After sending me his box, he disappeared from America and apparently went into hiding. Stripped of the sparse details which I have been able to gather about him, Dunlevy’s life is lacking in outward incident; for the most part, it is a complete blank. We wonder how it is that we know so little about a Rabelais or a Shakespeare. What do we know of our nearest neighbor? In the present case but one thing seems certain: tragedy seemed to follow tragedy in the life of William Wirt Dunlevy. He lost his mother when he was a little child; he lost his father when he was not more than a grown boy; he lost his young betrothed on the very verge of approaching marriage; he lost his faith; he lost his health; and he lost his ambition--all before the age when most men have not felt even one of these sorrows. There remain, and always will remain, many dark places in his experience. And it has seemed to me that it would be a breach of friendship for me to attempt to throw light upon either his family history or his private life, aside from what he gives in his own papers. It would savor too much of professional biography. I do not know the man’s age. I have never sought out even the full name of his father, nor his mother’s maiden name. It was sufficient for him to tell me in his own letter that he had neither kith nor kin. That closed further inquiry. Perhaps it will not do for me to go no deeper into the meaning of Dunlevy’s documents, if I propose to offer them for public scrutiny, even though I personally feel that the moment one begins to analyze their meaning, the meaning disappears. So it is with pleasure. The moment you become conscious of pleasure and try to handle it and to label it, the pleasure vanishes, and you pursue a flying goal. Spontaneous happiness is never conscious. And the meaning of personal, spontaneous writing may be felt, but not epitomized. What, then, does Dunlevy mean?