As my Mother’s illness progressed, she could neither sleep, save by the use of opiates, nor rest, except in a sloping posture, propped up by many pillows.  It was my great joy, and a pleasant diversion, to be allowed to shift, beat up, and rearrange these pillows, a task which I learned to accomplish not too awkwardly.  Her sufferings, I believe, were principally caused by the violence of the medicaments to which her doctor, who was trying a new and fantastic ‘cure’, thought it proper to subject her.  Let those who take a pessimistic view of our social progress ask themselves whether such tortures could today be inflicted on a delicate patient, or whether that patient would be allowed to exist, in the greatest misery in a lodging with no professional nurse to wait upon her, and with no companion but a little helpless boy of seven years of age.  Time passes smoothly and swiftly, and we do not perceive the mitigations which he brings in his hands.  Everywhere, in the whole system of human life, improvements, alleviations, ingenious appliances and humane inventions are being introduced to lessen the great burden of suffering.

If we were suddenly transplanted into the world of only fifty years ago, we should be startled and even horror-stricken by the wretchedness to which the step backwards would reintroduce us.  It was in the very year of which I am speaking, a year of which my personal memories are still vivid, that Sir James Simpson received the Monthyon prize as a recognition of his discovery of the use of anaesthetics.  Can our thoughts embrace the mitigation of human torment which the application of chloroform alone has caused?  My early experiences, I confess, made me singularly conscious, at an age when one should know nothing about these things, of that torrent of sorrow and anguish and terror which flows under all footsteps of man.  Within my childish conscience, already, some dim inquiry was awake as to the meaning of this mystery of pain—­

  The floods of the tears meet and gather;
    The sound of them all grows like thunder;
    Oh into what bosom, I wonder,
  Is poured the whole sorrow of years? 
    For Eternity only seems keeping
    Account of the great human weeping;
  May God then, the Maker and Father,
    May He find a place for the tears!

In my Mother’s case, the savage treatment did no good; it had to be abandoned, and a day or two before Christmas, while the fruits were piled in the shop-fronts and the butchers were shouting outside their forests of carcases, my Father brought us back in a cab through the streets to Islington, a feeble and languishing company.  Our invalid bore the journey fairly well, enjoying the air, and pointing out to me the glittering evidences of the season, but we paid heavily for her little entertainment, since, at her earnest wish the window of the cab having been kept open, she caught a cold, which became, indeed, the technical cause of a death that no applications could now have long delayed.