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soon noticed by the officers, and he was made one of Washington's life-guard. Like every one else, who knew that great and good man, he soon loved him with unbounded attachment.

While General Washington had his headquarters at Cambridge, it was frequently necessary for detachments of the army, to make excursions into the neighboring towns. On one of these occasions, Washington and his life-guard were pursued by a company of British soldiers. They retreated as rapidly as possible, but the English being close upon their rear, they were often obliged to turn and fight.

In the midst of the retreat, an Englishman had just lifted his sword above the head of the General, when Mr. Upton sprang forward, and placed his body between him and his commander. The sword descended upon his thigh, and crippled him for life. After they had effected their return to the American camp, Washington called to inquire concerning the man who had so generously preserved his life at the risk of his own.

“ Thanks to heaven, my General, that your life is saved,” exclaimed the soldier, “ America could lose

such a man as I am, but what could she do without your Excellency?" His wound disabled him for battle; but he continued to perform various offices for his country, until the close of the war. After seeing his country in the possession of peace and freedom, he returned to his home. But that home was almost desolate and comfortless.

No one had been left to cultivate his small farm, and what little stock he possessed, had been killed for the use of the army America was then too poor to pay her soldiers for what they had lost and suffered; and Mr. Upton was obliged to contend with poverty as he could. His hard-earned bread, however, was sweetened with the respect which was everywhere paid him.

When he went forth to labor, he was always hailed with welcome looks, and a cordial shake of the hand; and even the boys would call out to each other“Off with your hat and make a bow—for there is the man who saved General Washington.” If

any consideration could compensate for the loss of a limb, it was the sweet reflection that he had lost it in the performance of so honorable an act.

Often would his neighbors say, “ Mr. Upton, the loss of your limb in such a cause, is a greater honor to you, than if

you

had King George's crown on your head.” In speaking on the subject, he was generally much affected; and with tears in his eyes he would often

say, The Lord make us thankful that it saved the General's life. . We could have done but little against the British legions, had not his wisdom been at the helm."

Now, my young readers, this was in 1784, which you all ought to remember was the year after Great Britain acknowledged the Independence of America : and can you believe, that only four years after this, General Washington requested an interview with Mr. Upton, and he was ashamed to comply with it? Yes: the man whose bravery had saved his General; whose integrity won the respect of his neighbors; whose kindness had insured him an affectionate family,—gave way to the sin of intemperance.

When Washington visited New England, he sent a servant to request a visit from his old preserver. The wretched man heard the summons, and wept aloud. “Heaven knows,” said he, “ that in

my

best

sence.

days, I would have walked to the Mississippi for the honor which Washington now pays me.

But I cannot-I cannot carry this shameful face into his

preTell General Washington that my love and gratitude will ever follow him.”

If ever my young readers should be tempted to persevere in any one thing, which they know to be wrong, let them remember that one bad habit changed Mr. Upton from a brave soldier and respected citizen, into a worthless and neglected sot; procured for him the contempt of those who once esteemed him; the fear and distrust of his family; the sorrowful disapprobation of his General; and finally broke his heart with shame and remorse.

THE CHILDREN'S BALL.

BY MRS. ABDY.

BRIwas the night of an infant festival

,

RILLIANT and gay was the lighted hall,

'Twas the night of an infant festival, There were sylph-like forms in the mazy dance, And there were the tutored step and glance, And the gay attire, and the hopes and fears That might well bespeak maturer years; The sight might to common eyes seem glad, But I own that it made my spirit sad.

I saw not in all that festive scene,
The cloudless brow, and the careless mien,
But Vanity sought the stranger's gaze,
And Envy shrunk from another's praise,
And Pride repelled with disdainful eye,
The once-loved playmate of days gone by.
Alas! that feelings so far from mild,
Should find place in the breast of a little child.

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