It is to be hoped that "A Naval Officer," writing in _The Times_, will not vainly have called attention to the position in which the wives of soldiers will be placed by the departure of their husbands on foreign service for the defence of Europe and mankind against the enemy Nicholas. As to the soldier's pay, he half starves upon it himself, and after his semi-starvation there remains not the value of a crumb to be handed over to his wife and perhaps children. The girl--and, maybe, the little girls and boys--left by him have surely a claim superior to that of the mate and progeny of the lazy clown and the sottish and improvident mechanic. It is just that relief should be dealt out to them with no parochial hand, but with a palm a little wider open than that of the relieving officer, and in a spirit of consideration somewhat more kindly than the beadle's. The "Soldier's Dream" of the kind lady who came to visit his wife and children is an appeal to translate the vision into reality. And there were other grievances. The breakdown of the postal service to the seat of war and the injustice of making the recipients pay 2s. for each letter are shown up in "Dead Letters from the Baltic." [Sidenote: _Song of the Nightingale_] [Illustration: WOUNDED SOLDIERS AND NIGHTINGALES] But this was a minor matter compared with the grievous scandal of the hospitals, disclosed by William Russell, the fearless correspondent of _The Times_, and ultimately remedied by the exertions of Sidney Herbert and, above all, of Florence Nightingale. This had moved the country deeply, and the indignation was not easily allayed. Florence Nightingale's services are repeatedly referred to. She was _Punch's_ chief heroine in these years, from the day of her first mention and the publication of "The Nightingale's Song":-- THE NIGHTINGALE'S SONG TO THE SICK SOLDIER 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 sympathizing 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 pillows 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 careful and considerate attention.