But the attempt was not abandoned. Retiring to Shanghai, Ward secured the a.s.sistance of about one hundred new foreign recruits, and with them returned once more to the scene of his defeat. Half a mile from the walls of Singpo the little band of foreign soldiers of fortune and poorly organised imperial troops were met by Savage and the Tai-Pings, and the battle that resulted waged for hours. The rebels were the aggressors, and ten miles of Ward's retreat upon Sungkiang saw fighting every inch of the way. The line of retreat was strewn with rebel dead, and such were their losses that they retired from the province altogether.

Later Savage was killed, and the Tai-Pings quieted down. For his exploits Ward received the monetary rewards agreed upon, and was also granted the b.u.t.ton of a mandarin of the fourth degree.

He had received severe wounds during the campaigns, and was taking time to recuperate from them at Shanghai when the jealousy of other foreigners made itself felt, and the soldier from Salem was obliged to face a charge before the United States consul that he had violated the neutrality laws. The matter was dropped, however, because the hero of Sungkiang promptly swore that he was no longer an American citizen, as he had become a naturalised subject of the Chinese emperor!

Realising the value of the Chinese as fighting men, Ward now determined to organise a number of Chinese regiments, officer them with Europeans, and arm and equip them after American methods. This he did, and in six months he appeared at Shanghai at the head of three bodies of Chinese, splendidly drilled and under iron discipline. He arrived in the nick of time, and, routing a vastly superior force, saved the city from capture.

After this exploit he was no longer shunned by Europeans as an adventurer and an outlaw. He was too prominent to be overlooked. His Ever-Victorious Army, as it was afterward termed, entered upon a campaign of glorious victory. One after another of the rebel strongholds fell before it, and its leader was made a mandarin of the highest grade, with the t.i.tle of admiral-general.

Ward then a.s.sumed the Chinese name of Hwa, and married Changmei, a maiden of high degree, who was nineteen at the time of her wedding, and as the daughter of one of the richest and most exalted mandarins of the red b.u.t.ton, was considered in China an exceedingly good match for the Salem youth. According to oriental standards she was a beauty, too.

Ward did not rest long from his campaigns, however, for we find that he was soon besieged in the city of Sungkiang with a few men. A relieving force of the Ever-Victorious Army here came to his a.s.sistance.

He did not win all his victories easily. In the battle of Ningpo, toward the end of the first division of the Tai-Ping rebellion, the carnage was frightful. Outnumbered, but not outgeneralled, the government forces fought valiantly. Ward was shot through the stomach while leading a charge, but refused to leave the field while the battle was on. Through his field officers he directed his men, and when the victory was a.s.sured, fell back unconscious in the arms of his companion, Burgevine.

He was carried to Ningpo, where he died the following morning, a gallant and distinguished soldier, although still only thirty years old.

In the Confucian cemetery at Ningpo his body was laid at rest with all possible honours and with military ceremony becoming his rank. Over his grave, and that of his young wife, who survived him only a few months, a mausoleum was erected, and monuments were placed on the scenes of his victories. The mausoleum soon became a shrine invested with miraculous power, and a number of years after his death General Ward was solemnly declared to be a joss or G.o.d. The ma.n.u.script of the imperial edict to this effect is now preserved in the Ess.e.x Inst.i.tute.

The command of the Ever-Victorious army reverted to Burgevine, but later, through British intrigue, to General Gordon. It was Ward, however, the Salem lad, who organised the army by which Chinese Gordon gained his fame. The British made a saint and martyr of Gordon, and called Ward an adventurer and a common sailor, but the Chinese rated him more nearly as he deserved.

In a little red-bound volume printed in Shanghai in 1863, and translated from the Chinese for the benefit of a few of General Ward's relatives in this country--a work which I have been permitted to examine--the native chronicler says of our hero:

"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 circ.u.mstances 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 G.o.ds provided. But he did what he could under the circ.u.mstances 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 Ess.e.x Inst.i.tute 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 a.n.a.lyse 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 Goldsmith has wonderfully expressed in "The Deserted Village" the inextinguishable yearning for the spot we call "home":

"In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs--and G.o.d has given my share-- I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return and die at home at last,"

and it is this same lyric cry that has been crystallised for all time, so far as the American people are concerned, in "The Old Oaken Bucket."

The day will not improbably come when the allusions in this poem will demand as careful an explanation as some of Shakespeare's archaic references now call for. But even when this time does come, and an elaborate description of the strange old custom of drawing water from a hole in the ground by means of a long pole and a rude pail will be necessary to an understanding of the poem, men's voices will grow husky and their eyes will dim at the music of "The Old Oaken Bucket."

It is to the town of Scituate, Ma.s.sachusetts, one of the most ancient settlements of the old colony, that we trace back the local colour which pervades the poem. The history of the place is memorable and interesting. The people come of a hardy and determined ancestry, who fought for every inch of ground that their descendants now hold. To this fact may perhaps be attributed the strength of those a.s.sociations, clinging like ivy around some of the most notable of the ancient homesteads.

The scene so vividly described in the charming ballad we are considering is a little valley through which Herring Brook pursues its devious way to meet the tidal waters of North River. "The view of it from Coleman Heights, with its neat cottages, its maple groves, and apple orchards, is remarkably beautiful," writes one appreciative author. The "wide-spreading pond," the "mill," the "dairy-house," the "rock where the cataract fell," and even the "old well," if not the original "moss-covered bucket" itself, may still be seen just as the poet described them.

[Ill.u.s.tration: OLD OAKEN BUCKET HOUSE, SCITUATE, Ma.s.s.]

In quaint, homely Scituate, Samuel Woodworth, the people's poet, was indeed born and reared. Although the original house is no longer there, a pretty place called "The Old Oaken Bucket House" still stands, a modern successor to the poet's home, and at another bucket, oaken if not old, the pilgrim of to-day may stop to slake his thirst from the very waters, the recollection of which gave the poet such exquisite pleasure in after years. One would fain have the surroundings unchanged--the cot where Woodworth dwelt, the ponderous well-sweep, creaking with age, at which his youthful hands were wont to tug strongly; and finally the mossy bucket, overflowing with crystal nectar fresh from the cool depths below. Yet in spite of the changes, one gets fairly well the illusion of the ancient spot, and comes away well content to have quaffed a draught of such excellent water to the memory of this Scituate poet.

The circ.u.mstances under which the popular ballad was composed and written are said to be as follows: Samuel Woodworth was a printer who had served his apprenticeship under the veteran Major Russell of the _Columbian Centinel_, a journal which was in its day the leading Federalist organ of New England. He had inherited the wandering propensity of his craft, and yielding to the desire for change he was successively in Hartford and New York, doing what he could in a journalistic way. In the latter city he became a.s.sociated, after an unsuccessful career as a publisher, in the editorship of the _Mirror_.

And it was while living in New York in the Bohemian fashion of his cla.s.s, that, in company with some brother printers, he one day dropped in at a well-known establishment then kept by one Mallory to take a social gla.s.s of wine.

The cognac was p.r.o.nounced excellent. After drinking it, Woodworth set his gla.s.s down on the table, and, smacking his lips, declared emphatically that Mallory's _eau de vie_ was superior to anything that he had ever tasted.

"There you are mistaken," said one of his comrades, quietly; then added, "there certainly was one thing that far surpa.s.sed this in the way of drinking, as you, too, will readily acknowledge."

"Indeed; and, pray, what was that?" Woodworth asked, with apparent incredulity that anything could surpa.s.s the liquor then before him.

"The draught of pure and sparkling spring water that we used to get from the old oaken bucket that hung in the well, after our return from the labours of the field on a sultry summer's day."

No one spoke; all were busy with their own thoughts.

Woodworth's eyes became dimmed. "True, true," he exclaimed; and soon after quitted the place. With his heart overflowing with the recollections that this chance allusion in a barroom had inspired, the scene of his happier childhood life rushed upon him in a flood of feeling. He hastened back to the office in which he then worked, seized a pen, and in half an hour had written his popular ballad:

"How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view!

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew,-- The wide-spreading pond and the mill which stood by it, The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well,-- The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

"The moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; For often at noon when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.

How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing!

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness it rose from the well,-- The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.

"How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised from the curb, it inclined to my lips!

Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.

And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well,-- The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well."

Woodworth's reputation rests upon this one stroke of genius. He died in 1842 at the age of fifty-seven. But after almost fifty years his memory is still green, and we still delight to pay tender homage to the spot which inspired one of the most beautiful songs America has yet produced.

WHITTIER'S LOST LOVE

In the life of the Quaker poet there is an unwritten chapter of personal history full to the brim of romance. It will be remembered that Whittier in his will left ten thousand dollars for an Amesbury Home for Aged Women. One room in this home Mrs. Elizabeth W. Pickard (the niece to whom the poet bequeathed his Amesbury homestead, and who pa.s.sed away in the early spring of this year [1902], in an illness contracted while decorating her beloved uncle's grave on the anniversary of his birth), caused to be furnished with a ma.s.sive black walnut set formerly used in the "spare-room" of her uncle's house--the room where Lucy Larcom, Gail Hamilton, the Cary sisters, and George Macdonald were in former times entertained. A stipulation of this gift was that the particular room in the Home thus to be furnished was to be known as the Whittier room.

In connection with this Home and this room comes the story of romantic interest. Two years after the death of Mr. Whittier an old lady made application for admission to the Home on the ground that in her youth she was a schoolmate and friend of the poet. And although she was not ent.i.tled to admission by being a resident of the town, she would no doubt have been received if she had not died soon after making the application.

This aged woman was Mrs. Evelina Bray Downey, concerning whose schoolgirl friendship for Whittier many inaccurate newspaper articles were current at the time of her death, in the spring of 1895. The story as here told is, however, authentic.

Evelina Bray was born at Marblehead, October 10, 1810. She was the youngest of ten children of a ship master, who made many voyages to the East Indies and to European ports. In a letter written in 1884, Mrs Downey said of herself: "My father, an East India sea captain, made frequent and long voyages. For safekeeping and improvement he sent me to Haverhill, bearing a letter of introduction from Captain William Story to the family of Judge Bartley. They pa.s.sed me over to Mr. Jonathan K.

Smith, and Mrs. Smith gave me as a roommate her only daughter, Mary.

This was the opening season of the New Haverhill Academy, a sort of rival to the Bradford Academy. Subsequently I graduated from the Ipswich Female Seminary, in the old Mary Lyon days."