Yet I feel even in these few fragments of his the presence of an earnest and attaching sensibility. They show us Dunlevy struggling with a life-long secret, whose nature it is as difficult to read as its influence upon the whole trend of his temperament it is impossible to deny. Way back at the time when he wrote me his letter, in which he confessed a weakness for drink, one can see what a despairing glance he casts upon his life. Whatever this youthful secret was, we can only conjecture. He never tells us. He never so far forgot his private dignity and his instincts as a gentleman as to publish the reason why he did not marry. Here, the reader, if he has the desire, must go the rest of the way himself. I have referred to it now for the last time, because by so doing it becomes easier to speak of his manuscript. “The physiology and hygiene of a writer have become one of the indispensable chapters in any analysis that is made of his talent.” So says Sainte-Beuve. The result was that this effort to conceal his trouble and yet speak openly of himself gives all of his papers their personal note. That is why he has to walk on that delicate line between the real and the supernatural, maintaining his balance and always seeming to know where he is. That is why at times he sounds as though a Theosophist were talking to his Mahatma. Hence the styles, the moods, the visions, of this sane or insane man. That Dunlevy spent much of his time in idleness and apparent emptiness of mind can not be denied. He was indolent. He tells us so. He was born under the Southern sun at a period when indolence had recently been aristocratic and at a premium. This very inability to adapt himself to energetic work, constitutional though it was, seemed to haunt him with the idea that he was indeed a useless being. To call his little volume of scattered sheets literally the memoirs of a failure was no misnomer. And he knew it. To be born indolent and to have also a delicate conscience is an unhappy birth even for normally healthy mortals who have a cheery home. But in addition to his physical inertia, to be at the mercy of an irritable temperament, and to be a wandering recluse, was enough to make Dunlevy go under. And I fear that he did so. I imagine that Dunlevy kept going from one disappointment to another, trying to repair past errors by some new effort. He must often have asked: How is it that with intelligence and so much remorse, you are still so little master of yourself? “The sore of his whole life is there--unbelief and desire.”