Dr. Smiles says (pp. 318, 319)—“He had consulted the most eminent surgeons. They could find no cure for the pain in his shoulder. Some called it rheumatism, others neuralgia, some recommended a six months’ sea voyage, others strapped up his shoulder with plasters and told him to keep his arm in a sling. At length the pain became unbearable. Sometimes the shoulder grew very black. The dislocation forward, which it seems to have been, interrupted the circulation of the blood. Still he continued to work on as before.” On the 7th December, 1868, he writes with difficulty in his diary—“I was struck down with neuralgia at the Middlesex Hospital, when on a committee for selecting a clergyman. I had my shoulder cut open to insert morphia. I am _very_ bad!” He was taken home in a cab by the late Mr. De Morgan (surgeon). When he entered the house he clung by a pillar as if he were drunk. He could scarcely get up to his bedroom, and there he dozed and rambled; but the pain was somewhat relieved. He called in one of the most eminent surgeons in London, but, as Mr. Moore writes—“he did not understand my shoulder.” Another surgeon was called in—and still another, but the result was the same. It was with great difficulty he could attend the consecration of his church in Somers’ Town, with his arm in a sling. “The shoulder,” he says, “is not so black as formerly, but the pain is more acute.” Then the first physician in London was called in.—“It is a most painful affection of the shoulder-joint.” The patient already knew that. But the physicians as well as the surgeons could do nothing for him. He went about, though looking very ill, to the Field Lane Refuge—to the Industrial Dwellings—to Christ’s Hospital—to the Court of the Fishmongers. He even travelled down to York to stay a few days with the Archbishop. On his return he attended a meeting of Christ’s Hospital, “about a reform in the mode of education in the school.” A few days later he says, “The neuralgia came on fearfully all day, and at night I was in torture. Mrs. Moore rushed off in the brougham to fetch Dr.——, that he might see my arm at the blackest. Still nothing could be done. Then Mr.—— came and plastered and bandaged up my arm.” The patient could not write; it was with difficulty that he could sign a cheque. His wife then became his amanuensis. At a banquet at the Fishmongers’, he was seized with one of his furious paroxysms of neuralgia. A surgeon was sent for, who came and gave him chloroform.