save both the child's life and his own, when, to his consternation, he perceived a large shark advancing rapidly towards him. The formidable fish came lashing the waves on which it was borne, anxious for its prey. Beckner saw the hor rible danger by which he was threatened, and cried aloud for help. In a moment all the passengers and crew thronged to the deck of the ship; but, though every one saw the peril, and lamented the lot of the courageous sailor, no one dared venture to his assistance: the appearance of the monster terrified them.

Those of the vessel, unable to afford a more efficient aid, began a brisk fire against the shark, which, regardless of the noise, kept still advancing, and was near gaining its object. In this moment of horror and dismay, whilst vigorous and brave men were struck with amazement, and unable to act, a generous impulse of heroism and filial tenderness prompted a boy to perform what no one else had the courage to dare. Young Beckner, seeing the extremity of the danger to which his father was exposed, now seized upon a well-sharpened sword, and with this weapon plunged into the sea. By his dexterity in swimming, he soon succeeded in the plan he had formed. He dived under the water, and, getting behind the shark, he swam until he was below its stomach, and then with equal skill, steadiness, and resolution, thrust his weapon into the animal, to the very hilt. Startled by this unexpected attack, and writhing under the pain which the wound produced, the shark, excited to rage, now abandoned its intended prey, in order to vent its fury upon the young assailant.

A fearful spectacle presented itself to the view. Every one on the vessel stood in a throb of anxious horror and expectation. The generous young Beckner, nothing daunted by the formidable appearance and superiority of the enemy with which he had engaged, in order to save his father, continued for some time the unequal contest. Whilst the huge animal was twisting and turning to seize upon its prey, the boy plunged again and again his sword into its body. But the strength of Beckner was not sufficient to produce a mortal hurt, and though the numerous wounds which he inflicted did severe injury to the horrible foe, the little hero at length found the necessity of striving to regain the vessel and abandon the combat. The crew had mean-time thrown out ropes to the father and his spirited and self-devoted son, in order that they might be rescued through their means,

For some time, the motion of the waves, and the necessity of flying from the more imminent danger presented by the incensed shark, hindered the two objects of distress from availing themselves of the help held out to them; but at last they both succeeded in each grasping one of the numerous ropes that were thrown out. Every one on board now lent his assistance to draw them out by strength of arms. These efforts, to the lively joy of the anxious spectators, were not void of success. Hope began to dawn in the breasts of all. Both father and son were now above the waves, and suspended by the ropes-their rescue appeared certain.

The enraged and bleeding animal perceived that its prey was on the point of escaping. With the sagacity of instinct, and stimulated by the natural impulse of vengeance, the monster now collected every energy, and, making one mighty bound, succeeded in catching between its fearful teeth the unfortunate boy, who was still suspended on the rope which he held; the effort of the huge animal was so successful, that it divided its victim into two parts, of which the creature devoured one, whilst the other was left, a horrid token of the heroism and dreadful fate of young Beckner ! The spectators, at this appalling scene, uttered a cry of horror, and stood fixed in sorrow and amazement. They then applied themselves to help the elder Beckner, who safely gained the vessel, with his little charge, the unfortunate cause of the calamity.

Such was the end, at once generous and frightful, of young Volney Beckner. He was little more than twelve years of age when he encountered this terrible adventure, which put a period to his life, and smothered the rising hopes that his qualities had inspired in the breasts of those who knew him.-Abridged from the Juvenile Library, Vol. 1.

Fine Arts.

WORKS OF SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE, AT THE BRITISH INSTITUTION.

(For the Mirror.) THESE splendid productions of art, by the lamented Sir Thomas Lawrence, have been exhibited at the British Institution for some weeks past, and we are given to understand, that the gallery will remain open a considerable time longer, for the benefit of the late President's relatives. This laudable arrangement of the noble and munificent

directors of the institution is truly gratifying to our feelings, being conscious that too much respect cannot be shown to the memory of the greatest pictorial genius of the present age.

No. 2, is the celebrated small portrait of his late Majesty on a sofa. This picture, which has been finely engraved, is too well known to require any comment in this notice.

6. A splendid Portrait of the Earl of Bathurst.

7. Prince Blucher, a beautiful like ness of that hardy veteran.

9. Field Marshal, Arthur, Duke of Wellington, bearing the Sword of State; a very commanding picture, and an excellent likeness.

10. His late Holiness, Pope Pius VII. This performance is one of the President's most happy efforts, and may be considered his ne plus ultra. It combines chaste colouring with the magic of the chiaro-scuro in a surprising degree, and is very carefully finished. His Holiness is represented as a meek old man, and the expression of his countehance is serenely calm, bespeaking a passive resignation to the will of heaven. In the background of the picture are introduced the Laocoon, and the Apollo

Belvidere.

ness.

ter of Hamlet) John Soane, R. A., and Sir Edward Codrington, may all be ranked among the triumphs of the late President's pencil. G. W. N.

SPIRIT OF THE

Public Journals.

THE IRON SHROUD.

(Concluded from page 150.)

THE morning of the fourth day dawned upon Vivenzio. But it was high noon before his mind shook off its stupor, or he awoke to a full consciousness of his situation. And what a fixed energy of despair sat upon his pale features, as he cast his eyes upwards, and gazed upon the THREE windows that now alone remained! The three!-there were no more-and they seemed to number his own allotted days. Slowly and calmly he next surveyed the top and sides, and comprehended all the meaning of the diminished height of the former, as well as of the gradual approximation of the latter. The contracted dimensions of his mysterious prison were now too gross and palpable to be the juggle of his heated imagination. Still lost in wonder at the means, Vivenzio could put no cheat upon his reason, as to the end. By what horrible ingenuity it was contrived, that walls, and roof, and windows, should thus silently and imperceptibly, without noise, and without motion almost, fold, as it were, within each other, he knew not. He only knew they did so; and he vainly strove to persuade himself it was the intention of the contriver, to rack the miserable wretch who might be immured there, with anticipation, merely, of a fate, from which, in the very crisis of his agony, he was to be reprieved.

"It is not death I fear," he exclaimed, "but the death I must prepare for ! Methinks, too, I could meet even that

all horrible and revolting as it is-if it might overtake me now. But where shall I find fortitude to tarry till it come? How can I outlive the three long days and nights I have to live? There is no power within me to bid the hideous spectre hence-none to make it familiar to my thoughts; or myself, patient of its errand. My thoughts, rather, will flee from me, and I grow mad in looking at it. Oh! for a deep sleep to fall upon me! That so, in death's likeness, I might embrace death itself, and drink no more of the cup that is presented to me, than my fainting spirit has already tasted!"

In the midst of the lamentations, Vivenzio noticed that his accustomed meal, with the pitcher of water, had been conveyed, as before, into his dungeon. But this circumstance no longer excited his surprise. His mind was overwhelmed with others of a far greater magnitude. It suggested, however, a feeble hope of deliverance; and there is no hope so feeble as not to yield some support to a heart bending under despair. He resolved to watch, during the ensuing night, for the signs he had before observed; and should he again feel the gentle, tremulous motion of the floor, or the current of air, to seize that moment for giving audible expression to his misery.

The night came; and as the hour approached when Vivenzio imagined he might expect the signs, he stood fixed and silent as a statue. He feared to breathe, almost, lest he might lose any sound which would warn him of their coming. While thus listening, with every faculty of mind and body strained to an agony of attention, it occurred to him he should be more sensible of the motion, probably, if he stretched himself along the iron floor. He accordingly laid himself softly down, and had not been long in that position when -yes-he was certain of it-the floor moved under him! He sprang up, and in a voice suffocated nearly with emotion, called aloud. He paused the motion ceased-he felt no stream of air -all was hushed-no voice answered to his-he burst into tears; and as he sunk to the ground, in renewed anguish, exclaimed,- "Oh, my God! my God! You alone have power to save me now, or strengthen me for the trial you permit.'

Another morning dawned upon the wretched captive, and the fatal index of his doom met his eyes. Two windows! -and two days-and all would be over! Fresh food-fresh water! The mysterious visit had been paid, though he had implored it in vain. But how awfully was his prayer answered in what he now saw ! The roof of the dungeon was within a foot of his head. The two ends were so near, that in six paces he trod the space between them. Vivenzio shuddered as he gazed, and as his steps traversed the narrowed area. But his feelings no longer vented themselves in frantic wailings. With folded arms and clenched teeth, with eyes that were bloodshot from much watching, and fixed with a vacant glare upon the ground, with a hard quick breathing, and a hurried walk, he strode back

wards and forwards in silent musing for several hours. What mind shall conceive, what tongue utter, or what pen describe the dark and terrible character of his thoughts? Like the fate that moulded them, they had no similitude in the wide range of this world's agony for man. Suddenly he stopped, and his eyes were rivetted upon that part of the wall which was over his bed of straw. Words are inscribed there! A human language, traced by a human hand! He rushes towards them; but his blood freezes as he reads :

"I, Ludovico Sforza, tempted by the gold of the Prince of Tolfi, spent three years in contriving and executing this accursed triumph of my art. When it was completed, the perfidious Tolfi, more devil than man, who conducted me hither one morning, to be witness, as he said, of its perfection, doomed me to be the first victim of my own pernicious skill; lest, as he declared, I should divulge the secret, or repeat the effort of my ingenuity. May God pardon him, as I hope he will me, that ministered to his unhallowed purpose! Miserable wretch, whoe'er thou art, that readest these lines, fall on thy knees, and invoke, as I have done, His sustaining mercy, who alone can nerve thee to meet the vengeance of Tolfi, armed with his tremendous engine which, in a few hours, must crush you, as it will the needy wretch who made it."

A deep groan burst from Vivenzio. He stood, like one transfixed, with dilated eyes, expanding nostrils, and quivering lips, gazing at this fatal inscription. It was as if a voice from the sepulchre had sounded in his ears, "Prepare!" Hope forsook him. There was his sentence, recorded in those dismal words. The future stood unveiled before him, ghastly and appalling. His brain already feels the descending horror,-his bones seem to crack and crumble in the mighty grasp of the iron walls! Unknowing what it is he does, he fumbles in his garment for some weapon of self-destruction. He clenches his throat in his convulsive gripe, as though he would strangle himself at once. He stares upon the walls, and his warring spirit demands, "Will they not anticipate their office if I dash my head against them?" An hysterical laugh chokes him as he exclaims, "Why should I? He was but a man who died first in their fierce embrace; and I should be less than man not to do as much!"

The evening sun was descending, and Vivenzio beheld its golden beams stream

ing through one of the windows. What a thrill of joy shot through his soul at the sight! It was a precious link, that united him, for the moment, with the world beyond. There was ecstacy in the thought. As he gazed, long and earnestly, it seemed as if the windows had lowered sufficiently for him to reach them. With one bound he was beneath them-with one wild spring he clung to the bars. Whether it was so contrived, purposely to madden with delight the wretch who looked, he knew not; but, at the extremity of a long vista, cut through the solid rocks, the ocean, the sky, the setting sun, olive groves, shady walks, and, in the farthest distance, delicious glimpses of magnificent Sicily, burst upon his sight. How exquisite was the cool breeze as it swept across his cheek, loaded with fragrance. He inhaled it as though it were the breath of continued life. And there was a freshness in the landscape, and in the rippling of the calm green sea, that fell upon his withering heart like dew upon the parched earth. How he gazed, and panted, and still clung to his hold! sometimes hanging by one hand, sometimes by the other, and then grasping the bars with both, as loath to quit the smiling paradise outstretched before him; till exhausted, and his hands swollen and benumbed, he dropped helpless down, and lay stunned for a considerable time by the fall.

When he recovered, the glorious vision had vanished. He was in darkness. He doubted whether it was not a dream that had passed before his sleeping fancy; but gradually his scattered thoughts returned, and with them came remembrance. Yes! he had looked once again upon the gorgeous splendour of nature! Once again his eyes had trembled beneath their veiled lids, at the sun's radiance, and sought repose in the soft verdure of the olive-tree, or the gentle swell of undulating waves. Oh, that he were a mariner, exposed upon those waves to the worst fury of storm and tempest; or a very wretch, loathsome with disease, plague-stricken, and his body one leprous contagion from crown to sole, hunted forth to gasp out the remnant of infectious life beneath those verdant trees, so he might shun the destiny upon whose edge he tottered!

Vain thoughts like these would steal over his mind from time to time, in spite of himself; but they scarcely moved it from that stupor into which it had sunk, and which kept him, during the whole night, like one who had been drugged

with opium. He was equally insensible to the calls of hunger and of thirst, though the third day was now commencing since even a drop of water had passed his lips. He remained on the ground, sometimes sitting, sometimes lying; at intervals, sleeping heavily ; ́ and when not sleeping, silently brooding over what was to come, or talking aloud, in disordered speech, of his wrongs, of his friends, of his home, and of those he loved, with a confused mingling of all.

the

In this pitiable condition, the sixth and last morning dawned upon Vivenzio, if dawn it might be called dim, obscure light which faintly struggled through the ONE SOLITARY Window of his dungeon. He could hardly be said to notice the melancholy token. And yet he did notice it; for as he raised his eyes and saw the portentous sign, there was a slight convulsive distortion of his countenance. But what did attract his notice, and at the sight of which his agitation was excessive, was the change his iron bed had undergone. It was a bed no longer. It stood before him, the visible semblance of a funeral couch or bier! When he beheld this, he started from the ground; and, in raising himself, suddenly struck his head against the roof, which was now so low that he could no longer stand upright. "God's will be done!" was all he said, as he crouched his body, and placed his hand upon the bier; for such it was. The iron bedstead had been so contrived, by the mechanical art of Ludovico Sforza, that as the advancing walls came in contact with its head and feet, a pressure was produced upon concealed springs, which, when made to play, set in motion a very simple though ingeniously contrived machinery, that effected the transformation. The object was, of course, to heighten, in the closing scene of this horrible drama, all the feelings of despair and anguish, which the preceding ones had aroused. For the same reason, the last window was so made as to admit only a shadowy kind of gloom rather than light, that the wretched captive might be surrounded, as it were, with every seeming preparation for approaching death.

Vivenzio seated himself on his bier. Then he knelt and prayed fervently; and sometimes tears would gush from him. The air seemed thick, and he breathed with difficulty; or it might be that he fancied it was so, from the hot and narrow limits of his dungeon, which were now so diminished that he could

neither stand up nor lie down at his full length. But his wasted spirits and oppressed mind no longer struggled within him. He was past hope, and fear shook him no more. Happy if thus revenge had struck its final blow; for he would have fallen beneath it almost unconscious of a pang. But such a lethargy of the soul, after such an excitement of its fiercest passions, had entered into the diabolical calculations of Tolfi; and the fell artificer of his designs had imagined a counteracting device.

The tolling of an enormous bell struck upon the ears of Vivenzio! He started. It beat but once. The sound was so close and stunning, that it seemed to shatter his very brain, while it echoed through the rocky passages like reverberating peals of thunder. This was followed by a sudden crash of the roof and walls, as if they were about to fall upon and close around him at once. Vivenzio screamed, and instinctively spread forth his arms, as though he had a giant's strength to hold them back. They had moved nearer to him, and were now motionless. Vivenzio looked up, and saw the roof almost touching his head, even as he sat cowering beneath it; and he felt that a farther contraction of but a few inches only must commence the frightful operation. Roused as he had been, he now gasped for breath. His body shook violently-he was bent nearly double. His hands rested upon either wall, and his feet were drawn under him to avoid

the pressure in front. Thus he remained for more than an hour, when that deafening bell beat again, and again there came the crash of horrid death.

But the concussion was now so great that it struck Vivenzio down. As he lay gathered up in lessened bulk, the bell beat loud and frequent-crash succeeded crash-and on, and on, and on came the mysterious engine of death, till Vivenzio's smothered groans were heard no more! He was horribly crushed by the ponderous roof and collapsing sides-and the flattened bier was his Iron Shroud.

Blackwood's Magazine.

The Novelist.

THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR.

(From the German of Jean Paul.) In a sort of mental death, Firmian seated himself in the old chair, and covered his

The novel from which this scene has been taken is one of the most perfect productions of its extraordinary author. It has been the sin

eyes with his hands. The mist was now withdrawn from the future, and discovered a long arid tract covered with the traces and ashes of burnt-out fires; full of sear and withered bushes, and scattered with bones whitening in the sand. He saw that the chasm which divided his heart from hers would become wider and wider;-he saw it distinctly and desolately; his old, beautiful love, would never return. Lenette would never lay aside her obstinacy, her sullenness, her habits; the narrow inclosures of her heart and of her head would remain impenetrably shut; she could as little learn to understand him as to love him. On the other hand, the absence of his friend aggravated the bitterness of her coldness; he looked mournfully along the dreary vista of long silent days, full of stifled sighs and mute accusations.

Lenette sat silently at work in the chamber, for her wounded heart shrank from words and looks as from chill and cutting winds. It was already very dark but yet she wanted no light.

All at once a wandering ballad-singer, with a harp, and her little boy with a flute, began to play under the window.

It was with our friends as if their swollen and tightened hearts received a

gular fate of Jean Paul to enjoy unequalled popularity, yet never to have had an imitator: a style which none have ventured to imitate, may be supposed to present difficulties of no ordinary kind to the translator, and, in this case, the difficulties are enhanced by the nationality of the work.

Firmian, the hero, is a man of great genius and learning, and of the gentlest and noblest poverty-the privation of certain articles of moral nature; living in poverty-not in English splendour and luxury, but in that destitution of possession even of them, which, in Germany, all but absolute necessaries, and precarious it is not uncommon to find combined with the highest possible moral and intellectual culture, a fact which must needs appear unintelligible or incredible here. His wife, our unhappy Lenette, he has loved and married for her innocence, simplicity, agreeable person, tranquil temper, and for the possession of those arts and qualities most needful in the helpmate of a poor man. Unfortunately, he has, in the housewife, forgotten the wife; and though it is the habit of his countrymen to require from women the virtues rather of attached and industrious servants, than of equal, intelligent, and sympathizing friends, Firmian gradually wakes to the dreariness and misery of his most ill-matched companionship. It is thus we see him above. The character of Lenette is drawn with inimitable truth and finish. The inveterate prejudice, the irremediable obtuseness and contraction of mind and heart, the machine-like return to one set of associations and thoughts and feelings, are all drawn from the life.

English readers who are curious concerning the It is to be regretted, for the sake of those literature and mind of Germany, that this novel is not translated entire. It is one of Jean Paul's shortest, as well as best, and the most characteristic, both of the individual author and of his country.