Lady Verney, whose depth of feeling is not concealed by the play of humour which sparkles pleasantly upon the surface, described, successively, the penalties and the pleasures of being the sister of a heroine:—
(Miss F. P. Nightingale to Miss Ellen Tollet.) Embley, Friday [Summer of 1855]. I am quite done with writing, a second blast of linen and knitted socks was nearly the death of me, and ‘hints,’ my dear!—oh, my horror of being asked for hints,—such as “can newspapers be put into the post free?” and such like niaiseries. How grateful I am to you for never once having inquired whether socks or muffetees are most required, and whether you are safe in sending 6 towels and an old tablecloth to London, or whether they had better come to us. It sounds very ungrateful, I am afraid, but when one's wrist aches over the two hundredth repetition of the matter, I do wish the public would apply to the nearest post office, or read that scarce and erudite work the Times, and use their sense not their pens.
However, these words are only when I am cross at having been prevented from writing to the folk I love, such as thee, of the progress of Scutari. Else generally the feeling in every soul, so wide and so deep, touches us more than I can tell, and helps us over the inevitable weight of the anxiety more than I thought[265] possible—heavy, redfaced, old fox-hunting Squires, who never had a “sentiment” in their lives, come with their eyes full of tears; narrow-minded Farmers with both eyes on the main chance are melted; young ladies who never got beyond balls and concerts are warmed. Dearest, I do feel of the feeling she has raised, it blesseth “him here who gives and those out there who take,” and will do good wider than one hoped. I can't so much as write for a dispatch box for her (thinking an official of her scale must want one for her papers) without its coming back full of pretty little match boxes as an offering, and wrapped in a large contribution of old sheets.… I must give you the cream of this last three or four days' letters. Firstly, Mr. Hookham, the bookseller, sending down a parcel, says he “trusts to hear of the return of Miss N., as he does not think, though convalescent, she can get well on the shores of Bosphorus or Black Sea; that a General or Admiral can be replaced, but there can be no successor to Miss N., her skill, her fortitude, her courage cannot be replaced. I speak of courage in the most exalted sense that it is possible to characterise the bravery and devotion of woman.” Then comes a letter from a shipowner in the north of Scotland going to launch a vessel, and wanting to call it after her, sends to have her name quite “correct.” Next, Lady Dunsany saying that “Joan of Arc was not more a creation of the moment and for the moment than F. Joan's was the same unearthly influence carrying all before its spirit might—Joan's was the same strange and sexless identity, which, belonging as it were neither to man nor woman, seemed to disembody and combine the choicest results of both, and then to sweep down conventionalities, prejudices, and pruderies, with the clear, cold, crystal sceptre of its majestic purity. Joan's mission, too, was the condensation of her country's moral and intellectual power in the person of a young and single woman when the men of that country were so many of them imbecile and effete! I think my parallel runs pretty close.” Lord Dunsany adds that he has no time to write, so he says, “ditto to Mrs. Burke,” and that I know he is “fanatico for Joan of Arc rediviva, God bless her.” Then a bit from Lady Byron, saying, “even her illness will advance her work as all things must for those who do all with His aid,” and more that is most beautiful. Then 2 copies of the History of Women, with portrait of Miss N. to be sent to her “from the author,” and a flaming extract from a County paper in a pamphlet, Stroll to Lea Hurst, 20 copies ditto, ditto, and a majestic effusion from the family grocer about “heroic conduct,” “brave and noble Miss N.,” “identified with Crimean success and sad disasters,” “posterity,” “arm of civilisation,” “rampant barbarism,” &c. &c., and so on.
(To Florence Nightingale.) Dec. 8 [1855]. It has been curious[266] (as your representative) how our Burlington Street room has seen Manning and Maurice, Mr. Best and the Chancellor, Lady Amelia Jebb and Mrs. Herbert, Lady Byron and Lady Canning, the extremes of all kinds crowding in to help you in every way that they could devise. Then come in tradespeople, all so intent on you; and working folk, your stoutest supporters, and those you will care most for. And we are tenderly treated and affectionately welcomed by one and all of all classes and opinions for your sake, my dear, and very sweet to me is kindliness for your dear sake; it seems as if it were part of you coming to meet me.
II
But Miss Nightingale's popularity was not limited to such circles as those in which her family moved. Letters from soldiers in the Crimea had made her known in thousands of humble homes, and she became the heroine of the cottage, the workshop, and the alleys. Old soldiers dropped into poetry about her, and rhymed broadsheets, with rough woodcuts of the Lady with the Lamp, issued from printers in Seven Dials and Soho. One of these songs, entitled “The Nightingale in the East,” and intended to go to the tune of “The Cottage and Water Mill,” was especially popular with its refrain:—
So forward, my lads, may your hearts never fail,
You are cheer'd by the presence of a sweet Nightingale.[181]
Then from the same class of printing-offices there issued “Price One Penny, The Only and Unabridged Edition of the Life of Miss Nightingale, Detailing her Christian Heroic Deeds in the Land of Tumult and Death, which has made her name most deservedly Immortal, not only in England, but in all Civilized Parts of the World, winning the Prayers of the Soldier, the Widow, and the Orphan.” The poets and biographers were not only in Seven Dials. The Poet's Corner of every newspaper, from Punch and the Spectator to the smallest country journal, was devoted to the praise of the heroine. Ingenious triflers were at work, and it was found that her anagram was indeed, as an old definition has it, poesie transferred, and Florence Nightingale became “Flit on, cheering angel.” Prize poems at the universities pictured her, in the manner of such compositions, walking fearlessly
Where strong men tremble and where brave hearts fail.
Then the musicians took up the Popular Heroine, and both now, and after her return from the Crimea, sentimental songs, set to music, were inscribed to her: “Angels with Sweet Approving Smiles,” “The Shadow on the Pillow,” “The Soldier's Widow,” “The Woman's Smile,” “The Soldier's Cheer”—this latter “played by the band of the 97th Regiment,”—“Die Soldaten Lebewohl,” “The Star of the East,” and so forth. The stationers followed in the wake of the printers, and brought out note-paper with a picture of Florence Nightingale as the water-mark, or with lithographed views of “Lea Hurst, her home.” Portraits of her were eagerly sought; and as the family were unwilling to supply them, likenesses had to be invented to adorn sentimental prints. Life-boats and emigrant-ships were christened The Florence Nightingale. Children, streets, valses, and race-horses were named after her. “The Forest Plate Handicap was won by Miss Nightingale, beating Barbarity and nine others.” Tradesmen printed portraits and short lives of her on their paper bags. At Fairs there were “Grand Exhibitions of Miss Florence Nightingale administering to the Sick and Wounded.” China figures, with no recognizable likeness to her, but inscribed “Florence Nightingale,” were put on sale. The public would not be denied. “Yes, indeed,” wrote Lady Verney to her sister, “the people love you with a sort of passionate tenderness that goes to my heart.”