Miss Nightingale said that women in America have more authority than
they do in England.
She was pleased to hear about the _Woman’s Journal_, giving news of
women all over the world. She asked for the address of the paper and
wrote it down on the tablet lying beside her.
It was a pleasure to tell this dear lady of the health and vigor of her
old friend and contemporary, my mother—that Mrs. Howe read Greek every
morning.
That the blind had arranged and successfully carried out a celebration
of the centennial of their benefactor and the friend of her youth,
Doctor Howe, appealed to her, and she expressed a desire to have a copy
of the monograph describing the occasion.
Miss Nightingale’s sense of hospitality would not permit me to leave
without partaking of some refreshment. As we sat chatting together,
afternoon tea with the usual accompaniments—toast, etc.—was brought for
my delectation, all with the immaculate neatness and daintiness so
characteristic of the author of _Notes on Nursing_. Miss Nightingale
herself took no tea, but a goblet with what appeared like lemonade was
brought to her.
So I had the honor of taking tea with one of the world’s greatest
heroines! One would never have guessed this from her bearing, however.
It was characterized by perfect simplicity and an entire absence of
self-assertion. In a word, she had the manners of a true English
gentlewoman of high breeding.
She more than once expressed regret that we had so little time for
England, owing to a prolonged stay in France. This evidently impressed
her, as she recurred to it. She seemed really sorry that we were obliged
to leave England so soon, and said we must come back again.
I was indeed reluctant to leave her serene and beautiful presence, but,
remembering the caution of the secretary and feeling upon honor, as I
had been left alone with my distinguished hostess, I arose in due season
to take my leave. I shall not soon forget the sweetness and fullness of
the voice in which the dear lady bade me farewell I seem to hear that
“Good-by” still ringing in my ears and repeated more than once as a sort
of benediction: “Good-by! Good-by!” Her voice was like my mother’s. No
sign of age was in its full, rounded tones, wonderful in a woman more
than eighty years old.
Thus a beautiful old age, serene and tranquil, fitly crowned her life of
most beneficent activity.
“The Lady with the Lamp” who watched over the sick soldiers, flitting
from room to room when all others slept, lived to see her work
multiplied a thousandfold and spread all over the earth. What wonder
that the evening of her days was serene and happy in the thought of so
much suffering saved, so much blessing gained to the children of men!
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