
her lips close to my ear—and answered in a
whisper:

"Marian!—the figure at the lake—the
footsteps last night—I've just seen her! I've just
spoken to her!"

"Who, for Heaven's sake?"

"Anne Catherick."

            WHISTOLOGY.

                    ——the Play's the thing
         To touch the conscience of the king.

PROBABLY human ingenuity has not
displayed itself in any discovery more than by
the various modes it has invented to read the
character, and detect the temperament, of
individuals. This has been a favourite study from
the very earliest ages—chiromancy existed
amongst the Chaldeans, phrenology is of our
own day—while sect after sect preferred their
claim to attention, founding their several
systems, now upon physical attribute, now upon
some apparently adventitious element; so that,
from the facial angle or the occipital ridge, to
the shape of a man's nails, there is nothing
which has not been admitted as evidence of his
moral tendencies, or his intellectual capacity.

We have given years of patient thought and
labour to this theme, we have revolved it
long and arduously, discussing much with the
learned of many lands, and our triumph it is
at length to declare, that we believe success has
crowned our life toil, and that we have arrived
at the test of all temperament, the gauge of
morals and the measure of mind. That we
have, in short, established an ordeal which no
subtlety can evade, no astuteness escape from;
an ordeal, too, so comprehensive as to include
the whole nation of men subjected to it, giving
the measure of greatness and goodness, littleness
or incapacity, as unerringly as the balance
decides upon weight, and thus supplying to the
world, bored with competitive trials, and civil
service commissions, one sure and safe measure
by which it shall select its public men.

Amongst the many objections which will
be started against his plan, there will be none
more constantly put forward than its extreme
simplicity—the old stumbling-block of weak
minds, who require that truth not only should
see at the bottom of the well, but that the
water should be muddy besides. To such
persons, however, he makes no appeal. To
them, he says, "Lovers of the inexplicably
confused—ye men who worship complexity
without consistency, and moderation without
a purpose—go hence! Your teachers are
members of Parliament! Your school-house is