This is a letter from James to his brother Michael. (Thanks Livia!)
I happen to think it does read somewhat like the prose of the Diarist - it certainly isn't miles apart. But more importantly it isn't the product of a keen intellect.
This part should catch the eye: What is the matter with me none of the Doctors so far can make out and I suppose never will until I am stretched out and cold and then future generations may profit by it if they hold a post mortem which I am quite willing they should do.
I don't take it as a confession of being Jack, but instead that of a self centered hypochondriac.
Which is precisely how the Diarist portrays him...
Liverpool 29th April 1889
My Dear Michael Blucher,
I have been very seedy indeed. On Saturday morning I found my legs getting stiff and useless but by sheer strength of will shook off the feeling and went down on horseback to Wirral Races and dined with the Hobsons. Yesterday morning I felt more like dying than living so much so that Florie called in another doctor who said it was an acute attack of indigestion and gave me something to relieve the alarming symptoms, so all went well until about eight o’clock I went to bed and had lain there an hour by myself and was reading on my back. Many times I felt a twitching but took little notice of it thinking it would pass away but instead of doing so I got worse and worse and in trying to move round to ring the bell I found I could not do so but finally managed it by the time Florie and Edwin could get upstairs I was stiff and for two mortal hours my legs were like bars of iron stretched out to the fullest extent but as rigid as steel. The doctor came finally again but could not make it indigestion this time and the conclusion he came to was that the nux vomica I had been taking under Dr Fuller had poisoned me as all the symptoms warranted such a conclusion I know I am today sore from head to foot and played out completely.
What is the matter with me none of the Doctors so far can make out and I suppose never will until I am stretched out and cold and then future generations may profit by it if they hold a post mortem which I am quite willing they should do.
I don’t think I shall come up to London this week as I don’t feel much like travelling and cannot go on with Fuller’s physic yet a while but I shall come up again and see you shortly. Edwin does not join you just yet but he will write you himself. I suppose you go to your country quarters on Wednesday.
I have not seen Dickinson yet.
With love. Your affectionate brother
Jim.
I happen to think it does read somewhat like the prose of the Diarist - it certainly isn't miles apart. But more importantly it isn't the product of a keen intellect.
This part should catch the eye: What is the matter with me none of the Doctors so far can make out and I suppose never will until I am stretched out and cold and then future generations may profit by it if they hold a post mortem which I am quite willing they should do.
I don't take it as a confession of being Jack, but instead that of a self centered hypochondriac.
Which is precisely how the Diarist portrays him...
Liverpool 29th April 1889
My Dear Michael Blucher,
I have been very seedy indeed. On Saturday morning I found my legs getting stiff and useless but by sheer strength of will shook off the feeling and went down on horseback to Wirral Races and dined with the Hobsons. Yesterday morning I felt more like dying than living so much so that Florie called in another doctor who said it was an acute attack of indigestion and gave me something to relieve the alarming symptoms, so all went well until about eight o’clock I went to bed and had lain there an hour by myself and was reading on my back. Many times I felt a twitching but took little notice of it thinking it would pass away but instead of doing so I got worse and worse and in trying to move round to ring the bell I found I could not do so but finally managed it by the time Florie and Edwin could get upstairs I was stiff and for two mortal hours my legs were like bars of iron stretched out to the fullest extent but as rigid as steel. The doctor came finally again but could not make it indigestion this time and the conclusion he came to was that the nux vomica I had been taking under Dr Fuller had poisoned me as all the symptoms warranted such a conclusion I know I am today sore from head to foot and played out completely.
What is the matter with me none of the Doctors so far can make out and I suppose never will until I am stretched out and cold and then future generations may profit by it if they hold a post mortem which I am quite willing they should do.
I don’t think I shall come up to London this week as I don’t feel much like travelling and cannot go on with Fuller’s physic yet a while but I shall come up again and see you shortly. Edwin does not join you just yet but he will write you himself. I suppose you go to your country quarters on Wednesday.
I have not seen Dickinson yet.
With love. Your affectionate brother
Jim.
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