The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 544, April 28, 1832. Various

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      It is now upwards of three years since we directed the attention of our readers to the wonders of this little world of art.1 The ingenious projector, Mr. Horner, was then polite enough to conduct us throughout the buildings and grounds, and to explain to us the original design of the unfinished works as well as of many contemplated additions. This was about three weeks before the Exhibition was opened to the public. The Panorama was then partly in outline, and we had to catch its identities through a maze of scaffolding poles, planks, and stages; while the immense domed area re-echoed with the operations of scores of artistes of every grade, from the upholsterer nailing up gay draperies, to the heavy blow of the carpenter's mallet. We took advantage of our privileged visit, to point out to the reader how much he might expect from a visit to the Panorama, and, in our subsequent visits we have not for a moment regretted the particular attention we were induced to bestow upon this unrivalled work of art. It is justly described to be "such a Pictoral History of London—such a faithful display of its myriads of public and private buildings—such an impression of the vastness, wealth, business, pleasure, commerce, and luxury of the English metropolis, as nothing else can effect. Histories, descriptions, maps, and prints, are all imperfect and defective, when compared to this immense Panorama—they are scraps and mere touches of the pen and pencil—whilst this imparts, at a glance, at one view, a cyclopædia of information—a concentrated history—a focal topography, of the largest and most influential city in the world. The immense area of surface which this picture occupies will surprise the reader: it measures 40,000 square feet, or nearly an acre in extent."2 This may be a glowing eulogium; but it is true to the line and letter.

      We have already illustrated the Panorama,3 and it is our intention to introduce other embellishments of the Colosseum, as far as may be compatible with finished sketches. Our present subject is the principal apartment in the Swiss Cottage, to which the reader or visiter is conducted through a range of conservatories, containing choice exotics, with some of the most majestic proportions of leaf and flower that can be enjoyed in any clime. The communication is by a stone-work passage, the temperature of which is a refreshing succedaneum to that of the conservatories, or 72°. This cottage was designed by P.F. Robinson, Esq. who has evinced considerable taste in a publication on cottages and cottage-villas, as well as in the execution of various buildings. It consists of four apartments, three of which may be considered as finished. The apartment in our Engraving was completed, or nearly so, on our first visit. It is wainscotted with coloured (knotted) wood, and carved in imitation of the ornamented dwelling of a Swiss family. The fire-place will be recognised as the very beau ideal of cottage comfort: the raised hearthstone, massive fire-dogs and chimney-back, and its cosy seats, calculated to contain a whole family seated at the sides of its ample hearth–are characteristic of the primitive enjoyments of the happy people from among whom this model was taken. Our view is from the extreme corner, from which point the entrance-passage is shown in the distance.

      Apartment Interior

      The second Engraving shows the recessed window of the apartment, which faces the fire-place, and commands a view of a mass of rock-scenery, ornamented with waterfalls of singular contrivance and effect. The frames are filled in with plate-glass, so that the view of these artificial wonders is unobstructed. Our artist has, in his sketch, endeavoured to convey some idea of their outline; but he hopes to supply an amplification of their scenic beauty in a future engraving. We may, however, observe that the view from this window deserves the character of the sublime in miniature, and presents even a microcosm, where

      Rocks and forests, lakes, and mountains grand,

      Mark the true majesty of Nature's hand.

      The whole apartment presents a finished specimen of joinery, with a tasteful display of ornamental carving. Its colour is a deep warm or, we think, burnt sienna, brown; the furniture is in recherché rusticated style, planned by Mr. Gray, whose taste in these matters is elaborately correct; and it requires but the social blaze on the hearth, (which our artist has liberally supplied,) to complete the well-devised illusion of the scene. The apartment was painted about two years since as a scene for a musical piece at Covent Garden Theatre, the incidents of which lay in Switzerland.

      THE VOICES OF THE NIGHT

BY MISS M.L. BEEVOR(For the Mirror.)

      Like some young veiled Bride,

      Gleams the moon's hazy face,

      When tissues that would hide

      But lend her charms a grace:

      Each winkling starlet pale,

      Sleeps in its far, far fold,

      Wrapp'd in the heavy veil

      Of dewy clouds and cold.

      The turmoil, din, and strife,

      Of factious earth are o'er;

      The turbid waves of life

      Have ceas'd to roll and roar;

      But tones now meet the ear,

      Full fraught with strange delight,

      And intermingling fear:

      The Voices of the Night!

      Not such as softly rise

      When boughs with song o'erflow,

      And lover's vows and sighs,

      Like incense breathe below;

      Not such as warm his breast,

      Whose fever'd anxious brain

      Toils when all else hath rest,

      To bring the lost again!

      But the owl's boding shriek,

      The death-cry of his prey;

      The tongues that durst not speak

      In bright unslumb'ring day;

      The murd'rer's curses fell,

      His quiv'ring victim's groan;

      The mutt'red, moody spell

      Which rocks ABADDON'S throne!

      The song of winds that sweep

      Impetuously around

      Our rolling sphere, and keep

      Up conferences profound;

      The music of the sea,

      When battling waves run mad;

      Far sweeter there may be,

      But none so wild and sad.

      The wail of forests vast

      Thro' which pour storms like light,

      Whilst rending in the blast,

      They feebly own its might!

      Deep thund'rings o'er the main:

      The short shrill smother'd cry,

      Hurl'd to the skies in vain,

      Of drowning agony!

      The SOMETHING toneless, which

      Speaks awfully to men,

      Startling the poor and rich,

      For CONSCIENCE will talk then;

      These are the watch-words drear,

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