One who knew our heroine well wrote in a more personal vein: "Miss Nightingale is one of those whom God forms for great ends. You cannot hear her say a few sentences--no, not even look at her, without feeling that she is an extraordinary being. Simple, intellectual, sweet, full of love and benevolence, she is a fascinating and perfect woman. She is tall and pale. Her face is exceedingly lovely; but better than all is the soul's glory that shines through every feature so exultingly. Nothing can be sweeter than her smile. It is like a sunny day in summer." Though well known among a large circle of earnest and high-minded persons, Miss Nightingale's name was entirely new to the English people as a whole, and--everything else apart--they were delighted with its beauty. Had she been plain Mary Smith, she would have done just as good work, but it would have been far harder for her to start it. Florence Nightingale was a name to conjure with, as the saying is, and it echoed far and wide. Everybody who could write verses (and many who could not), began instantly to write about nightingales. _Punch_ printed a cartoon showing a hospital ward, with the "ladybirds" hovering about the cots of the sick men, each bird having a nurse's head. Another picture represented one of the bird-nurses flying through the air, carrying in her claws a jug labeled "Fomentation, Embrocation, Gruel." This was called "The Jug of the Nightingale," for many people think that some of the bird's beautiful, liquid notes sound like "jug, jug, jug!" Not content with pictures, _Punch_ printed "The Nightingale's Song to the Sick Soldier," which became very popular, and was constantly quoted in those days. Listen, soldier, to the tale of the tender nightingale, 'Tis a charm that soon will ease your wounds so cruel, Singing medicine for your pain, in a sympathetic strain, With a jug, jug, jug of lemonade or gruel. Singing bandages and lint; salve and cerate without stint, Singing plenty both of liniment and lotion, And your mixtures pushed about, and the pills for you served out With alacrity and promptitude of motion. Singing light and gentle hands, and a nurse who understands How to manage every sort of application, From a poultice to a leech; whom you haven't got to teach The way to make a poppy fomentation. Singing pillow for you, smoothed; smart and ache and anguish soothed, By the readiness of feminine invention; Singing fever's thirst allayed, and the bed you've tumbled made With a cheerful and considerate attention. Singing succour to the brave, and a rescue from the grave, Hear the nightingale that's come to the Crimea; 'Tis a nightingale as strong in her heart as in her song, To carry out so gallant an idea.