All of us knew where he lived, even if none of us had seen the inside of his quarters. He rented the ground floor of an old private residence which was situated just beyond the University limits. It was set upon a knoll, and from this point one could obtain a clear view of Monticello, the home of Jefferson. I presumed so much upon my slight acquaintance with Dunlevy as to deem it a simple duty to go to see him. I was ushered into his chamber by an old negro servant who had not succeeded in intercepting me. I found Dunlevy propped up in bed, reading a book. He laid it across his chest open, and looked at me as though he could not believe my presence. “Why, you have come to see me, haven’t you?” he said. The poor man seemed to beam at the thought that some one had actually come to call upon him. “I heard that you were sick.” “And did you let the gentleman in, Sandy?” he asked of the negro, at the same time trying to conceal a frown from me. “Maarstar, don’t you say I done it. He say he be a doctor and was sent for!” “My trick succeeded even if it was impudent;” I said. Dunlevy was confused. “You see--a--I feel a little queer now and then about the head--that is all--and I do not care to bother others with coming to see me. Perhaps you may know that feeling of all-goneness, as I call it?” “And what are you doing for it?” I asked. “Aha!” he exclaimed; “curiously enough I have just come across a short passage in this book that fits your question. Do you mind listening to it?” He took up the book and read this sentence: “How hard it is, my dear brother, to recover a little strength when one has become accustomed to one’s weakness; and how much it costs to fight for victory when one has long found delight in allowing one’s self to be conquered!” I took out a pencil and paper and asked him to read it again in order that I might write it down. “And who is the author?” I asked. “Oh dear!” said he, “you are like all the rest. What difference does it make who says a thing, so long as it is good? And what difference does it make how great a man is so long as he says things which are not good.” Hereupon he reached over to a little reading table at the head of his bed upon which was a single tumbler full to the brim of a thick mixture. He raised it and drank the contents. I imagined that the man was taking some medicine and that he felt ill. I made an apology for my intrusion and took my leave. During this brief call Dunlevy maintained a dignity that was impenetrable. He had the power to impose respect for himself at all times, and to do so unconsciously. As I sat in his bed room I had a chance, as I thought, to take a glimpse of its furnishings, but there were none. The walls were perfectly bare with the exception of one picture, hung so that he could see it from his pillow. It was the portrait of a young girl upon a horse, habited in the style of twenty years ago.