His state is truly pitiable.
Now, if he were a poor man, with a family depending on his daily
labor, this irritability and despondency would be natural enough.
But in a young fellow of twenty-four, with plenty of money and
seemingly not a care in the world, the thing is monstrous. If he
continues to give way to his vagaries in this manner, he will end
by bringing on an inflammation of the fibula. It was the fibula he
broke. I am at my wits' end to know what to prescribe for him. I
have anaesthetics and lotions, to make people sleep and to soothe
pain; but I've no medicine that will make a man have a little
common-sense. That is beyond my skill, but maybe it is not beyond
yours. You are Flemming's intimate friend, his fidus Achates. Write
to him, write to him frequently, distract his mind, cheer him up,
and prevent him from becoming a confirmed case of melancholia.
Perhaps he has some important plans disarranged by his present
confinement. If he has you will know, and will know how to advise
him judiciously. I trust your father finds the change beneficial?
I am, my dear sir, with great respect, etc.
II.
EDWARD DELANEY TO JOHN FLEMMING, WEST 38TH STREET,
NEW YORK.
August 9, 1872.
My Dear Jack: I had a line from Dillon this morning, and was
rejoiced to learn that your hurt is not so bad as reported. Like a
certain personage, you are not so black and blue as you are
painted.
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