ERIAG OF HAYTI. [ALTHOUGH the following narrative is doubtless a leetle heightened, the chief features are probably authentic; it is given as a fact in all its details by a Jamaica paper. It is one of the many illustrations of the remark of the old Greek philosopher- -a remark which every whiskered dandy and simpering miss supposes to have been first uttered by Lord Byron (or Birron, as his Lordship affectedly called himself)-namely, that "truth is stranger than fiction."]

con.

SOME months since, a mulatto, named Eriag, of Port-au-Prince, was demned to death for the assassination of a merchant of Hayti. A few days after, a young Portuguese was sentenced to the same fate for having stabbed his mistress in a fit of jealousy. The two criminals were confined in the same prison, but each had a separate cell. Eriag, whose strength and ferocity were the subject of much dread, occupied an obscure dungeon in which the air penetrated through a small grating which overlooked the staircase of the prison; no ray of light entered into his cell.

Dardeza, whose crime was less hor

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rible, was placed in a larger room with some light, and which had a grated window overlooking the country. The two condemned men were manacled with chains on their feet and hands. It was announced to each that their execution would take place in three days, and a sufficient provision of bread and water was given them, which was to last until the fatal moment arrived. Each of the prisoners had meditated escape. Dardeza, who had been permitted to receive the visits of his friends, had obtained some instruments to facilitate his project, but without vigour and address, was soon discouraged by his fruitless essays, and had fallen into despondency. He waited with most painful dread the appearance of the gaoler. Eriag, more vigorous, more daring, did not despair. From the position of his cell, he reckoned that one of the walls was the boundary of the prison, and if he could effect an opening, he might get into the open country. He commenced his work, and to prevent the noise being heard, and to soften the stones, he threw water on the cement, and with the chains that were on his hand scratched against the walls.

He deprived himself of sleep, and never for an instant quitted his work. From time to time the gaoler would come to the grating, and, with a lantern, would see that his prisoner was safe. But Eriag kept an attentive ear, and when the gaoler came he would find Eriag lying near the hole, pretending to sleep. Already was the wall very deeply pierced; but how thick was the wall? Eriag was ignorant what he had to do; he did not even know what time remained to the hour of execution. However, he made a last trial, and with clenched teeth he attacked the wall.-He is saved!—the stones give way-the wall is pierced!-but alas! the wretch was deceived in his idea of the situation of the place. It is not the pure air and fresh country which meets his eager breath and look, through the opening he has so painfully effected. He perceives only another cell, feebly lighted by the pale glimmering of a lamp; he heard heavy sighs-he calls in a loud voice. It is the cell of Dardeza. In a short time these two unfortunates approach each other. Eriag communicates his design to Dardeza, and, learning that his window overlooked the country, he imagined their flight was a thing effected: but how many days had passed? How many hours were there still remaining him to live? He asked Dardeza, who had been able to count both hours and days, and found that the night which had commenced was their last, and that the morrow's sun would light them to the gallows. Far from dispiriting Eriag, this dreadful news only redoubled his courage. Dardeza seconded his efforts, and the two uniting their energies to widen the hole made by Eriag, it was soon large enough to admit him into the cell of Dardeza. The latter had received from a friend a file to break the bars from his window. The presence of Eriag animated him; he seized the file, the two set to work, and they had soon separated several bars of the grating. The opening was large enough to admit them, and, if they could effect a leap of sixty feet, their escape was assured. It remained only to file the chains which attached their feet and hands. But this would be still a work of time-the night was advancing, the day about to appear. The precious resource, the file, could not serve both at the same time. If one only used it, scarcely would there have been time to break his chains, and with the weight of them flight was impossi

Α

ble. A terrible dispute arose between the two-the file was in the hands of Dardeza; he would use it; Eriag threw himself on him to wrest it away. mortal combat ensued. Eriag, being the strongest, threw his enemy. Dardeza saw himself vanquished; but, that neither might be saved, he dragged himself to the window, and would have thrown out the instrument. Eriag prevented him. "You shall never have it," cried the frantic Dardeza, and, making a violent effort to disengage himself from the hands of his adversary, he put the file in his mouth and swallowed it. At this sight Eriag sunk exhausted! it is done, he must die. Dardeza, overpowered by the efforts he had made, lay extended on the ground like one really dead; the file he had swallowed was entangled in his throat-he was suffocating. Suddenly a horrid idea came over Eriag. He threw himself on Dardeza, seized him violently by the throat to strangle him; dashed his head forcibly against the walls, plunged his hand in his throat, tore open his chest, and even, in the still beating breast of the unfortunate, he sought by the pale light of the lamp the precious instrument of safety— he drew it forth in blood—soon he is at work-his chains fall; then, with the linen of Dardeza he made a kind of line, which he attached to a bar of the window. He let himself out; but, arrived to the extremity of the line, he cast his eye below him—an abyss of more than thirty feet was still left. However, he did not hesitate; his fall was broken by a platform on which he rolled; then he fell on a pavement; but all is not yet over; he found himself surrounded by a high wall, which it was still necessary to climb. At the moment he was searching for the place where ascent was easiest, a watch-dog attacked him. Eriag met him, and, fearful lest his barkings should be heard, he thrust his hand into his mouth and strangled him; but in the midst of his convulsive pangs the dog bit off his thumb. There was no time to lose, day was beginning to dawn. Eriag chose his spot, and soon the harassed and mangled murderer was at liberty. At break of day the gaoler sought the criminals to lead them to the gallows-he found only a horribly mutilated corpse! The alarm was given; proclamations issued for the apprehension of the criminal; but the traces of blood near the dog, and the thumb, were still there; it was ascertained the right hand of the murderer was muti

lated, and these details were published. Eriag had run for the space of an hour, when, overcome by fatigue and hunger, he stopped near a small hut and demanded refreshment, thinking that the rumour of his escape could not have preceded him there. An old negress who inhabited the hut gave him food. He was on the point of quitting her, when Caro, the brown son of the old woman, arrived from the town, and im mediately told the news he had heard. Eriag thrust his hand still deeper into his bosom, but the rapid glance of Caro caught the movement. The brave young man rushed towards Eriag, tore off his cloak, and perceived the bloody wound. Eriag sprang rapidly to a hatchet, which was in a corner, and threw himself on Caro, who was only armed with a heavy stick. Caro adroitly parried the blow aimed at him. The axe of Eriag glided down his adversary's club, and cleft the skull of the old negress, who had run to protect her son. At this sight Caro threw himself upon Eriag, and at a blow felled him to the ground, leaving him without sense, and hors de combat. then vainly endeavoured to recall his mother to life. At the same moment three mounted police officers, who had been searching for the culprit in all directions, arrived, upon this new theatre of his crimes. Immediately Eriag was seized, bound, tied to the tail of a horse, and dragged at full gallop back to the prison. Hardly arrived, Eriag asked for a bottle of rum and a priest. To the latter he recounted, with horrible sang-froid, all the details of his escape, and then swallowed the former at a draught. Scarcely had the priest left him, when he fell senseless, and on the officers entering to drag him to the gibbet, he had ceased to breathe.

INFLUENCE OF BOOKS.

He

AFTER all that is said of fame. - who has it?

Baron Munchausen, Robinson Crusoe, and Mother Hubbard. Noble rivalry! to enter the field against the latter lady and her dog. Fame!-who gives it? a snarling, snappish, currish critic from his chimney-corner. Who greedily thieves and pilfers it all? old, weak, bald-headed Time. And this it is, the great vital breath, that keeps the world in motion. This it is that causes all this stir and din, that prevents our fellow-beings from becoming melancholy as rogues on their way to the gallows; and makes the brain work busily at the desk, in the pulpit, and on the senate-floor!

CARDINAL PETRALIA.

CHAP. IV.

THE SCRUTINY.

ALL secondary factions were merged in the two great parties of France and Austria. The Austrian cardinal had in his pocket the veto of Vienna, and the French cardinal that of Paris.

Several candidates had been already rejected, and the votes had centred upon two eminent names, but both too powerful for the one ever to surmount the other. The electors were sixty in number; consequently forty votes assured the election. The rivals constantly obtained thirty votes each, for a week together, without being able to advance a step further. Had the balloting lasted for six months, the number of thirty would regularly, twice a-day, have been drawn from the inflexible urn.

The High Penitentiary had not even

one vote.

The cardinals began to grow weary. The heat was intense, the cells were small, and the sacred blood of their highnesses had already more than once flowed from the lancet of the functionary. Besides, the high solemnities of Saint Peter approached, and under existing circumstances it was important not to disappoint the Roman populace of their pope and their cardinals, for they depended upon them; and there is no festival for Rome without the tiara and the red robes: a show wanting, was an unpardonable offence-panem et incenses is still the cry.

It was then that the Consistory interposed: informed by their spies of all that passed, the three Sanfédist princes of Italy requested that a Head might be given to the Church as speedily as possible. The, times were difficult; provisional measures perilous; and impiety bolder, and more threatening than ever. Nations under its delusions wavered in their faith; and the voice of a sovereign pontiff could alone support the altar. They entreated the Conclave, above every thing, to watch over the safety of the Church, and not to throw in the holy balance any political or worldly consideration. Passing thence to a sketch of the pastor suited to the wants of the flock, they drew the every feature of the High Penitentiary, and guaranteed from such a pope, not only a blind submission in the choice of the bishop, but more-an irresistible argu

ment-temporal advantages of a nature to enrich the treasure of the Vatican; and suggested (remitting entirely to the Conclave the difficult choice), in consequence of the rivalries of the Catholic courts, and the inconvenience of the veto, to refer it to the arbitration of a neutral power, whose faith and geographical position secured impartiality.

This was to name Russia. But the Muscovite minister had not waited until now to mix himself up with the intrigues of the Quirinal. Wily as a Greek of the Lower Empire, he had regularly communicated twice a-day with the Conclave.

"You will never be in accord!" thus he wrote to the Camerlingue himself: "should the Conclave last ten years, a political pope would not be created."

"Be our mediator," replied the Camerlingue (under the prompting of the Italian princes); "were you elector, whom should you name?"

"Your Highness will laugh," replied the Byzantine, "but were I a cardinal, I should vote for the High Penitentiary. He is a saint—I know it; he is quite ignorant of business—I know that too; but you will be freed from him by giving him a good secretary of state. Accept that office, my lord, and you will reign in his name."

This overture pleased the Camerlingue, who was ambitious, but too compromised in the political world to aspire in his own name to the chair of Saint Peter.

"The Carbonari," said the Camerlingue to the Conclave, are more numerous and active than ever: let us name a cardinal popular amongst the people, as the most effectual method of silencing them. A popular pope would destroy Carbonarism without drawing a sword. I propose one who certainly has not to fear the veto of any power: I propose the High Penitentiary."

The proposition of the Camerlingue was received with a smile, but accepted unanimously.

It remained only to sound the Sicilian himself on the business, and with this office the Camerlingue was entrusted.

the unforeseen could alone destroy the chance; but if the unforeseen, that phantom of ignorance and weakness, ever disturbed his enthusiasm, his cold and stern logic repulsed it as an evil dream. Suddenly a mysterious knocking was heard at the door of his cell, and the Camerlingue glided into the apartment.

"My lord," said he to the Sicilian, "the Conclave is prolonged beyond the term suitable to the interests of the Church. The flock calls for its pastor, Christianity inquires for its head: but parties are as yet far from being agreed; could some conciliatory path be opened to them, they would, I am sure, eagerly avail themselves of it. I know but one man who can effect this miracle, and that man is yourself." "Me!"

"Yourself. Let your Highness only deign to accept the candidature I lay at your feet, and all parties will support it."

"My lord!" replied Cardinal Petralia, with coldness and dignity, “ I cannot—I will not suppose that your Highness is laying a snare for me, to render me the mock of the Conclave, and the by-word of Christendom; but your proposal is so strange, it has so much the air of a joke, that without the high idea I entertain of your character, I should deem myself insulted."

The Camerlingue scarcely expected such a reception. For a moment he was disconcerted; but a priest and a diplomatist, he soon recovered himself. His justification was zealous; he launched out into pompous eulogies upon the modesty, piety, and learning of the Sicilian, all which he either disbelieved or despised: an atheist himself, he held the High Penitentiary for one of the simple and poor in spirit. But he had his part to act, and supported his character to the end of the chapter.

The Sicilian was not his dupe; but he had likewise his part, and to which he was faithful. He accepted in silence the lying defence, every word of which was a triumph; and justifying the foresight of forty years, was to him a demonstration of his talent.

"Dispose of me, my lord," he said, bending to the Camerlingue; "dispose of my weakness. But strengthen me with your power; illuminate me with your intelligence; lighten, by sharing, the burden with which God overwhelms me; and if indeed he call me to empire,

deign to be my minister, that the same hand which has smoothed for me the path to the throne, may guide and protect me on it. My lord, will you promise me this?"

The Camerlingue took good care not to refuse; and the one resigning himself to be pope, the other kindly submitted likewise to be secretary of state. So they both had what they wanted. But suddenly starting, as from a dream-"No!" exclaimed Cardinal Petralia; 66 no, my lord! it cannot be, that heaven destines this heavy burden for my weakness. If my faith be known, my incapacity is still better known; it is impossible that a suffrage can be given to me !"

"That is the best reason for uniting them," replied the Camerlingue; "I will answer for your election: besides, it is an affair of figures." And he unrolled before the Sicilian a list of fifty cardinals, whose votes were secured for him. This was all the sceptic wanted to know; he added nothing more.

"Fifty out of sixty," resumed the Camerlingue, folding up the list; "your Highness sees now that your election is certain. To-morrow you will be pope!" That is to say, I shall be, thought the ambitious vulgar to himself; for he depended upon being the Mazarin of Rome, and reigning under the name of the devotee.

Go-thought the high-minded ambitious, on his side—you think to give me a master, but Sixtus the Fifth had

none.

Midnight struck by the clock of the Madona, when the two cardinals separated.

What a night for the Sicilian! His election was sure; it was tangible to his touch. For the veto, he feared it so little, that he had scarcely ever called it to mind.

His thoughts reverting from Rome, where he was to reign, to Sicily, where he had been a laquais, he recapitulated with a glance his whole life. Again he saw the worldly ante-chamber, the corrupt theatre, the brutal barracks; he saw himself a poor deserter, wandering hungry amidst the mountains of Madonia; he saw the monk who saved him, the cloister that opened for him, Palermo and the archbishop; he read over again the life of Sixtus the Fifth in the cell of Petralia, and felt the first tears of ambition silently flow down his burning cheeks. Emerging from the dust of study and meditation, he re-ascended

Etna, and kneeling on the verge of the crater, recalled the vow he had made in the sight of heaven; the terrible vow that was accomplished.

;

Embarked at Messina, and landed at Ostia, he traversed the desert on foot again with beating heart he saw the mighty cupola, and sat down to draw his breath on the ancient pedestal, and a future pope glided at night into Rome like a smuggler, or a thief. the

The convent of Janiculus; church of Saint Charles of Borromea; his first conflict; his first triumph; then the exile, and the return; the forty years of expectation, of isolation, of concentration, all unrolled beneath his eyes in the cell of the Quirinal.

It was like a long and stormy night, of which the sun was about to disperse the clouds and shadows. At length he took leave of the past, as of an early friend, whom we are quitting for ever, and the exhilaration of triumph soon precluded all return or remembrance. It was a magnificent victory; if the path had been long and wearisome, it but enhanced the delight of the achievement; it was a prize well worth waiting for.

Gradually laying aside the old man, to put on the new man, he felt his mind expand; and so near the sovereignty after so many indignities and humiliations, the old leaven of plebianism which had brooded for forty years in the heart of the Sicilian, fermented beneath the sun of his fortune.

To-morrow you will be pope! These last words of the Camerlingue still sounded like music in his listening ear. To-morrow, then, the new era was to begin; to-morrow the Church would have its Gregory, Italy its Procida; tomorrow the dungeons of Rome would open as by enchantment, and the generous captives whom persecution had heaped up there, would be born again to light and liberty.

The Sicilian's heart beat high at the thought of the prompt and truly royal amnesty he should accord; and his happiness enlarged itself to the measure of the happiness that all Italy was to enjoy.

Meantime the convent bells announced to Cardinal Petralia the dawn of his day of triumph. Their morning voice recalled him not to himself, but to the part he had so long acted, and which drew to its close. He wore his mask for the last time; and when the hour summoned him to the mass of the Holy Ghost, he repaired to the Pauline Cha