morning—­such a morning, for instance, as that of the last Coronation.  This too must be before the many thousand fires are lighted—­exactly the period at which it is impossible to gain admittance to the cathedral.  In the Panorama of the Colosseum, therefore, alone it is that we can see the “mighty heart,” the town we inhabit; and for this grand scene we are indebted to the indefatigable genius of Mr. Hornor.[2]

The magnificent effect of the Panorama, however, baffles all description of our pen.  Indeed, the scene gives rise to so many inspiring associations in an enthusiastic mind, that few Englishmen, and still fewer Londoners, are equal to the detail of its description.  Every inch of the vast circumference abounds with subject for reflection.  The streets filled with passengers and vehicles—­the grandeur of the public buildings, churches, and palatial structures—­the majestic river winding grandly along, with the shipping, vessels, and gay trim of civic barges gliding on its surface, its banks studded with splendid hospitals, docks, and antique towers—­and its stream crossed with magnificent bridges—­till it stretches away beyond the busy haunts of industry, to the rural beauties of Richmond, and the castellated splendour of Windsor.  Of course, the river is the most attractive object in the painting; but overlooking the merits of the town itself, and the world of streets and buildings—­the representation of the environs is delightfully picturesque, and the distances are admirably executed; while the whole forms an assemblage of grandeur, unparalleled in art, as the reality is in the history of mankind.

The grand and distinguishing merit of the Panorama at the Colosseum is, however, of a higher order than we have yet pointed out to the reader.  It has the unusual interest of picturesque effect with the most scrupulous accuracy; and, in illustration of the latter excellence, so plain are the principal streets in the view, that thousands of visitors will be able to identify their own dwellings.  We have termed this an unusual effect, because we are accustomed to view panoramas as fine productions of art, with fascinating and novel contrasts, and altogether as beautiful pictures; but pleasing as may be their effect on the spectator, it must fall very short of the intense interest created by the topographical or map-like accuracy of Mr. Hornor’s picture, which is correct even to the most minute point of detail.  Thousands of spectators will therefore become rivetted by some particular objects, for every Londoner can name a score of sites which are endeared to him by some grateful recollections and associations of his life; whilst our country friends will be lost in admiration at the immense knot of dwellings, till they contrive to pick their road back to their inn or temporary abode in this queen of cities.  In order to court the rigorous inspection of the most critical visiters, engraved sections of the various parts of the picture, numbered and described, will be placed in the compartments to which the panorama corresponds; and for still further gratification, glasses will he placed in the gallery, by which houses at the distance of ten or twelve miles from the city may easily be discerned.  All this amounts to microscopic painting, or the most elaborate mosaic-work of art.