<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</SPAN><br/> <span class="small">THE LADY WITH THE LAMP.</span></h2>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,<SPAN name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</SPAN><br/></span>
<span class="i0">Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Our hearts, in glad surprise,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">To higher levels rise.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The tidal wave of deeper souls<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Into our inmost being rolls,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And lifts us unawares<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Out of all meaner cares.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Honor to those whose words or deeds<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Thus help us in our daily needs,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And by their overflow<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Raise us from what is low!<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Thus thought I, as by night I read<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Of the great army of the dead,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The trenches cold and damp,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The starved and frozen camp,—<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The wounded from the battle-plain,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In dreary hospitals of pain,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The cheerless corridors,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The cold and stony floors.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Lo! in that house of misery<br/></span>
<span class="i0">A lady with a lamp I see<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Pass through the glimmering gloom,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And flit from room to room.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And slow, as in a dream of bliss,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The speechless sufferer turns to kiss<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Her shadow, as it falls<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Upon the darkening walls.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">As if a door in heaven should be<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Opened and then closed suddenly,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The vision came and went,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The light shone and was spent.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">On England's annals, through the long<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Hereafter of her speech and song,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">That light its rays shall cast<br/></span>
<span class="i2">From portals of the past.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A Lady with a Lamp shall stand<br/></span>
<span class="i0">In the great history of the land,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">A noble type of good,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Heroic womanhood.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Nor even shall be wanting here<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The palm, the lily, and the spear,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The symbols that of yore<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Saint Filomena bore.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</SPAN><br/><SPAN name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>Miss Nightingale's headquarters
were in the "Sisters' Tower," as it came
to be called, one of the four corner towers
of the great building. Here was a
large, airy room, with doors opening off it on each
side. In the middle was a large table, covered with
stores of every kind, constantly in demand, constantly
replaced; and on the floor, and flowing into
all the corners, were—more stores! Bales of shirts,
piles of socks, slippers, dressing gowns, sheets, flannels—everything
you can think of that is useful and
comfortable in time of sickness. About these piles
the white-capped nurses came and went, like bees
about a hive; all was quietly busy, cheerful, methodical.
In a small room opening off the large one
the Lady-in-Chief held her councils with nurses,
doctors, generals or orderlies; giving to all the same
courteous attention, the same clear, calm, helpful
advice or directions. Here, too, for hours at a time,
she sat at her desk, writing; letters to Sidney Herbert
and his wife; letters to Lord Raglan, the commander-in-chief,
who, though at first averse to her
coming, became one of her firmest friends and admirers;<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</SPAN></span>
letters to sorrowing wives and mothers and
sisters in England. She received letters by the
thousand; she could not answer them all with her
own hand, but I am sure she answered as many as
was possible. One letter was forwarded to her by
the Herberts which gave a great pleasure not to
her only, but to everyone in all that place of suffering.
It was dated Windsor Castle, December
6, 1854.</p>
<p>"Would you tell Mrs. Herbert," wrote good
Queen Victoria, "that I beg she would let me see
frequently the accounts she receives from Miss
Nightingale or Mrs. Bracebridge, as <i>I hear no details
of the wounded</i>, though I see so many from officers,
etc., about the battlefield, and naturally the former
must interest me more than anyone.</p>
<p>"Let Mrs. Herbert also know that I wish Miss
Nightingale and the ladies would tell these poor,
noble wounded and sick men, that <i>no one</i> takes a
warmer interest or feels <i>more</i> for their sufferings or
admires their courage and heroism <i>more</i> than their
Queen. Day and night she thinks of her beloved
troops. So does the Prince.</p>
<p>"Beg Mrs. Herbert to communicate these my<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</SPAN></span>
words to those ladies, as I know that <i>our</i> sympathy
is much valued by these noble fellows.—Victoria."</p>
<p>I think the tears may have come into those clear
eyes of Miss Nightingale, when she read these
words. She gave the letter to one of the chaplains,
and he went from ward to ward, reading it aloud
to the men, and ending each reading with "God
save the Queen!" The words were murmured or
whispered after him by the lips of sick and dying,
and through all the mournful place went a great
wave of tender love and loyalty toward the good
Queen in England, and toward their own queen,
their angel, who had shared her pleasure with
them.</p>
<p>You will hardly believe that in England, while the
Queen was writing thus, some people were still sadly
troubled about Miss Nightingale's religious views,
and were writing to the papers, warning other people
against her; but so it was. One clergyman
actually warned his flock not to subscribe money for
the soldiers in the East "if it was to pass through
Popish hands." He thought the Lady-in-Chief was
a Catholic; others still maintained that she was a
Unitarian; others were sure she had gone out with<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</SPAN></span>
the real purpose of converting the soldiers to High-Church
views.</p>
<p>In reading about this kind of thing, it is comforting
to find one good Irish clergyman who, being
asked to what sect Miss Nightingale belonged,
replied: "She belongs to a sect which unfortunately
is a very rare one—the sect of the Good Samaritans."</p>
<p>But these grumblers were only a few, we must
think. The great body of English people was filled
with an enthusiasm of gratitude toward the "angel
band" and its leader. From the Queen in her palace
down to the humblest working women in her
cottage, all were at work making lint and bandages,
shirts and socks and havelocks for the soldiers. Nor
were they content with making things. Every
housekeeper ransacked her linen closet and camphor
chest, piled sheets and blankets and pillowcases together,
tied them up in bundles, addressed them to
Miss Nightingale, and sent them off.</p>
<p>When Sister Mary Aloysius first began to sort
the bales of goods on the wharf at Scutari, she
thought that "the English nobility must have
emptied their wardrobes and linen stores, to send<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</SPAN></span>
out bandages for the wounded. There was the most
beautiful underclothing, and the finest cambric
sheets, with merely a scissors run here and there
through them, to insure their being used for no
other purpose, some from the Queen's palace, with
the royal monogram beautifully worked."</p>
<p>Yes, and the rats had a wonderful time with all
these fine and delicate things, before the Sisters
could get their hands on them!</p>
<p>These private gifts were not the only nor the
largest ones. The <i>Times</i>, which you will remember
had been the first to reveal the terrible conditions
in the Crimea, now set to work and organized a
fund for the relief of the wounded. A subscription
list was opened, and from every part of the
United Kingdom money flowed in like water. The
<i>Times</i> undertook to distribute the money, and appointed
a good and wise man, Mr. McDonald, to
go out to the East and see how it could best be
applied.</p>
<p>And now a strange thing came to pass; the sort
of thing that, in one way or another, was constantly
happening in connection with the Crimean War.
Mr. McDonald went to the highest authorities in<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</SPAN></span>
the War Office and told of his purpose. They bowed
and smiled and said the <i>Times</i> and its subscribers
were very kind, but the fact was that such ample
provision had been made by the Government that
it was hardly likely the money would be needed.
Mr. McDonald opened his eyes wide; but he was
a wise man, as I have said; so he bowed and smiled
in return, and going to Sidney Herbert, told his
story to him.</p>
<p>"Go!" said Mr. Herbert; "Go out to the
Crimea!" and he went.</p>
<p>When he reached the seat of war, it was the same
thing over again. The high officials were very polite,
very glad to see him, very pleased that the
people of England were so sympathetic and patriotic;
but the fact was that nothing was wanted; they
were amply supplied; in short, everything was "all
right."</p>
<p>Many men, after this second rebuff, would have
given the matter up and gone home; but Mr. McDonald
was not of that kind. While he was considering
what step to take next, one man came forward
to help him; one man who was brave enough
to defy Red Tape, for the sake of his soldiers. This<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</SPAN></span>
was the surgeon of the 39th regiment. I wish I
knew his name, so that you and I could remember
it. He came to Mr. McDonald and told him that
his regiment, which had been stationed at Gibraltar,
had been ordered to the Crimea and had now
reached the Bosporus. They were going on to
the Crimea, to pass the winter in bitter cold, amid
ice and snow; and they had no clothes save the
light linen suits which had been given them to wear
under the hot sun of Gibraltar.</p>
<p>Here was a chance for the <i>Times</i> fund! Without
more ado Mr. McDonald went into the bazaars
of Constantinople and bought flannels and woolens,
until every man in that regiment had a good
warm winter suit in which to face the Crimean
winter.</p>
<p>Did anyone else follow the example of the surgeon
of the 39th? Not one! Probably many persons
thought he had done a shocking thing, by
thus exposing the lack of provision in the army
for its soldiers' comfort. This was casting reflection
upon Red Tape! Better for the soldier to freeze
and die, than for a slur to be cast upon those in authority,
upon the rules of the service!</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>So, though McDonald stood with hands held out,
as it were, offering help, no one came forward to
take it.</p>
<p>He went to Scutari, and here at first it was the
same thing. He offered his aid to the chief medical
authority over the hospitals; the reply was calm
and precise: "Nothing was wanted!" He went
still higher, to "another and more august quarter";
the answer was still more emphatic: there was
no possible occasion for help; soldiers and sailors
had everything they required; if he wished to dispose
of the <i>Times</i> fund, it might be a good thing
to build an English church at Pera!</p>
<p>"Yet, at that very time," says the historian of
the Crimea, "wants so dire as to include want of
hospital furniture and of shirts for the patients, and
of the commonest means for maintaining cleanliness,
were afflicting our stricken soldiery in the
hospitals."<SPAN name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</SPAN></p>
<p>Mr. McDonald did not build an English church;
instead, he went to the Barrack Hospital and asked
for the Lady-in-Chief.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>I should like to have seen Florence Nightingale's
face when she heard his story. No help needed?
The soldiers supplied with everything they needed?
Everything "all right"?</p>
<p>"Come with me!" she said.</p>
<p>She took him through the wards of the Barrack
Hospital, and showed him what had been done, and
what an immense deal was yet to do; how, though
many were comfortably clad, yet fresh hundreds
were arriving constantly, half naked, without a
shred of clean or decent clothing on their backs;
how far the demand was beyond the supply; how
fast her own stores were dwindling, and how many
of the private offerings were unsuitable for the needs
they were sent to fill; how many men were still,
after all her labors, lying on the floor because there
were not beds enough to go round.</p>
<p>All these things good Mr. McDonald saw, and
laid to heart; but he saw other things besides.</p>
<p>Perhaps some of you have visited a hospital.
You have seen the bright, fresh, pleasant rooms,
the rows of snowy cots, the bright faces of the
nurses, here and there flowers and pictures; seeing
two or three hundred patients, it has seemed<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</SPAN></span>
to you as if you had seen all the sick people in the
world. Was it not so?</p>
<p>In the Barrack Hospital (and this, remember,
was but one of eight, and these eight the English
hospitals alone!) there were two or three
thousand patients; it was a City of Pain. Its streets
were long, narrow rooms or corridors, bare and
gloomy; no furniture save the endless rows of cots
and mattresses, "packed like sardines," as one eye-witness
says; its citizens, men in every stage of
sickness and suffering; some tossing in fever and
delirium; some moaning in pain that even a soldier's
strength could not bear silently; some ghastly
with terrible wounds; some sinking into their final
sleep.</p>
<p>Following the light, slight figure of his guide
through these narrow streets of the City of Pain,
McDonald saw and noted that</p>
<p>"Wherever there is disease in its most dangerous
form, and the hand of the Spoiler distressingly
nigh, there is this incomparable woman sure to be
seen. Her benignant presence is an influence for
good comfort even among the struggles of expiring
nature. She is a 'ministering angel' without<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</SPAN></span>
any exaggeration in these hospitals, and as the
slender form glides quietly along each corridor,
every poor fellow's face softens with gratitude at
the sight of her. When all the medical officers have
retired for the night, and silence and darkness have
settled down upon those miles of prostrate sick, she
may be observed alone, with lamp in her hand, making
her solitary rounds.</p>
<p>"The popular instinct was not mistaken which,
when she set out from England, hailed her as a
heroine; I trust she may not earn her title to a
higher though sadder appellation. No one who has
observed her fragile figure and delicate health can
avoid misgivings lest these should fail.... I
confidently assert that but for Miss Nightingale the
people of England would scarcely, with all their
solicitude, have been spared the additional pang of
knowing, which they must have done sooner or
later, that their soldiers, even in the hospitals, had
found scanty refuge and relief from the unparalleled
miseries with which this war has hitherto been
attended."</p>
<p>Look with me for a moment into one of these
wards, these "miles of sick" through which the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</SPAN></span>
agent of the <i>Times</i> passed with his guide. It is
night. Outside, the world is wide and wonderful
with moon and stars. Beyond the dark-blue waters
of the Bosporus, the lights of Stamboul flash and
twinkle; nearer at hand, the moonlight falls on the
white city of the dead, and shows its dark cypresses
standing like silent guardians beside the marble
tombs; nearer yet, it falls full on the bare, gaunt
square of building that crowns the hill. The windows
are narrow, but still the moonbeams struggle
in, and cast a dim light along the corridor. The
vaulted roof is lost in blackness; black, too, are the
corners, and we cannot see where the orderly nods
in his chair, or where the night nurse sits beside
a dying patient. All is silent, save for a low moan
or murmur from one cot or another. See where
the moonbeam glimmers white on that cot under the
window! That is where the Highland soldier is
lying, he who came so near losing his arm the other
day. The surgeons said it must be amputated, but
the Lady-in-Chief begged for a little time. She
thought that with care and nursing the arm might
be saved; would they kindly delay the operation at
least for a few days? The surgeons consented, for<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</SPAN></span>
by this time no one could or would refuse her anything.
The arm <i>was</i> saved; now the bones are knitting
nicely, and by and by he will be well and strong
again, with both arms to work and play and fight
with.</p>
<p>But broken bones hurt even when they are knitting
nicely, and the Highland lad cannot sleep; he
lies tossing about on his narrow cot, gritting his
teeth now and then as the pain bites, but still a
happy and a thankful man. He stares about him
through the gloom, trying to see who is awake and
who asleep. But now he starts, for silently the
door opens, and a tiny ray of light, like a golden
finger, falls across his bed. A figure enters and
closes the door softly; the figure of a woman, tall
and slender, dressed in black, with white cap and
apron. In her hand she carries a small shaded lamp.
At sight of her the sick lad's eyes grow bright; he
raises his sound arm and straightens the blanket,
then waits in eager patience. Slowly the Lady with
the Lamp draws near, stopping beside each cot, listening
to the breathing and noting the color of the
sleepers, whispering a word of cheer and encouragement
to those who wake. Now she stands beside<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</SPAN></span>
his bed, and her radiant smile is brighter, he thinks,
than lamplight or moonlight. A few words in the
low, musical voice, a pat to the bedclothes, a friendly
nod, and she passes on to the next cot. As she
goes, her shadow, hardly more noiseless than her
footstep, falls across the sick man's pillow; he
turns and kisses it, and then falls happily asleep.</p>
<p>So she comes and passes, like a light; and so her
very shadow is blessed, and shall be blessed so long
as memory endures.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</SPAN></span></p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />