Jo [pp. 405-408; system: 405-407]

I871.]
occasionally of a morning, to accom pany him to breakfast.
"Can you tell me," he asked, "wheth er Mr. Glimmer has gone out?"
I replied that I had not heard him;
and paused, at the head of the stairs,
while he knocked again. There was no
answer. We looked at each other, a
moment, in grave silence.
"He never turns his key in the lock,"
I said; "you had better look in." He
hesitated. I advanced, and, openiing the
door gently, entered the room.
"He is not awake yet," said his friend,
who had followed me. "We had better
let him sleep, for he was up very late
last night, and was in poor spirits; rest
will do him good."
He was lying on his left side, with his
face toward us, perfectly still. I listened a moment, but could not hear his
breathing. I approached the bed, and
looked at him attentively. His countenance wore a more calm and restful
look than I had ever seen there. The
shadow of a smile lingered around the
slightly parted lips, and gave to the
mouth and chin an expression suggestive of a weary acknowledgment of weakness, and an appeal for the charitable
judgment of the strong.
His right arm drooped over the side
of the bed, from beneath the coverlet.
I was about to touch the wrist, when my
eye fell upon a scrap of paper on the
small table at the head of the bed, on
which I saw my name, in large charac ters. It ran thus:
" 4:15 A.M.
"DEAR OLD PAUL:-I rise to scrawl these lines, to
prevent misapprehension, in case any thing should
happen to me. You remember our last conversation,
and I want to have you understand that I distinctly
agree with you. I have had a bad night, and now
feel that I shall sleep, at last. I feel, too (I can not
honestly say I fear), that I shall have a picturedream. In that case, I shall endeavor to arouse myself at the first premonition of danger. This is written, that your remembrance of me may not be clouded by a hateful suspicion. I feel deliciously drowsy,
and so peaceful! Is there any thing sweeter than
rest to the weary? Yours, F. G."
I laid my hand upon the forehead, and
found it cold. I felt his wrist, and it
was pulseless.
"Poor fellow!" sighed his friend, funmbling for his pocket-handkerchief; "what
a feverish, unsatisfactory life he had of
it!"
"Happy sleeper!" I said to myself,
as I glanced once more at the countenance, so expressive of restful content;
"he has his wish. He is not to be
pitied."
Jo.
JO was a'49-er. He had been a sail or, then a miner, next a school-mas ter, finally a lawyer. He was more.
He was, in embryo, a universal Genius.
In him were the elements of a most attractive man, but not properly ballasted
by patience, and under little control.
Chaos, ere earth crystallized into form,
seemed a type of his mind. Love, law,
oratory, poetry, music, metaphysics, politics-every art and science-were drifted and scud- blown hither and thither
through Jo's brain. Even so his moods:
all, in one day, savage, gay, fierce, depressed, taciturn, talkative, cheerful, sarcastic, gentle, and disagreeable.
Jo's tastes, powers, and capacities
were varied. He craved universal acquirement, but the grand power of patience seemed in him almost lacking.
His were fitful and spasmodic attacks
on the various fortresses of knowledge,
characterized by Gallic impetuosity and
enthusiasm, but wanting in the all- con
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