Well do I recall that King⁠—a man of fifty, a little bowed, a little grey; there was no face in all that assembly which resembled his. I had never read, never been told anything of his nature or his habits; and at first the strong hieroglyphics graven as with iron stylet on his brow, round his eyes, beside his mouth, puzzled and baffled instinct. Ere long, however, if I did not know, at least I felt, the meaning of those characters written without hand. There sat a silent sufferer⁠—a nervous, melancholy man. Those eyes had looked on the visits of a certain ghost⁠—had long waited the comings and goings of that strangest spectre, Hypochondria. Perhaps he saw her now on that stage, over against him, amidst all that brilliant throng. Hypochondria has that wont, to rise in the midst of thousands⁠—dark as Doom, pale as Malady, and well-nigh strong as Death. Her comrade and victim thinks to be happy one moment⁠—“Not so,” says she; “I come.” And she freezes the blood in his heart, and beclouds the light in his eye.