miseries of men around us. We must not be as churlish Nabal, saying, "There be many servants nowadays that break away every man from his master. Shall I then take my bread and my wine and my flesh that I have killed for my shearers, and give it unto men whom I know not whence they be?" We must not be like Dives, arrayed in purple and fine linen, faring sumptuously every day, while Lazarus lies neglected, and, in all but vain words, unpitied at our doors. We must not be like the old Epicurean poet, Lucretius, who said it was sweet, when the winds were sweeping the waters into storm, in some great sea, to watch the dread toiling of another from the shore.

WORK OR SNEERS?

The feeling of the Christian must We be the very opposite of this. must man the lifeboat, and if we are not strong enough to row, we must try to steer; and if we cannot steer, we may at least help to launch the lifeboat; and if we must leave that for stronger hands, then

As one who stands upon the shore,
And sees the lifeboat go to save ;
And, all too weak to take an oar,

I send a cheer across the wave.

The weakest, the meanest, and the commonest way of all is to sit still and criticise; to say, "It is an unfit lifeboat," "It is badly made," "It will not secure its purpose," "The poor wretches on the wreck are dead already," "We cannot save them," "We are only endangering other lives," "These are not the fit men to row," "They are quite the wrong persons." Worst and wickedest way of all is to sneer, to call names, to discourage, to try in every way to suppress and injure those who are

doing the work which we ourselves are not doing. Surely at the very least we ought to attempt something to help the shipwrecked mariners, and to encourage those who are toiling for them as we are not. We are bound to help; we are bound to sympathize; at the very lowest we are bound to give.

In conclusion, let us be sure of this, that character and not creed, that active service and not profession or form, is the ultimate test of all things with God. It is love which is the fulfilling of the law. If we would enter into life we must keep the Commandments. That was the one test with God of all orthodoxy, of all Churchmanship, of everything which constitutes the kingdom of heaven. If we have not that, we may come before God, and say that we are members of the only right organization; that we alone hold the right opinions about the sacraments, or about the Scriptures, or about the priesthood; that we alone attend to all the ordinances of religion scrupulously and faithfully; yet all these things, if unaccompanied by love, by service, by active endeavour for our fellow-men, will be to Him as valueless-nay, as hateful-as the mint and anise and cummin of the arrogant and exclusive Pharisees and priests, who murdered the Christ for whom they professed to look.

After all is said and done, there is but one test with God of orthodoxy, of catholicity, of membership of the kingdom of heaven-a test which sweeps away nine-tenths of the falsity of artificial religionism; it is, "He that doeth righteousness is righteous." And righteousness in the eyes of God consists in love to our fellow-men as shown in love to Him. "He that doeth righteousness is born of God."

of those wounded soldiers whom she tended will remain indelibly stamped on the heroic roll-call of the nineteenth century. And it may be truly said that the mere fact of her presence during the terrible months the war lasted put new courage into the hearts of the soldiers, and undoubtedly saved many valuable lives by the mere effect produced on the imagination of those sick and wounded, who, till her arrival at the seat of war, had felt forsaken by God and man.

A curious and now priceless collection might be made of "Florence Nightingale literature." It is to be doubted whether even Joan of Arc has been more celebrated in verse or prose than "The Soldier's Friend," and of these tributes not the least pathetic and interesting were those which came straight from the simple, honest hearts of those writers who respond to a people's feelings in popular song.

I have before me as I write two of these quaint effusions, thin slips of yellow paper, each headed by a rough woodcut purporting to show Miss Nightingale by the bedside of a sick soldier. The first runs

Miss Nightingale was seventy-five years of age on the 15th of May last. Her father, a wealthy Hampshire and Derbyshire squire, was travelling with his wife in Italy when the event occurred which was to prove of such moment to the English nation, and accordingly the baby-girl was christened Florence, after the City of Flowers where her birth took place. But she is thoroughly English by associations, her childhood having been spent at the beautiful old manor house of Leahurst, which is close to the River Derwent, and surrounded by some of the most beautiful scenery in England. There she and her sister, the late Lady Verney, received a careful home education, their father, Mr. Shore Nightingale, being devoted to his two daughters. When he found that the younger of them earnestly desired to give up her life to the service of her fellowcreatures, far from interfering with her wishes, he did all he could to further her plans, and threw no impediment in the way of her making a special study, not only of British, but also of Continental hospitals, and centres of nursing work. The effect of all she saw produced a deep impression on the young girl's mind, and on her return home she made a small beginning at the important reforms she was going to carry out, by reorganizing a private nursing home in Harley Street, destined to become the nucleus of all the admirable institutions of the kind which have since sprung up.

The great opportunity of Miss Nightingale's life has passed into the domain of history. The outbreak of the Crimean War found Great Britain unprepared in more than one sense, and terrible stories of the utter inadequacy of the arrangements made for the wounded soon began to come home from the East. The French were fortunate in the possession of Sisters of Mercy, and as soon as this fact became known it was determined to send

out a small band of women willing to devote themselves to nursing the wounded; and Mr. Sidney Herbert, then Secretary of War, who had had occasion in the past to know something of Miss Nightingale's powers of organization, asked her to undertake the leadership of this expedition of mercy. That very day she had written offering her services.

Within a few weeks of her departure for the seat of war the name of Florence Nightingale had passed forever into the English language as a pseudonyme for wide-hearted charity, unsparing devotion, and sublime. unselfishness.

More than one generation of English girls have revelled in the story of Miss Nightingale's work at Scutari; have heard how the sick and wounded would pray for her as she walked through the line of cots each night, lamp in hand; and how, within the space of a fortnight, four thousand patients, wounded or sick, were placed under her charge. One of the private soldiers whom she nursed said of her: "She would speak to one and another, and nod and smile to many more; but she could not do it to all, you know, for we lay there by hundreds. But we could kiss her shadow as it fell on the wall at night, and lay our heads on our pillows content." They have heard, too, and cannot hear often enough, the story of the dinner given to the officers of the British army and navy on their return from the East, and how, when Lord Stratford suggested that every guest should write on a piece of paper the name of the person whose deeds in the Crimean War would engrave themselves most indelibly in the history of the British people, and when the papers were examined everyone had written the name of Florence Nightingale.

She was "a ministering angel," without any exaggeration, in the hospitals, and as her slender form passed quietly along each corridor, every poor fellow's face softened

with gratitude at the sight of her. When all the medical officers had retired for the night, and silence and darkness had settled down upon those miles of prostrate sick, she might be observed alone, with a little lamp in her hand, making her solitary rounds.

On more than one occasion she is said to have stood twenty hours at a stretch beside the wounded, helping the medical men. Her influence was so great, her power of persuasion so effective, that often when a patient refused to submit to an operation deemed necessary, a few words from her, her very presence beside the bed, sufficed to ensure submission and quiet. But it was trying and exhausting work, so that, when she herself was stricken by fever, great fears were entertained lest she should not have strength to resist. For several days her life was despaired of, but she unexpectedly rallied, and to the great relief of those both near her and afar, anxiously awaiting news, the physicians were able to pronounce her out of danger. Her convalescence was long, but she was at last able to return to Scutari, where her presence was much needed.

One who was with her through the weary days at Scutari has left the following description of her as she then was: "Her figure was slight and graceful, her manner dignified, her face beaming with tenderness for the soldiers, who kissed her shadow each night as she walked along the line of cots with a small lantern in her hand." Every night of her stay at Scutari, Miss Nightingale is said to have walked something like six miles of wards and corridors, for the vast hospital was three stories high, and in one fortnight four thousand patients were sent from the front, many wounded, but more suffering from every description of dreadful disease brought on by cold, privation, and insufficient food.

At last the much-longed-for peace dawned over Europe, but to the very last Florence Nightingale remained at her post, and then, fearful of the ovation which she knew would be hers if she attempted to return to England publicly, under her own name, she travelled quietly from the East with her aunt, under the name of Mrs. and Miss Smith. Her fellow-passengers little guessed who the quiet, graceful woman was, travelling home! The incognito served her well, for after nearly two years' absence she returned to her father's house as quietly as she had left it. But she could not long remain thus hidden-congratulations poured in from every side.

Longfellow has inscribed to her his beautiful poem, "Santa Filo

mena":

"Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts in glad surprise
To higher levels rise.

"The tidal wave of deeper souls
Into our inmost being rolls,
And lifts us unawares
Out of all meaner cares.

"Honour to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow

Raise us from what is low!

"Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead,

The trenches cold and damp,
The starved and frozen camp.

"The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain,

The cheerless corridors,
The cold and stony floors.

"Lo! in that house of misery
A lady with a lamp I see

Pass through the glimmering gloom,
And flit from room to room.

"And slow, as in a dream of bliss,
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
Her shadow, as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.

"As if a door from Heaven should be
Opened and then closed suddenly,
The vision came and went-
The light shone and was spent.

"On England's annals, through the long Hereafter of her speech and song,

That light its rays shall cast
From portals of the past.

"A lady with a lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
A noble type of good,
Heroic womanhood.

"Nor even shall be wanting here
The palm, the lily, and the spear—
The symbols that of yore
Saint Filomena bore.'

With kindred enthusiasm Gerald Massey wrote the following stirring verses entitled, "Our English Nightingale":

"You brave, you bonny Nightingale,
You are no summer Bird;
Your music sheathes an Army's wail
That pierces like a Sword.

All night she sings, brave Nightingale,
With her breast against the thorn;
Her saintly patience doth not fail,
She keepeth watch till morn.

"Ah, sing, you bonniest Bird of God,
The night is sad and long;
To dying ears-to broken hearts--
You sing an Angel's song!'

She sings, she sings, brave Nightingale,
And weary warrior-souls

Are caught up into Slumber's heaven, And lapped in Love's warm folds.

"O sing, O sing! brave Nightingale, And at your magic note Upon Life's sea victoriously

The sinking soul will float. O sing, O sing! brave Nightingale, And lure them back again, Whose path is lost and spirit crost, In dark wild woods of Pain.'

"She sings, she sings, brave Nightingale,
She breathes a gracious balm ;
Her presence breaks the waves of war,
She smiles them into calm.
She sings, she sings, brave Nightingale,
Of Auld Langsyne and Home:
And life grows light, the world grows
bright,

And blood runs rich with bloom.

"Day unto day her dainty hands

Make Life's soiled temples clean, And there's a wake of glory where Her spirit pure hath been. At midnight, thro' that shadow-land, Her living face doth gleam; The dying kiss her shadow, and The Dead smile in their dream.