ceived their last messages to the loved ones at home; who took to her care their small savings; and those last anxieties relieved, it was she who led their thoughts away from earth, till on the poor drawn faces shone a radiant hope and peace, and they passed away blessing her.

Every night when the doctors had retired, and silence and darkness settled upon the hospital wards, she went her rounds alone, carrying a little lamp which she shaded with her hand lest its light should disturb any who slept. The sleepless men watched for her coming, hoping to catch her eye and take a smile or a cheery word from her; the pain-racked felt her cool, soft hand upon their hot brows; and faced the long hours of night with stronger hearts for her whisper of comfort; many with tear-filled eyes turned to kiss her shadow as it passed.

Another fifty nurses were dispatched later, and the hospitals were now in perfect working order and receiving the commendation of officers and doctors alike. Florence Nightingale's thoughts turned often to the actual battlefield where so many poor wounded fellows needed immediate attention. She could not rest until she had done what she could for them, and accordingly she set out for Balaklava, the very center of the fighting. Eight nurses followed her; huts were built to receive the wounded, kitchens fitted up, and in a few weeks a wonderful change had come about.

But her always delicate body was worn out with the constant strain, and fever seized her. She was carried to the hospital high up on the hills, and there for a fortnight she lay between life and death. A terrible anxiety fell upon the camp; prayers were said constantly for her recovery; she was visited by high officials and by men from the ranks; humble offerings of wild flowers found their way to her and cheered her heart through her helplessness.

To the great relief and joy of all, she slowly recovered. The doctors urged her to return at once to England, but she resolutely refused to leave her post, and as soon as she was able to travel went back to her work at Scutari. Four of her helpers had died of fever, and were resting beneath the cypress trees in the beautiful cemetery with thousands of their fellow countrymen. Florence Nightingale often went there, and as she walked among the nameless graves she longed to raise some worthy memorial to the brave dead. Thanks to her efforts, there stands now in the midst of the English portion of the cemetery a great monument in marble. On each of the four sides of the base is written in four different languages: "This monument was erected by Queen Victoria and her people."

Very soon after Florence Nightingale's return to Scutari the war came to an end, to the intense joy of all, but not until the last patient had left the hospital did Florence Nightingale feel herself free to return to England. She had been away nearly two years, and during that time the English people had eagerly read all that could be written about her, much in the newspapers, but much more in private letters from soldiers who had experienced her goodness. The general feeling was one of enthusiastic admiration for her; every one was talking about her; the poor singers in the streets sang songs about her songs poor, perhaps, in poetry, but rich in genuine feeling and gratitude. The Nation waited to give the heroine of the Crimea, as they called her, such a welcome home as should assure her of their thankful appreciation of her work.

But it never occurred to Florence Nightingale that she had done anything heroic; she had simply done, with all her heart and strength, the work which had come to her hand, and she needed no thanks or public applause. Fearing that something

of the kind might be attempted, she refused the offer of the English Government of a passage home in a man-of-war, and went on board a French vessel. Dressed quietly in black, and calling herself Miss Smith, she managed to remain un known. When they reached the port, she crossed the country in the night, and, escaping the crowds, soon reached her Derbyshire home.

But if she avoided the public welcome which was waiting for her, she could not keep the people from expressing their love and gratitude in other ways. The queen sent her, with a letter written by her own hand, a magnificent jeweled badge. In the center was a cross, round which ran the words in golden letters, "Blessed are the merciful." A national fund was also opened, and in a few months fifty thousand pounds had been raised, four thousand of which had been sent by soldiers.

Florence Nightingale decided to use the money to found a training home for nurses, and it was hoped that she herself might be its first head. But she had always been delicate, and she never sufficiently recovered from the intense strain of those two years in the Crimea to take any active part in the world's affairs. But all her thoughts and interests were still in the work, and she poured out the energy that remained to her in various pamphlets and essays and letters on the necessity for hospital reform and the training of nurses. Even when in later life she was forced to spend the greater part of her time on her couch, she still wrote and planned and helped in every way those who had her schemes in hand.

Her last years were years of suffering, patiently borne. Death ended them in the year 1910 when she had reached the great age of ninety.

The Nightingale Home for nurses is the best memorial we can have of her. It is the last building in the block which

we know as St. Thomas's Hospital, in Westminster. In the entrance hall is a full-length marble statue of a woman, tall and slim, and dressed in the plain dress of a Scutari nurse. In one hand she holds a lamp, the light from which she shades with the other hand. It is "The Lady with the Lamp," the heroine of the Crimea, Florence Nightingale. From this Home trained nurses are ever going forth, all over the world, bearing their message of health and hope to the sick and despairing, with an example before them of noblest self-sacrifice and tenderest devotion. They have realized that Florence Nightingale's work was good, not because she gave to it money and time

easy enough to give if one has them in abundance, as she had, but because she gave Herself. "Don't be anxious," she once said to a young nurse, eager to excel in her profession, "to see how much you can GAIN by your training, but how much you can GIVE." And that free-giving of herself and all her powers was the secret of Florence Nightingale's truly heroic life.

Alice S. Hoffman.

GARIBALDI'S WAR HYMN

THE ITALIAN NATIONAL ANTHEM

GARIBALDI, the Italian patriot, first came upon the scene during the revolution of 1848. For fourteen years past, he had been an exile in South America; and he returned to exile after only a few months in Italy, now going to New York where he became a candle-maker. Just before the outbreak of the American Civil War, Garibaldi again went home, where he became one of the most effective volunteer generals fighting for the unification of Italy, and its freedom from Austria. In all his undertakings, Garibaldi was picturesque. The red shirts worn by his followers are immortal in Italian history. As one of the "liberators" of his country the man himself will always be held in the greatest affection by all lovers of freedom.

COME, arm ye! Come, arm ye!

From vineyards of olives, from grape-mantled towers,
Where landscapes are laughing in mazes of flowers:
From mountains, all lighted by sapphire and amber,
From cities of marble, from temples and marts,
Arise, all ye valiants! your manhood proclaiming,
Whilst thunders are meeting, and sabres are flaming,
For honor, for glory, the bugles are sounding,
To quicken your pulses and gladden your hearts.

Chorus: - Then hurl our fierce foeman far from us forever. The day is dawning, the day is dawning

Which shall be our own!

Too long cruel tyrants have trampled us under,
The chains they have forged us are riven asunder:
The Scions of Italy rise in defiance,

Her flag nobly flutters where breezes are kind:

To landward and seaward, the Foe shall be broken, Where Heroes have gathered, where Martyrs have spoken, And Italy's Throne shall be rooted in Freedom,

Whilst Monarch and people are all of one mind:

Chorus: - Then hurl our fierce foemen far from us forever. The day is dawning, the day is dawning

Which shall be our own!

Mercantini