ero:

"What General Ward has done to and for China is as yet but imperfectly
known, for those whose duty it is to transfer to posterity a record of
this great man are either so wrapped in speculation as to how to build
themselves up on his deeds of the past time, or are so fearful that any
comment on any subject regarding him may detract from their ability,
that with his last breath they allow all that appertains to him to be
buried in the tomb. Not one in ten thousand of them could at all
approach him in military genius, in courage, and in resource, or do
anything like what he did."

In his native land Ward has never been honoured as he deserves to be. On
the contrary, severe criticism has been accorded him because he was
fighting in China for money during our civil war, "when," said his
detractors, "he might have been using his talents for the protection of
the flag under which he was born."

But this was the fault of circumstances rather than of intention. Ward
wished, above everything, to be a soldier, and when he found fighting
waiting for him in China, it was the most natural thing in the world
for him to accept the opportunity the gods provided. But he did what he
could under the circumstances for his country. He offered ten thousand
dollars to the national cause--and was killed in the Chinese war before
the answer to his proffer of financial aid came from Minister Anson
Burlingame.

It is rather odd that just the amount that he wished to be used by the
North for the advancement of the Union cause has recently (1901) been
bequeathed to the Essex Institute at Salem by Miss Elizabeth C. Ward,
his lately deceased sister, to found a Chinese library in memory of
Salem's soldier of fortune. Thus is rounded out this very romantic
chapter of modern American history.

THE WELL-SWEEP OF A SONG

That the wise Shakespeare spoke the truth when he observed that "one
touch of nature makes the whole world kin" has never been better
exemplified than in the affectionate tenderness with which all sorts and
conditions of men join in singing a song like "The Old Oaken Bucket." As
one hears this ballad in a crowded room, or even as so often given--in a
New England play like "The Old Homestead," one does not stop to analyse
one's sensations; one forgets the homely phrase; one simply feels and
knows oneself the better for the memories of happy and innocent
childhood which the simple song invokes.

Dear, delightful Golds