The number of inhabitants of a country is to that of the families, as 1,000 to 222.

By taking a mean also, it is found that in 25 families, there is one where there are six or more children.

The proportion of males and females in a country, are as 18 to 19.

It is found that there are three mar

riages annually among 337 inhabitants, so that 112 inhabitants produce one marriage.

The proportion of married men, or widowers, to married women, or widows, is nearly as 125 to 140, and the whole number of this class of society, is to the whole of the inhabitants, as 265 to 631. Among 631 inhabitants, there are 118 married couples, 7 or 8 widowers, and 21 or 22 widows.

1,870 married couples give annually 357 children.

The number of servants is to the whole number of inhabitants, as 136 to 1,535 nearly.

TO READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS. ALTHOUGH it was part of the original plan of the MIRROR, to give extracts from the most

expensive, and most valuable new Works, as

they appeared, and we have frequently done this, yet it has occurred to us, that if we somewhat dering the MIRROR still more attractive; we extended this part of our plan, we might be ren

have, therefore, in the present Number, commenced the Selector. Authors and Publishers wishing to see a few of the best passages from their Works, (for we give no criticisms, nor seek after blemishes,) are invited to send copies.

The interesting Table on the Probabilities of Human Life, has confined us to so small a space, that we can only say to our Correspondents, that many of them who think themselves forgotten will appear next week.

143, Strand, (near Somerset House,) and sold Printed and Published by J. LIMBIRD, by all Newsmen and Booksellers.

THE Kremlin at Moscow, of which we present an interesting and correct view, exhibiting the ancient palace of the Czars, and the first place of Christian worship in Moscow, consists of three divisions the ancient palace, the audience chamber, and the new palace.

The ancient palace is supposed to have been commenced in the year 1499, by Alevise, the architect, from Milan. The scite had formerly been occupied by a wooden palace, which was burnt down in 1493. Deep cellars and ice cellars served for the foundation of this magnificent edifice, which was completed in the course of nine years, and is now named the Palace with the Belvidere. The palace stands at the extremity of the Kremlin, and, having received numerous additions at different periods, exhibits various styles of architecture. The top is thickly set with numerous little gilded spires and globes; and a large portion of the front is decorated with arms of all the provinces which compose the Russian empire. The apartments are small, excepting one single room, called the council chamber, in which the ancient Czars I

VOL. III.

used to give audiences to foreign anibas sadors. This palace, in which the Czars formerly held their courts, in all the splendour of Eastern pomp, was once esteemed by the natives, an edifice of unparalleled magnificence, which is now far surpassed by the ordinary mansions of the nobility.

In this palace, Peter the Great was born, in the year 1672, a circumstance which has only been recently ascertained. When Bonaparte penetrated with his legions to Moscow, he took up his residence at the Kremlin, where he remained, until the governor of Moscow, Rostopchin, preferred sacrificing the ancient capital of the Czars, to seeing it in the hands of an enemy. We shall, therefore, close this article with an account of that dreadful conflagration, from the recently published Memoirs of General Rapp, who was Napoleon's aid-de-camp. After the battle of the Borodino, in which 50,000 men were killed in a few hours.

The Russian army retreated towards the capital: it made some resistance at Mojaisk, and arrived at Moscow. We took this city without striking a blow,

113

Murat entered it in the train of the Cossacks, discoursed with their chiefs, and even gave a watch to one of them. They were expressing the admiration which his courage excited in them, and the dejection that a series of misfortunes produces, when some discharges of musketry were heard it was from a few hundred citizens, who had taken arms. They themselves put an end to this useless firing, and continued their retreat.

"Napoleon entered the next day. He fixed his quarters in the Kremlin, with a part of his guard, and the persons of his household; but we were so badly accommodated, that I was obliged to take another lodging. I settled myself at some distance, in a house which belonged to a member of the Nareschkin family. I arrived at four o'clock in the afternoon. The town was still complete: the custom-house alone was a prey to the flames, which devoured it before any Frenchman appeared; but night came on-it was the signal for the fire. Left and right, every where there was a blaze; public buildings, temples, private property, all were in flames. The conflagration was general-nothing was to escape. The wind blew with violence; the fire made rapid progress. At midnight the blaze was so terrific, that my aides-de-camp waked me; they supported me; I reached a window, from which I beheld the spectacle, which was becoming frightful. The fire was advancing towards us: at four o'clock, I was informed that I must remove from my quarters. I left them; a few moments after, the house was reduced to ashes. I ordered them to conduct me in the direction of the Kremlin; every thing was in confusion. I returned back and went to the quarters of the Germans. A house belonging to a Russian general had been appointed for me; I hoped to be able to stay there to recover from my wounds; but when I arrived, volumes of fire and smoke were already issuing from it. I did not go in; I returned once more to the Kremlin. On the road I perceived some Russian artisans and soldiers, who were dispersed about in the houses, and were employed in setting fire to them: our patroles killed some of them in my presence, and arrested a considerable number."

DEFENCE OF THE STAGE. A FEW REFLECTIONS ON THE BRIEF

CROSS STREET ORATION. (For the Mirror.) AMONG doubtless a very large, or at any raté, a very valuable portion of your rea*See Mirror, No. 69.

ders, I cheerfully uplift my feeble testimony, in sincere acquiescence of the goodness of intention evinced by your intelligent correspondent, Edgar, on the nature and effect of theatrical amusements; nor can I, however I may question its policy, at the same time refrain from expressing high admiration, at the diversified character, and the correct feeling manifested in the varied and interesting morceaux he has occasionally contributed to your excellent miscellany. Happy do 1 feel in bearing testimony to their merits, not from inherent vanity, or the consciousness of a qualified critic, for I have no such pretensions to authorize my obtruding myself as his encomiast ; aware of my inability to do him justice, rather am I disposed to think, that whatever I may be disposed to advance in the nature of eulogy, may appear immeasurably below desert. He must, however, accept the meed of praise as it is intended, without too nicely investigating the garb in which it is presented. Habiliment weighs not with the most faithful of domestic animals, whose grateful instinct is much more to be admired than boasted reason when similarly exercised.

But if I am again to be privileged among the select few,

"Whose pens reflect their hearts in lustrous sheen, Where reason and her satellites in godlike attitude enthron'd, Beam rays divine in giddy mortals gaze, Dazzling but to amend---illume---instruct---.” I must be wary, and not trespass on the indulgence by superfluous comment, for all that I could say, would but echo the opinion of the thinking few, and what is more tedious than a twice told tale.

Without further preface, then, I approach the subject, not exactly to blend my views with his, which, in my opinion, afford not the shadow of a hope, as to efficacy in loosening the fangs of vice from her domination over this immoral pestilence against which he so feelingly inveighs a pestilence of all others the most pleasingly seductive, and therefore the most ruinously dangerous as a public evil.

For my own part, I am not so sanguine as to think the human heart so accessible to rigid remonstrance, or rational argument as many imagine; its virtuous tendencies must be aroused by innate impulse, and the hand divine in conjunction for the prejudice in favour of, and partiality for such amusements grow up from infancy, and our first perceptions, so innocently so delightfully lean to this species of enjoyment, in entire ig-. norance of its questionable nature, that after reflection ranks its fairy-like illusions among the happiest recollections of

of

our existence. Be it remembered, this period is one of unsophisticated innocence, before the mind is susceptible of its immorality—a period of unstained purity, when attractive splendour, and all the beau ideal of the stage operate with magical effect on the surface of the heart, (for familiarity with its inmost recesses is of progressive growth) ere the veil is lifted up which obscures its licentiousness. The passion for its delicious gaiety, thus fed at intervals, "few and far between," becomes a rooted bias, that spurns after control, growing with our growth, and strengthening with our strength, till the full tide of unbridled youth has by inordinate indulgence, blunted and blighted the moral susceptibilities of the mind, rendering a waxen surface for indiscriminate impress, and most naturally, to those of a pleasurable tendency. In this lamentable exigence, a disposition to continue a gratification that appeals to the senses, with almost irresistible persuasiveness subdues the cold calculations of prudence and morality, as restraints which such perverted tastes condemn as unreasonably austere. Judgment is stilled by the conviction, that personally abstaining from what the best informed are too naturally prone to regard as fairly within the privileged scope amusement, would be debarring ourselves from a source of pleasure, which discriminative selection characterizes as admissible, for no attendant benefit whatever. A scrupulous conscience here and there, constituted as society is, can never operate to the abolition of theatrical amusements in this vast metropolis. The argument, that all thinking folks should abstain through principle from participation, is, viewed in this sense, weak and unavailing. The degeneracy of the stage, so long a matter of complaint, and its demoralizing effects, may, in some measure, be ascribed to the absence of such as are best qualified to improve its character, and admitting that the evil is insurmountable, and not to be borne down by the mere force of argument, however just and consistent, it seems to me, that the presence and chastening influence of such enlightened individuals is indispensable to check its abuses and curb the inroad of yet 'greater enormities. It is plainly apparent, that play-frequenters of the ordinary class, will not think for themselves. Witness the existing triumph of absurdity and frivolity over the productions of genuine talent; and while we deplore its degrading ascendancy, we feel assured they seek the gratification of depraved and sensual appetites, or at any rate the correction of a taste so

vitiated is too important to be neglected, for it is equally the fact, that when uncontrolled they invariably exercise a sovereignty, which those who administer this opiate to the senses--this seductive poison, find it their interest to gratify rather than oppose. What, let me ask, would become of these deluded creatures if left to the ungovernable influence of depraved passions? Do not the betterinformed, in this point of view, become their guardian angels? and, even if they fail in eliciting permanent good from an irremediable evil, at least they prevent its becoming in toto a sink of infamy. It seems essential, nay, indispensable, that the enlightened few should countenance the theatres, if, but to prevent their descending yet lower in the scale of infamy, and this from notions of christian charity towards such of their fellow creatures, as will not be deterred by moral considerations from frequenting them. Did such abstain, their example would scarcely operate at all-whereas, by their presence, they can put to flight ribaldry and buffoonery, and foster only such rational amusements, as are free from taint and impurity, defects which are pregnant with the most alarming consequences to the thoughtless and inconsiderate. Feb. 6, 1824.

MAN.

JANET.

THE following beautiful poem is copied from a MS. of a very old date, in the possession of a gentleman, who has kindly forwarded it for the Mirror. The Editor believes he has seen it in print, and thinks it is by Sir John Davies, but, not having that author's works at hand, he cannot say positively.

Like as the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on a tree,
Or like the dainty flower in May,
Or like the morning to the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had,
Even such is man, whose thread is spun,
Drawn out and cut, and so is done---

The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,

The gourd consumes, and man he dies.
Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearled dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.

The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended,
The hour is short, the span not long,
The swan's near death, man's life is done

Like to the bubble in the brook,
Or in a glass much like a look,
Or like the shuttle in weaver's haud,
Or like the writing on the sand.
Or like a thought, or like a dream,
Or like the gliding of the stream;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death!

The bubble's out, the look's forgot,
The shuttle's flung, the writings blot.
The thought is past, the dream is
gone,
The waters glide, man's life is done.
Like to an arrow from the bow,
Or like swift course of water-flow,
Or like that time 'twixt flood and ebb,
Or like the spider's tender web,
Or like a race, or like a goal,
Or like the dealing of a dole,
Even such is man, whose brittle state,
Is always subject unto fate:

The arrow's shot, the flood soon speut,
The time no time, the web soon rent,
The race soon run, the goal soon won,
The dole soon dealt, man's life soon done.

Like to the lightning from the sky,
Or like a post that quick doth hie,
Or like a quaver in a song,
Or like a journey three days long,
Or like the snow when summer's come,
Or like the pear, or like the plum;
Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow,
Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow.

The lightning's past, the post must go,
The soug is short, the journey so,
The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall,
The snow dissolves, and so must all.

A NEW CHAPTER ON EPITAPHS.

(For the Mirror.)

I LOVE a church-yard walk-a church. yard, where the nettle and the moss grow -where the well-arranged, green-mantled graves, are hidden from the rude, unthinking throng-where the cheeriess yew

that loves to dwell 'Midst sculls and coffins, epitaphs and worms, adds to the solemnity of the scene-and where the moon sheds its brilliant lustre on the monumental tablets, which tell that there sleeps one, whose grave has been moistened by sorrows and tearsthat there lies entombed "amidst the wreck of things which were," the blossoms of youth, and virtue's fairest buds.

The communion that we hold, as it were, with the grave, generates the imposing conviction, that ere long, we must contribute to "creation's melancholy earth," which works a feeling of no ordinary character, and pregnant with the principles of Him, "who gave us a pattern of the most exalted virtue." If reflection never found a welcome in the bosom of an individual, let him direct his steps to the consecrated path, and it will rush upon him with a double force. The infirmity of his tenement of clay, he is then compelled to acknowledge. This association of our animated frame with the dust of, perhaps, our dearest friends,

recoils upon our memory; and, while we might wish to check the impulse of our sensations we bend at reflection's shrine.

Here royalty, with all its pageantry and pomp, serves, in its turn, as does the wandering beggar, but as food for the worms, who there hold a higher station on earth. Here too, the clashings of interest, and the frownings of care cease to reign in man's breast; and, here also the discontent of man finds repose.

With regard to epitaphs, or inscriptions, we are enabled to trace their origin as far back as in the Old Testament: viz.-1 Sam. vi. 16, where mention is made of the "stone of Abel," and the inscription upon it was" Here was shed the blood of righteous Abel." Matt. xxiii. 35.

The quality of these elegies has, like all other human practices, varied much since their first use. The Spartans allowed epitaphs only to those who fell in combat; and the Romans limited them in a great degree. But, the most motley and harlequin change, has been within the last century.

We will pass by the simple tales of the inefficacy of medicine the fortitude with which death was met and the consoling advice to passers-by, and present two specimens, which, for presumption and ignorance stand, I believe, unrivalled.

In Silton church-yard, Dorsetshire :-
Here lies a piece of Christ,

A star in dust.

A vein in gold---a china dish,
That must

Be used in Heaven when God
Shall feast the just.
In Newington church-yard:
God takes the good, too good to leave,
The bad he leaves, too bad to take away.
Heaven have mercy on the poor survi-
vors of this good man!

I admire much, some of those epitaphs, which, without filling a tablet, with effusions, display a superiority equal to the greatness of the individual of whom they speak. The few words that the Italians have thought proper to mark Tasso's grave, ("Here lie the bones of Tasso,") are sufficient to proclaim his pre-eminence over others. Boileau has laid down this rule:-"Que les inscriptions doivent etre simples, courtes et familiares;" a rule I most studiously advocate. Of all epitaphs, perhaps, that were ever engraved, and so agreeing with Boileau's idea, the one in St. Paul's Cathedral, on Sir Christopher Wren, is conspicuous. It can be compared to nothing but the grand structure itself, which