well as in
physical truth, 'the goal of yesterday will be the starting-point of
to-morrow,' and the things before which all England now stands in
admiring wonder will become the simple produce of the common day. This
we hope and believe."

The example of Florence Nightingale, so full of hope and prophecy to
Mrs. Jameson five-and-twenty years ago, has proved indeed an earnest of
better things, which all these years have been passing into realities.
Who shall say how much inspiration the noble band of ministering women
in our civil war derived from the heroine of the Crimea? When the great
occasion arrives, the heavenly impulse is seldom wanting. But God works
through means; and that one example of Christian devotion, so fresh in
the hearts of mothers, wives, and sisters, was an immense help in
developing the self-sacrifice which is latent in every true life. To say
nothing of the new impulse given to the organization of woman's work in
England, it is a matter for thankfulness to be able to note that the
signs of new life in this country are full of promise. In several of our
large cities, notably New York and Philadelphia, institutions have
recently been founded for the training of nurses, and sisterhoods
organized for the better accomplishment of Christian work in hospitals,
asylums, and among the poor and unfortunate--a work, indeed, which has
been done, in one way or another, in all the Christian ages, by every
true follower of the Master.

And here, in conclusion, the thought suggests itself that differences of
organization, whether ecclesiastical or otherwise, should not conceal
from our eyes the true notes of "the communion of the saints," or shut
from our hearts the conditions of inheriting the kingdom prepared from
the foundation of the world: "I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat; I
was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in;
naked, and ye clothed me; I was sick, and ye visited me; I was in
prison, and ye came unto me."

O English Nightingale,
Who hadst the grace to hear
The dying soldier's far-off wail,
And pause not for a tear--

Who, as on angel wings,
Didst seek the wintry sea,
To put thy hand to menial things,
Which were not such to thee;

And didst, with heaven-born art,
Where pain implored release,
To mangled form and broken heart
Bring healing and sweet peace--

Thy work was music, song,
As brave as ever st