Prince Rupert, who will be remembered in the annals of the useful and fine arts when his military fame shall be forgotten, resided at a house in Beech-lane, Barbican, of the remains of which the above is a representation. His residence here was in the time of Charles II.; for it is said that Charles paid him a visit, when the ringers of Cripplegate had a guinea for complimenting the royal guest with a "merry peal." As the abode of a man of science, (for the prince was one of the most ingenious men of his time,) this engraving will doubtless be acceptable to the readers of the MIRROR. It, moreover, shows that even at that period, a residence in the City and its neighbourhood was not thought derogatory to a man of rank or fortune.1

      With the historical character of Prince Rupert, most of our readers are probably familiar. Many useful inventions resulted from his studies, among which are the invention of "Prince's Metal," locks for fire-arms, improvements in gunpowder, &c. After the restoration, he was admitted into the Privy Council. He likewise became a fellow of the newly-founded Royal Society, and a member of the Board of Trade; and to his influence is ascribed the establishment of the Hudson's Bay Company, of which he was the first governor. Orford, Evelyn, and Vertue attribute to him the invention of mezzotinto engraving; but this has been disputed, and, we believe, disproved.

      SOME ACCOUNT OF THE COLOSSEUM, IN THE REGENT'S PARK

      By the courtesy of Mr. Hornor, the proprietor, we have been favoured with a private view of the interior of this stupendous building; and, as it is our intention to illustrate the ensuing Number of the MIRROR with a view of the exterior, we shall for the present confine ourselves to such descriptive details as we have been enabled to collect in our recent visit. The interior is, however, in an unfinished state; the works are in actual progress, and the operations of the several artists continue uninterrupted by the access of visiters.

      On entering the edifice by the large door in front, a staircase on the right leads to a passage, which communicates with a circular saloon hung with coloured drapery. This room, which, when finished, will be the largest of the kind in London, occupies the whole internal space, or the basement of the building, with the exception of the staircase leading to the summit, which rises like a large column from the centre. This circular saloon is intended for the exhibition of paintings and other productions of the fine arts; and it redounds highly to the credit of Mr. Hornor, that this exhibition is to be entirely free of charge to the artists. Such an introduction of their works to public notice cannot fail to prove mutually advantageous.

      It may be here necessary to state that the wall of the building represents a panoramic View of London, as seen from the several galleries of St. Paul's Cathedral—and that the view of the picture is obtained from three galleries—the first of which corresponds, in relation to the view, with the first gallery at the summit of the dome of St. Paul's; the second is like that of the upper gallery on the same edifice; and the third, from its great elevation, commands a view of the remote distance which describes the horizon in the painting. Above the last-mentioned gallery is placed the identical copper ball which for so many years occupied the summit of St. Paul's; and above it is a fac-simile of the cross by which it was surmounted. Over these is hung the small wooden cabin in which Mr. Hornor made his drawings for the picture, in the same perilous situation it occupied during the period of the repairs which some years ago were done to the cathedral. A small flight of stairs leads from this spot to the open gallery which surrounds the top of the Colosseum, commanding a view of the Regent's Park and the subjacent country.

      The communication with the galleries is by staircases of curious construction, built on the outer side of the central column already mentioned. This column is hollow, and within it a small circular chamber is to be caused to ascend when freighted with company, by means of machinery, with an imperceptible motion to the first gallery. The doors of the chamber will then open, and by this novel means of being elevated, visiters may avoid the fatigue of ascending by the stairs, and then walk out into the gallery to enjoy the picture.

      In extent and accuracy, the Panorama is one of the most surprising achievements of art in this or any other country. The picture covers upwards of 40,000 square feet, or nearly an acre of canvass; the dome of the building on which the sky is painted, is thirty feet more in diameter than the cupola of St. Paul's; and the circumference of the horizon from the point of view, is nearly 130 miles. The painting is almost completed; indeed, sufficiently so, for the general effect; although this will be considerably increased by the insertion of the remaining details, and the last or finishing touches. Much as the spectator will be struck by the fidelity of the representation, there is one claim it has to his admiration, which has only to be explained to be universally acknowledged. It is simply this. Only let such of our readers as have ascended the galleries of St. Paul's, think of the fatigue they experienced in the toil, and comparatively speaking, the little gratification they experienced on their arrival at the summit. In short, what had they for their pains but the distinct roofs of the houses in the immediate vicinity, while the rest of the city was half lost in fog and the smoke of "groves of chimneys." The only period at which London can be seen, is at sun-rise on a fine summer 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.

      The