grief,—­so wonderfully illustrated by a Florence Nightingale, and by women quite as worthy in our own land, whose presence in the hospitals was like a benediction from God, and whose presence in our homes, in our churches, beside the sad and sorrowing everywhere, is proof that woman has a mission which she alone can fill, and a work which she alone can perform.  “And now abideth faith, hope, and charity, and the greatest of these is charity.”  Man has faith, he has hope; but he lacks, to a large extent, in the charities which come to woman as gifts of God, because of which Christ employed her as an agency to win men back to faith in God.  In the sick chamber she moves with step noiseless as falling snow-flakes, and speaks in a voice soft as an angel’s whisper.  Her touch is so gentle that it soothes the sufferer, and her sympathy is more precious than rubies.  On this account she is man’s first and last solace.  Suffering never appeals to woman in vain.  “I never addressed myself,” says Ledyard, “in the language of decency and friendship to woman, whether civilized or savage, without receiving a decent and friendly answer.  With man it has often been otherwise.  In wandering over the barren plains of inhospitable Denmark, through honest Sweden, frozen Lapland, rude and churlish Finland, unprincipled Russia, and the wide-spread regions of the wandering Tartar, if hungry, dry, cold, wet, or sick, woman has ever been friendly to me, and uniformly so; and, to add to this virtue,—­so worthy of the appellation of benevolence,—­these actions have been performed in so free and kind a manner, that if I was dry, I drank the sweet draught, and if hungry, ate the coarse morsel, with a double relish.”  Park, and many other travellers, bear similar testimony.

                  “Woman all exceeds
  In ardent sanctitude, in pious deeds;
  And chief in woman charities prevail,
  That soothe when sorrow or desire assail;
  Ask the poor pilgrim on this convex cast,—­
  His grizzled locks, distorted in the blast,—­
  Ask him what accents soothe, what hand bestows
  The cordial beverage, raiment, and repose. 
  Ah! he will dart a spark of ardent flame,
  And clasp his tremulous hands, and Woman name. 
  Peruse the sacred volume.  Him who died
  Her kiss betrayed not, nor her tongue denied;
  While even the apostles left Him to His doom,
  She lingered round His cross and watched His tomb.”

How precious is such sympathy in her who is to be the solace, because the helpmeet, of man!  How it qualifies her for being the priestess of the temple of home; the gentle nurse of helpless infancy, manhood’s counsellor and comforter!

  “O Woman!  Woman! thou wast made,
    Like heaven’s own pure and lovely light,
  To cheer life’s dark and desert shade,
    And guide man’s erring footsteps right.”

This is a power which monarchs well might envy,—­a power to bless mankind and honor God; a power which, working in obscure and limited sphere, is yet felt in the high places of the earth, and identified with the deeds of men whose names are renowned in the history of the world, and shine as stars in the diadem of God.