negro

(which had brought the time to ten o'clock at night), Mr. Putnam tried once more to make his dog enter, but in vain; he proposed to his man to go down into the cavern and shoot the wolf: the negro declined the hazardous service. Then it was that the general, angry at the disappointment, and declaring that he was ashamed to have a coward in his family, resolved himself to destroy the ferocious beast, lest she should escape through some unknown fissure of the rock. His neighbours strongly remonstrated against the perilous enterprise: but he, knowing that wild animals were intimidated by fire, and having provided several strips of birch-bark, the only combustible material which he could obtain, that would afford light in this deep and darksome cave, prepared for his descent. Having, accordingly, divested himself of his coat and waistcoat, and having a long rope fastened round his legs, by which he might be pulled back, at a concerted signal, he entered head foremost, with the blazing torch in his hand.

The aperture of the den, on the east side of a very high ledge of rocks, is about two feet square; from thence it descends obliquely fifteen feet, then running horizontally about ten more, it ascends gradually fixteen feet towards its termination. The sides of this subterraneous cavity are composed of smooth and solid rocks, which seem to have been divided from each other by some former earthquake. The top and bottom are also of stone, and the entrance, in winter, being covered with ice, is exceedingly slippery. It is in no place high enough for a man to raise himself upright; nor in any part more than three feet in width.

Having groped his passage to the horizontal part of the den, the most terrifying darkness appeared in front of the dim circle of light afforded by his torch. It was silent as the house of death. None but monsters of the desert had ever before explored this solitary mansion of horror. He, cautiously proceeding onward, came to the ascent; which he slowly mounted on his hands and knees until he discovered the glaring eyeballs of the wolf, who was sitting at the extremity of the cavern. Startled at the sight of fire, she gnashed her teeth, and gave a sullen growl. As soon as he had made the necessary discovery, he kicked the rope as a signal for pulling him out. The people, at the mouth of the den, who had listened with painful anxiety, hearing the growling of the wolf, and supposing their friend to be in the most imminent danger, drew him forth with such celerity, that his shirt was stripped over his head, and his skin severely lacerated. After he had adjusted his clothes, and loaded his gun with nine buck-shot, holding a torch in one hand, and the musquet in the other, he descended a second time. When he drew nearer than before, the wolf, assuming a still more fierce and terrible appearance, howling, rolling her eyes, snapping her teeth, and dropping her head between her legs, was evidently in the attitude and on the point of springing at him. At the critical instant he levelled and fired at her head. Stunned with the shock, and suffocated with the smoke, he immediately found himself drawn out of the cave. But having refreshed himself, and permitted the smoke to dissipate, he went down the third time. Once more he came within sight of the wolf, who appearing very passive, he applied the torch to her nose; and, perceiving her dead, he took hold of her ears, and then kicking the rope (still tied round his legs) the people above, with no small exultation, dragged them both out together.

Another bold and almost presumptuous deed, in this veteran hero, has rendered remarkable a precipice at Horseneck, in this state, (Connecticut.) The story is this. About the middle of the winter of 1778, general Putnam was on a visit to his out-post at Horseneck: he found governor Tryon advancing upon that town with a corps of fifteen hundred mento oppose these, general Putnam had only a picket of one hundred and fifty men, and two iron field-pieces, without horse or drag-ropes. He, however, planted his cannon on the high ground by the meeting-house, and retarded their approach by firing several times, until, perceiving the horse (supported by the infantry) about to charge, he ordered the picket to provide for their safety by retiring to a swamp inaccessible to horse; and secured his own by plunging down the steep precipice at the church upon a full trot. This precipice is so steep, where he descended, as to have artificial stairs composed of nearly one hundred stone steps for the accommodation of foot passengers. There the dragoons, who were but a sword's length from him, stopped short. For the declivity was so abrupt, that they ventured not to follow and, before they could gain the valley by going round the brow of the hill in the ordinary road, he was far enough beyond their reach.

THE

FRIAR'S TALE.

FROM "VARIETY;" A COLLECTION OF ESSAYS.

N several convents situated among the mountains which divide France

these sequestered cloisters, which are often placed in the most uninhabited parts of the Alps, strangers and travellers are not only hospitably entertained, but a breed of dogs are trained to go in search of wanderers, and are every morning sent from the convents with an apparatus fastened to their collars, containing some refreshment, and a direction to travellers to follow the sagacious animal: many lives are by this means preserved in this wild romantic country. During my last visit to the south of France, I made a trip into this mountainous region, and at the convent of ***, where I was at first induced to prolong my stay by the majestic scenery of its environs; as that became familiar, I was still more forcibly detained by the amiable manners of the reverend Father, who was at that time superior of the monastery: from him I received the following pathetic narrative, which I shall deliver, as nearly as I can recollect, in his own words.

About twenty years ago (said the venerable old man), I was then in the 57th year of my age, and second of my priority over this house, a most singular event happened through the sagacity of one of these dogs, to which I became myself a witness. Not more than a dozen leagues from hence, there lived a wealthy gentleman, the father of Matilda, who was his only child, and whose history I am going to relate. In the same village lived also Albert, a youth possessed of all the world deems excellent in man, except one single article, which was the only object of regard in the eyes of Matilda's father. Albert, with a graceful person, cultivated mind, elegance of manners, and captivating sweetness of disposition, was poor in fortune; and Matilda's father was blind to every other consideration; blind to his daughter's real happiness, and a stranger to the soul-delighting sensation, of raising worth and genius, depressed by poverty, to affluence and independence. Therefore on Matilda's confession of unalterable attachment to her beloved Albert, the cruel father resolved to take advantage of the power which the laws here give a man, to dispose both of his daughter and his wealth at pleasure; the latter he resolved to bequeath to his nephew Conrad, and Matilda was sent to a neighbouring convent; where, after a year's probation, she was to be compelled to renounce both Albert and the world.

Conrad, whose artful insinuations had long worked on the mind of this misguided father, was not content with having thus separated these lovers, but by inciting persecution from the petty creditors of Albert, drove him from his home; and after many fruitless endeavours to communicate with his lost mistress, he fled for sanctuary to this convent. Here (said the hoary monk) I became acquainted with the vir tues of that excellent young man, for he was our guest about ten months.

In all this time Matilda passed her days in wretchedness and persecution; the Abbess of her convent, Sister Theresa, who, to the disgrace of her profession, and our holy church, disguised the disposition of a devil in the garment of a saint; became the friend and minister of Conrad's wicked purposes, and never ceased to persecute Matilda by false reports concerning Albert, urging her to turn her thoughts from him to that heavenly spouse to whom she was about to make an everlasting vow. Matilda scorned her artifice, and love for Albert resisted every effort of the Abbess to shake her confidence in his fidelity.

She was in the last week of her noviciate, when her father became dangerously ill, and desired once more to see her. Conrad used every endeavour to prevent it, but in vain; she was sent for; and the interview was only in the presence of Conrad and the nurse; but when the dying father perceived the altered countenance of his once beloved child, his heart condemned him, he reflected that the wealth which he was going to quit for ever, belonged to her, and not to Conrad, and he resolved to expiate his cruelty by cancelling the will, and consenting to the union of Albert and Matilda. Having made a solemn declaration of his purpose, he called for the will; then taking Matilda's hand in one of his, and presenting the fatal writing with the other, he said, 'Forgive thy father destroy this paper, and be happy; so be my sins forgiven in heaven The joy of his heart at this first effort of benevolence,

was too much for his uttered the last words, deliver.

exhausted spirits, and he expired as he letting fall the will, which he was going to

Matilda's gentle soul was torn with contending passions; she had lost her father at the moment when he had bestowed fresh life; and, in the conflict betwixt joy and grief, she sunk on the lifeless corpse, in an agony of gratitude and filial tenderness.

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Meanwhile Conrad did not let slip this opportunity to complete his plan, which, by the dying words of his uncle had been so nearly defeated; he secured the will, and corrupted the nurse by promises and bribes, never to reveal what she had witnessed; half persuading the interested doating old woman, that it was only the effect of delirium in the deceased. This idea was but too well supported by the first question of Matilda, who exclaimed, as she came to herself; Where am I! sure 'tis a dream! my father could not say I should be happy, he could not bid me tear that fatal will? Speak! am I really awake, or does my fancy mock me with such sounds?' The artful Conrad assured her that nothing of the kind had passed, telling her that her father had only mentioned Albert's naine to curse him; and, with his last breath, commanded her to take the veil at the expiration of the week. All this the perjured nurse confirmed; and then Matilda, being perfectly recovered, first saw the horrors of her situation. It was in vain for her to deny what they asserted, or remonstrate against their combined perfidy. She was presently, by force, again conveyed to her nunnery, in a state of mind much easier to imagine than de

scribe.

Here she was more violently than ever attacked by Theresa's persecution, who urged with increasing vehemence, the pretended positive commands of her dying father; and by the advice of Conrad, used severities of conventual discipline, which almost robbed the devoted victim of her reason; still pleading, that Religion justified her conduct. Can it be wondered, that such cruel treatment should at length disturb the piety and faith of poor Matilda? and induce her to exclaim, with presumptuous bitterness, against the holy institutions of our church, and brand the sacred ordinances of our religion with unjust suspicions? Why, (said she) why are these massy grates permitted to exist, why are these hated walls, sad prisons of innocence and youth, where fraud and cruelty have power to torture and confine the helpless? Religion is the plea; Religion! which should bring peace, and not affliction, to its votaries; then surely that religion which justifies these gloomy dungeons must be false, and I abjure it; yes! I will fly to happier regions, where prisons are allotted only to the guilty; there, no false vows to heaven are exacted, but Albert and Matilda may be yet happy.' The possibility of an escape had never before presented itself, and indeed, it could never have occurred but to one whose reason was disordered, for she well knew that the doors were secured by many bars and locks, and that the keys were always deposited beneath the pillow of the Abbess.

Her imagination was now too much heated to attend to any obstacles, and with a mixture of foresight, inspired by insanity, she packed up all her little ornaments of value, carelessly drew on her cloaths, and put in her pocket some bread and provision which had been left in her cell; then wrapping round her elegant form one of the blankets from the bed,

she lighted a taper, and fearless walked towards the cloister door, idly expecting that it would fly open of its own accord, to innocence like her's-and now, methinks I see her, with hair dishevelled, face pale and wan, her large black eyes wildly staring, and the whole of her ghastly figure, lighted by the feeble glimmer of her taper, majestically stalking through the gloomy vaulted hall; arrived at the great door, she found it partly open, and scarce believing what she saw, she quickly glided through it; but as she passed, an iron bar, which she had not observed, and which projected at the height of her forehead, slightly grazed her temple; and though she scarcely felt the wound, yet it added new horrors to her look, by covering her ghost-like face with streaks of blood.

Although Matilda had never considered the improbability of passing this door, she now reflected with wonder how she had passed it, and fear of a discovery, began to operate, as she with more cautious steps moved silently through the cloister towards the outer-gate; which when she approached, she heard Theresa's voice whispering these words: Adieu, dear Conrad; but remember that your life, as well as mine, depends on the secrecy of our conduct.' Then tenderly embracing each other, a man ran swiftly from her, and the Abbess turning round, stood motionless with horror at the bloody spectre firmly approaching. The guilty mind of Theresa could only suppose the horrid vision to be the departed spirit of one whom she thought her cruelties had murdered; and while the panic seized her whole frame, a gust of wind from the gate, extinguishing the taper, Matilda seemed to vanish, as she resolutely pushed through the postern door, still open.

Theresa was too well hackneyed in the ways of vice, to let fear long take possession of her prudence; the night was dark, and it would have been in vain to pursue the phantom, if her recovering courage had suggested it; she therefore resolved to fasten both the doors, and return in silence to her own apartment, waiting, in all the perturbation of anxiety and guilt, till morning should explain this dreadful mystery.

Meanwhile Matilda, conscious in her innocence, and rejoicing in her escape, pursued a wandering course through the unfrequented paths of this mountainous district, during three whole days and nights; partly supporting her fatigue by the provisions she had taken with her, but more from a degree of insanity, which gave her powers beyond her natural strength; yet, in her distracted mind, the last instance of Theresa's wickedness, had excited a disgust and loathing, bordering on fury against every religious or monastic institution.'

The Monk had proceeded thus far, when he was called away to attend the duties of his convent, and promised to continue the narrative at his return.

The Father soon returned, and proceeded with his narrative as follows:

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During the whole twelve months of Matilda's noviciate, no intercourse of any kind had passed betwixt her and Albert, who continued under the protection of this house, alike ignorant of her father's death, and of all the other transactions which I have now related: yet knowing that the term of her probation was about to expire, he resolved once nore to attempt some means of gaining admittance to her convent. With