d it sometimes lasts all
day--nothing can distract his melancholy. He refuses to eat, does not
even read the newspapers; books, except as projectiles for Watkins, have
no charms for him. 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. Dillon will
put you on your pins again in two to three weeks, if you will only have
patience and follow his counsels. Did you get my note of last Wednesday?
I was greatly troubled when I heard of the accident.

I can imagine how tranquil and saintly you are with your leg in a
trough! It is deuced awkward, to be sure, just as we had promised
ourselves a glorious month together at the sea-side; but we must make
the best of it. It is unfortunate, too, that my father's health renders
it impossible for me to leave him. I think he has much improved; the sea
air is his native element; but he still needs my arm to lean upon in his
walks, and requires some one more careful that a servant to look after
him. I cannot come to you, dear Jack, but I have hours of unemployed
time on hand, and I will write you a whole post-office full of letters,
if that will divert y