of affliction—never! The chamber of the sick-the pillow of the dying—the vigils of the dead-the altars of religion, never missed the presence or the sympathies of woman. Timid though she be, and so delicate that the "winds of heaven may not too roughly visit her," on such occasions she loses all sense of danger, and assumes a preternatural courage, which knows not, and fears not consequences. Then she displays that undaunted spirit which neither courts difficulties nor evades them; that resignation which utters neither murmurs nor regret ; and that patience in suffering which seems victorious even over death itself.

Balfour.

With lofty song we love to cheer
The hearts of daring men ;
Applauded thus, they gladly hear
The trumpet's call again.
But now we sing of lowly deeds

Devoted to the brave,

When she, who stems the wound that bleeds,

A hero's life may save:

And heroes saved exulting tell

How well her voice they knew ;

How sorrow near it could not dwell,
But spread its wings and flew.

Neglected, dying in despair,

They lay till woman came

To soothe them with her gentle care,
And feed life's flickering flame.

When wounded sore on fever's rack,
Or cast away as slain,

She call'd their fluttering spirits back,
And gave them strength again.
"Twas grief to miss the passing face
That suffering could dispel ;
But joy to turn and kiss the place
On which her shadow fell.

When words of wrath profaning rung,
She moved with pitying grace;
Her presence still'd the wildest tongue,
And holy made the place.

They knew that they were cared for then,
Their eyes forgot their tears;

In dreamy sleep they lost their pain,
And thought of early years—

Of early years when all was fair,

Of faces sweet and pale;

They woke the angel bending there

Was-FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE !

Bennoch.

About sunset, however, as I was preparing to pass the night in this manner, and had turned my horse loose that he might graze at liberty, a woman, returning from the labours of the field, stopped to observe me, and perceiving that I was weary and dejected, inquired into my situation, which I

briefly explained to her; whereupon, with looks of great compassion, she took up my saddle and bridle, and told me to follow her. Having conducted me into her hut, she lighted up a lamp, spread a mat on the floor, and told me I might remain there for the night. Finding that I was very hungry, she said she would procure me something to eat. She accordingly went out, and returned in a short time with a very fine fish, which, having caused to be half broiled upon some embers, she gave me for supper. The rites of hospitality being thus performed towards a stranger in distress, my worthy benefactress-pointing to the mat, and telling me I might sleep there without apprehension-called to the female part of her family, who had stood gazing on me all the while in fixed astonishment, to resume their task of spinning cotton, in which they continued to employ themselves great part of the night. They lightened their labour by songs, one of which was composed extempore, for I was myself the subject of it. It was sung by one of the young women, the rest joining in a sort of chorus. The air was sweet and plaintive, and the words, literally translated, were these :

"The winds roared, and the rains fell. The poor white man, faint and weary, came and sat under our tree. He has no mother to bring him milk-no wife to grind his corn. Chorus.-Let us pity the white man-no mother has he," &c.

Trifling as this recital may appear to the reader, to a person in my situation the circumstance was affecting in the highest degree. I was oppressed by such unexpected kindness, and sleep fled from my eyes.

Mungo Park.