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STORIES OF A REVOLUTIONARY OFFICER.

No. 111.

GEN. WASHINGTON.

It so happened, that, during the whole of my service, from the time when I enlisted, I had to do the duty of an officer a grade above me, and my first appointment after I arrived at Fort Washington, was, to take the command of it.

The day when the British shipping passed up the river, I was standing near the fort, when General Washington rode up to me, and, dismounting in great haste, and with more anxiety than I had ever before seen in his countenance, asked me if we had any double-headed shot: for he saw the ships coming up, and knowing that our pieces could not be depressed, from the high position of the fort, so as to hit low enough, said he, "If we cannot hit their hull, we must try to cut their rigging."

At this moment, they sent two balls that passed between us as we stood talking, and struck the battery a little beyond us. Washington turned away his face, and lifting his hands, ejaculated, in a low tone, "Thy will be done! I found afterwards, that he had employed an egineer to sink a chevaux-de-frise in the river, to prevent the ships from passing, who having done this, had deserted, and gone over to the enemy; and he was now piloting them up by it.

Washington had not yet heard of the man's perfidy, and when he saw the ships coming on, in spite of his precaution, he seemed to think it was a direct interposition of Providence without the instrumentality of man; and he must be resigned.

AN EXPEDITION.

On coming to Fort Washington, I had joined myself to the artillery, and Col. Knox's regiment. When our army retreated to White Plains, for my next tour of duty, I was ordered by General Heath to take some small cannon, (I think they were three three-pounders) and go down to Morrisina, where we had a little redoubt flung up; but what was the purpose of my going, or what I was to do when I got there, I did not know, till we had got the guns, ammunition, our tents, &c., into the four-horse wagon, and were all drawn out, ready to start off, being about fifty in number.

Then, Gen. Heath came out and told me, it was expected that the enemy would land at Morrisina, and that we were sent

there, in case of their landing, to larum our army, which would then be more than twenty miles from us.

Said he "There is no retreat for you; but you must make all the noise you can." I thought this pretty hard orders, for a little feeble band as we were, to go out thus exposed, to face the enemy, without a way to retreat. However, I did not like to fall back, and we started off. It afterwards so turned out, in the ways of Providence, by which ours were over-ruled, that nearly all the men, whom we left at Fort Washington, were killed or wounded, while we, who thought their situation so much safer than our own, were preserved alive and uninjured.

The enemy did not land at Morrisina; but, shortly after we arrived there, they passed us, and landed at East Chester.

From the heights where we were, we saw them distinctly, as they went along close by us, on their march towards White Plains; but we took good care that they should not see us. I think this was about four or five days after we went there, and, during this time, we were so few in number, we could not spare a man to go to the place where we were to draw our provisions, which was about five miles off. There was a potato-field near us, so we dug potatoes, and lived on them, and the clams that we found on the edge of the river, with no other provisions, for the whole four or five days.

When the enemy had passed us, I received a letter from Gen. Heath, directing me, if possible, to join our army at White Plains. His charge was, that we must take good care of ourselves, and run no risk for the sake of our guns. "You must use your own judgment," said he; "be sure to escape yourselves, and save your cannon if you can."

We then got them into the wagon, with our tents and other baggage, and started under covert of the night, for White Plains.

About midnight, we came out at Philips's Manor, on the Hudson, close by the little brick church, that is still standing there. A few years ago, being in New York, my son took me to visit a place which he had, on the bank of the river, and, sailing in the evening, we past Philips's Manor, and I saw the church looking just as it did when I passed it at the same hour of the night, more than fifty years before. The view brought back the feelings and transactions of that night so fresh to my mind, that I almost felt as if I had to get the cannon on to White Plains.

Not long after we had past this place, on that memorable night, we overtook Captain Perkins and his company, on the

ascent of a long hill, with a large cannon, a twenty-five pounder, that they had got on so far, when their horses gave out, and thinking themselves the last on the route, they expected no help, and had just come to the conclusion that they must leave it where it was, and proceed without it.

We took our drag-ropes, and, joining our forces, helped them along, so that we both succeeded in getting our loads on to the destined place. A few days after we joined our army at White Plains, the battle took place. Our men stood their ground in this, but among the houses that the British plundered, was the tavern where I had left my chest. I never saw it, or the new coat and other articles it contained, afterwards, nor ever knew who had the pleasure of wearing them.

The only ball that struck me this year, was a bullet that hit the heel of my shoe, but spared my own heel, and only tore the sole leather a little.

When our army retreated from White Plains, I believe I struck the last tent on the field. While I was doing this, the enemy were raking us with their cannon; and General Washington rode up to me, and the few that were with me, and speaking just as a father would speak to his children that he saw in danger, said, "Men, you must take care of yourselves!" but he did not seem to think he had any care to take of himself, his anxiety appeared to be altogether for us.

THE LAST HOUR.

DIED IN BOSTON, DEC. 1833, MRS. HANNAH STICKNEY, AN AGED AND DISTINGUISHED

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In sacred silence. All around was calm,
While on the bed of death, a pious saint
Was waiting for her passport. Not a voice
Broke on that holy stillness
not a groan,
To tell of nature's suffering, met mine ear;
All-all was peace. The healing aid
Was proffered by the hand of love - but she,
The dying one, now knew her hour had come,
And looked alone to Him, on whom her soul
So long had rested. With an eye of faith,
She saw the heavens opened waiting spirits stood
To bear her upward and she seemed to hear

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Some notes from angels minstrelsy, and her lips
Whispered for all to "Hearken." She had given
Her all to God - had finished her last prayer,
Had closed her mortal sorrows and her orphan child
Committed up to Him, whose word had said,

"I will provide."

It was not over yet,

And at her side, I saw the good Samaritan,

With Christian kindness, bending o'er her bed,
And with the voice of love-I heard him say

"I will be with you,' Jesus says, 'even when ye pass
The darksome valley I will be your staff,

To comfort and support.' And then he knelt

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Before the morning came the saint had risen
To tune her golden harp- and she who wept
And prayed so much on earth had gone to dwell
With those, who long before had crossed the flood
Of gloomy Jordan. Not a pang- or groan
Had marked her exit. Ravished with a view

Of heaven's glory — she forgot to live
On her pale ruin such a peaceful smile
As well might tell of victory in death.

and left

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Of guilt and woe then darkness flees away,

And through the dreary vale- a glory shines
Which tells of heaven and there are angel bands

Of bright attendants - angel notes to greet

The joyful spirit, as it bursts away

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"THERE IS A DIFFERENCE IN CHILDREN." (Common Proverb.) WHY?

"Mrs. B., won't you box that child's ears! I wish I had her where I could reach her."

"Why, the poor girl must have something to eat, Mr. B. I wish you would take her round by you; I am fully occupied with the tea, and the children all neglect her."

Next day Mr. B. tries Mary in the chair next himself. Mary being afraid of father is tolerably quiet for a while. Mr. B., wholly absorbed in his toast and in his ruminations upon the business of the day, heeds her not, until Mary's patience or provisions running short, she becomes clamorous for something once or twice refused; and Mr. B., starting from his reverie, rebukes the luckless one, with a sound box on the ear. Alas, a box on the ear will not cure a confirmed habit of fidgeting at table.

"I don't see why it is our children are so much worse than other people's, Mrs. B." "When I take tea at Mr. C.'s I observe that his children behave with as much propriety, as grown persons; but our table is always a scene of confusion. Mary must take her food in the kitchen for the future, that's certain." Mary is kept in the kitchen a week, but restored upon promises of amendment; behaves tolerably for a meal or two, but soon relapses, and the former scene is repeated.

These things occurred when Mary was three years old. She has now arrived at five, and her

ears and heart have become callous together.

And here methinks I hear some tender parent exclaim,— "Cruel father, to strike such a little thing."-Cruel, do you say? Why no man loves his children more than Mr. B. "Why does he not institute an inquiry, then, into the cause of this restlessness, and apply the proper antidote ?

Alas, Mr. B. has no time to think of preventives; you are ignorant, my friend, of the cares of business. Professional men may institute inquiries,' and teachers investigate the laws of mind; it is their employment. The study of cause and effect, the connection between a pouting lip and a habit of disobedience, the business man has no time to trace.

When Mary was two years old, a word, a look of reproof would bring a tear, and her little countenance was eloquent in grief till she had made her peace. But Mary soon learned the maxim, "Uniform obedience cannot be expected from a little one."

The probability of Mary's be ing quiet at church, is discussed. "Will Mary be a good child, if mother will permit her to go to church to-day?" Mary promised - and went; but in the midst of service, after an hour of mingled hopes and fears, and zealous efforts to maintain a calm, it becomes necessary for sister to take her home. sharp reproof ensues; perhaps chastisement.

Α

"Alas," sighs Mrs. D., "what else could you expect, sister?"

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