THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER.
It soon became a recognized thing in Florence's own home and in all the
neighborhood, that she was one of the Sisters of Mercy. Nothing was too
small, no creature too humble to awaken her sympathy and tenderness.
When the stable cat had kittens, Florence was the first to visit them,
to fondle the tiny creatures and soothe their mother's angry fear. When
she walked along the pleasant wood roads of Lea Hurst, the squirrels
expected nuts as a matter of course, and could hardly wait for her to
give them. When anyone in the village or farm fell ill, it was Florence
who was looked for to cheer and comfort. Mrs. Nightingale was a most
kind and charitable lady, and delighted in sending delicacies to the
sick. It was Florence's happy privilege to carry them, and whether she
walked or rode there was apt to be a basket on her arm or fastened to
her saddlebow.
If you think hard, you can see--at least I can--just how it would be.
Old Goody Brown's rheumatism, let us say, was very bad one morning. You
children who read this know little about rheumatism. Very likely you
think it rather a funny word, and that it is just a thing that old
people have, and that they make a good deal of fuss about. If it were a
toothache, now, you say, or colic--but the truth is, no pain is in any
way pleasant. If a red-hot sword were run into your back you would not
like it? Well, sometimes rheumatism is like that.
So old Goody Brown was suffering, and very cross, just as we might be;
and nothing suited her, poor old soul; her tea was too hot, and her
porridge too cold, and her pillow set askew, and--dear! dear! dear! she
wished she was dead, so she did. Martha, her good patient daughter, was
at her wits' ends.
"Send to the 'All'!" said poor old Goody. "Send for Miss Florence!
She'll do something for me, I know."
So a barefoot boy would trudge up to the great house, and very soon a
light, slight figure would come quickly along the village street and
enter the cottage. A slender girl, quietly dressed, with perfect
neatness and taste; brown hair smoothly parted, shining like satin;
gray-blue eyes full of light and thoughtfulness; regular features, an
oval face, cheeks faintly tinted with rose--this was Florence
Nightingale.
I cannot tell you just what she had in the little basket on her arm,
whether jelly or broth or chicken or oranges; there was sure to be
something good beside the liniment and medicines to help the aching back
and limbs. But the basket held the least of what she brought. At the
very sound of her voice the fretful lines melted away from the poor old
face. I cannot tell you--I wish I could--the words she said, this little
Sister of Mercy, yet I can almost hear her speak, in that sweet, cordial
voice whose range held no harsh note; can see her setting the pillow
straight and smooth, making the little tray dainty and pretty with the
posy she had brought, coaxing the old woman to eat, making her laugh
over some story of her pets and their droll ways. Perhaps before leaving
she would open the worn Bible or prayer book, and read a psalm; can you
not see her sitting by the bedside, her pretty head bent over the book,
her face full of tenderness and reverence? I am sure that when she went
away there was peace and comfort in that cottage room, and that
heartfelt blessings followed the "Angel Child" as she went on her
homeward way. "She had a way with her," they said; and that meant more
than volumes of praise.
The flowers that Florence used to carry were from her own garden, I like
to think. Both at Lea Hurst and Embley, she and her sister had each her
own little garden and gardening tools. Florence was a good gardener;
indeed, I think she was a good everything that she tried to be, just
because she tried. She dug, and sowed, and watered, pruned and tied up
and did all the things a garden needs; and so her garden was full of
flowers all summer long, giving delight to her and to every sick or
lonely or sorrowful person for miles around.
As Florence and her sister grew older they became more and more helpful
to their parents in the good works that they both loved to carry on. I
have read a delightful account of the "feast day" of the village
school-children, as it used to be given at Lea Hurst when Florence was a
girl.
The children gathered together at the school-house, all in their best
frocks and pinafores, and walked in procession up the street and through
the fields to Lea Hurst. Each child carried a posy and a stick wreathed
with flowers, and at the head of the procession marched a band of music,
provided by the good squire. In the field below the garden tables were
set, and here Mrs. Nightingale and her daughters, aided by the servants,
served tea and buns and cakes, waiting on their little guests, and
seeing that every child got all he wanted--or at least all that was good
for him. Then when all had eaten and drunk their fill, the band struck
up, and the boys and girls danced on the green to their hearts' content.
What did they dance? Polkas, perhaps, and the redowa, a pretty round
dance with a good deal of stamping in it; and of course Sir Roger de
Coverley, which is very like our Virginia Reel. (If you do not know
about Sir Roger de Coverley himself, ask papa to tell you or read you
about him, for he is one of the pleasantest persons you will ever
know.)
Perhaps they sang, too; perhaps they sang the pretty old Maypole Song.
Do you know it?
Come lasses and lads, get leave of your dads,
And away to the Maypole hie,
For ev'ry fair has a sweetheart there,
And the fiddler's standing by.
For Willy shall dance with Jane,
And Johnny has got his Joan,
To trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it,
Trip it up and down.
"You're out!" says Dick, "not I," says Nick,
"'Twas the fiddler play'd it wrong."
"'Tis true," says Hugh, and so says Sue,
And so says ev'ry one;
The fiddler then began
To play the tune again,
And ev'ry girl did trip it, trip it,
Trip it to the men.
Then when feast and dance and song were all over, it was time to reform
the procession and take up the homeward march. The two sisters, Florence
and Parthe, had disappeared during the dancing; but now, as the
procession passed along the terrace, there they were, standing behind a
long table; a table at sight of which the children's eyes grew round and
bright, for it was covered from end to end with presents. Such
delightful presents! Books, and pretty boxes and baskets, thimble-cases
and needle-books and pin-cushions; dolls, too, I am sure, for the little
ones, and scrap-books, and--but you can fill up the list for yourself
with everything you like best in the way of pretty, simple, useful
gifts. I am quite sure that Florence would not have wished to give the
children foolish or elaborate gimcracks, and that Mr. Nightingale would
never have allowed it if she had; and I think it probable that many of
the gifts were made by the two sisters and their kind and clever mother.
All about Lea Hurst, in many and many a pleasant cottage home, those
little gifts are treasured to-day like the relics of some blessed saint;
which indeed is just what they are. The saint is still living, and some
of the children of the school feasts are living, too, and now in their
age will show with pride and joy the gifts they received long ago from
the hands of the beloved Miss Florence.
As Florence grew up to womanhood she found more and more work to do.
There were mills and factories in the neighborhood of Lea Hurst; and in
the hosiery mills, especially, hundreds of women and girls were
employed, many of whom lived on the Nightingale estate.
She may have been seventeen or eighteen when she started her Bible class
for the young women of the district, holding it in the tiny ancient
chapel at Lea Hurst which I described in the first chapter. Gathering
the girls around her, she would read a chapter from the Bible, and then
give them her thoughts about it, and explain the difficult passages;
then they would all sing together, her sweet, clear voice leading the
hymns. Here is another memory very precious to the old women who were
once those happy girls. They love to tell "how beautifully Miss Florence
used to talk."
Long years after, when Miss Nightingale, spent with her noble labors,
would come to Lea Hurst for a time of rest and refreshment, the
daughters of these girls counted it a high privilege to gather on the
lawn under her window and sing to her as she sat in the room above; and
would go home proud and happy as queens if they had seen the saintly
face smiling from the window.
Shall I try to show you Florence Nightingale at seventeen? Her face was
little changed from that of the girl we saw in the cottage, cheering old
Goody Brown. She still wore her hair brushed smoothly "Madonna-wise" on
either side her face; often, now, she wore a rose at the side, tucked in
among the shining braids or coils. You would think her frocks very queer
if you saw them to-day, but then they were extremely pretty; full skirts
(no crinoline! that was to come later) and full sleeves, with broad flat
collar of lace or embroidery. When she went to church or to make visits
she wore a spencer, a kind of full plaited jacket with a belt, something
like a Norfolk jacket--only different! and a Leghorn bonnet. You have
seen pictures of the Leghorn bonnets of the Thirties and Forties;
"coal-scuttles," some people called them, and they were something the
shape of a scuttle. Some of them were enormous in size, and they look
queer enough now in the pictures, or--if your grandmamma had a way of
keeping things--in the "dress-up" trunk or cupboard in the attic. But
people who were young in those days tell me that they were extremely
becoming, and that a pretty face never looked prettier that when it
peeped out from the depths of a huge straw "coal-scuttle."
When Florence rode on horseback, her habit was so long that it nearly
touched the ground (that is, if she followed the fashion of the day, but
I should not wonder a bit if she and her mother were too sensible!) and
she wore a round, broad-brimmed hat with long ostrich plumes. I remember
a picture of the Princess Royal (afterwards Empress Frederick of
Germany), in a costume like this, which I thought one of the most
beautiful things I ever saw, so I shall imagine Florence, on an
afternoon ride with the squire, let us say, dressed in this way; but
when scampering about on her pony, I trust, she wore a less cumbrous
costume.
You will remember that the Nightingales spent the winter at Embley Park,
in Hampshire. Here, too, Florence was busy in good and helpful work. At
Christmas time she found her best pleasure in giving presents to young
and old among the poor people about her, in getting up entertainments
for the children, training them to sing, arranging treats for the old
people in the poorhouse. On Christmas Eve the village carol singers
would come and sing on the lawn; old English carols, that had been sung
by generation after generation. Poor Anthony Babington over at Lea Hall
may have listened on Christmas Eve to the same sweet old songs.
As Joseph was a-walking,
He heard an angel sing,
"This night shall be the birthnight
Of Christ our heavenly King.
"His birth-bed shall be neither
In housen nor in hall,
Nor in the place of paradise,
But in the oxen's stall.
"He neither shall be rockèd
In silver nor in gold,
But in the wooden manger
That lieth in the mold.
"He neither shall be washen
With white wine nor with red,
But with the fair spring water
That on you shall be shed.
"He neither shall be clothèd
In purple nor in pall,
But in the fair white linen
That usen babies all."
As Joseph was a-walking,
Thus did the angel sing,
And Mary's son at midnight
Was born to be our King.
Then be you glad, good people,
At this time of the year;
And light you up your candles,
For His star it shineth clear.
Then who so glad as Florence to call the singers in and bid them welcome
and "Merry Christmas!" and aid in distributing the mince pies and silver
coins which were always their due.
When Florence was fairly "grown up," other things came into her life,
the gay and merry things that come to so many girls. Mr. Nightingale was
a man of wealth and position, and liked his wife and daughters to have
their share in the gayeties of the county. So there were many parties,
at Embley and elsewhere, and Florence danced as gayly, I doubt not, as
the other girls. She went to London, too, and she and her sister were
presented to Queen Victoria, and had their share of the brilliant
society of the time.
But much as she may have enjoyed all this for a time, still her heart
was not in it, and she soon tired, I fancy, of dancing and dressing and
visiting. Already her mind was turning to other things, already her
clear eyes were looking forward to other ways of life, other methods of
work.