COUSIN MARSHALL.

THE first day of each month is marked by no publication of more importance than Miss MARTINEAU'S Illustrations of Political Economy. Each succeeding Number increases our admiration for the writer's abilities and our gratitude for the useful direction in which they are exerted. The scene is this time shifted to a city of ordinary population, and the usual institutions; the subject is Parish Charities. It is long since so practical a view has been taken of them, and never did they meet with a sterner or more searching antagonist. Miss MARTINEAU pursues the parish shilling from the pocket of the rate-payer, through the overseer and the workhouse, into the hovel of the indigent and the vagabond; and demonstrates, in various ingenious forms, its invariable tendency to increase the evil it would alleviate. She extends her condemnation even to all those charities that pretend to relieve sufferings that might have been calculated upon and avoided,— such as lying-in hospitals, and schools which supply maintenance, foundling institutions, and the like. It is very difficult indeed to refuse conviction to reasoning supported as hers is, by such a variety of views, such truth of character, such eloquent description, and so intimate a knowledge of the poor, of the nature of their poverty, and their modes of thought and motives to action. Cousin Marshall is the wife of a steady and respectable working man, who brings up a large family decently and virtuously, by the frugal employment of scanty 'wages; and when misfortune by fire rums the family of some poor relatives, is, moreover, able to provide for two of the orphans, and to keep a protecting eye on the others who enter the workhouse. The workhouse is laid open before us, and all its disgusting scenes : the mysteries of mendicancy are also disclosed; the dishonest tricks of the idle and vagabond to increase the parish allowance are dramatically exhibited, as well as the painful process of degradation, shamelessness, and ultimate vice worked in those who come to look upon the parish as the rightful labour fund. These things are shown in connexion and contrast with the family of Cousin Marshall ; which is, however, far from prosperous. In such times as those described, neither hard labour nor the very excess of frugality can keep the heads of a numerous family above water. Wages are too low, and work is too uncertain, for any common operative to look on the future with satisfaction. John Marshall the father dies ; the children marry poorly, and have large families; and poor old Cousin Marshall, the mother and grandmother of a numerous progeny, outlives the means of life—nearly; but such is the force of the admirable qualities of industry, frugality, and energy possessed by her, that even in her decrepiedays she contrives to scrape up sufficient subsistence to keep life in the body. The picture of her latter days, and the impression conveyed through the whole book, is that of a poor but high-minded creature, worthier of respect than dutchesses in their robes or countesses in their coronets and carriages. Miss MARTINEAU is the real painter of the poor: she has all the truth of CRABBE, with more hope and more reason. We will give two sketches, that, except by the author just mentioned, were never excelled, if by him. The one is the latter days and death of Cousin Marshall ; and the other the interior of the workhouse..

THE DEATH OF COUSIN MARSHALL.

The close of Cousin Marshall's very long life was not altogether so serene as the character of its days of vigour might seem to deserve. Her children were so burdened with families of their own, that they could offer no further assistance than that she should lodge with them by turns. She was positive, however, in her determination to live alone; and a small room in a poor place on the oatskirts of the city was her dwelling. In one way or another she earned a little matter, and lived upon it, to the astonishment of some who received twice as much from the parish and could not make it do. Her adopted children found the utmost difficulty in making her accept any assistance, clearly as it was her due from those to whom she had been a mother in their orphan state. It grieved Ned to the heart to see her using her dim sight to patch tier cloak for the twentieth time, when he had placed at her disposal the guinea and a half; with all that had accumulated upon it, in the Savings Bank. "Not yet. When I want it. I can do for myself still," were always her answers and though, without consulting her, be laid in coals and bought clothes for her during the two only visits that he was able to make to that neighbourl pad, and though these presents were, after some scruples, accepted, he never could prevail upon her, to use the little fend during his absence for her daily comforts. She was somewhat unpopular among her neighbours, who did not relish her Occasional observations on the multiplication of ale-houses' or her reports of what a comely robust man her John Marshall was, for all he had seldom a pint and pipe to refresh himself with when his day's work was done. 'Nobody was more open-hearted and sociable; but he could not afford both ale and independence,—to say nothing of charity ; and every body knew he was a father to the orphan. The neighbours observed that he was certainly very kind to the parish ; but that, for their parts, they could not afford to give charity to the parish. It was more natural for the parish to give to them. Such degeneracy as this roused Cousin Marshall to prophesy evil. She was rather too ready with her forebodings that those who thus ?lac would die in the workhouse, and with her horror at the warning seemieg, to create no alarm. But what roused her indignation above every thing was, the frequent question how, after all her toils and savings, she was better -off than her cousin, -Mrs. Bell ? Mrs. Bell had never snore heard of her husband, and had at length been taken into the workhouse with her family of whom one daughter had followed Jane's example, and gained her point of a pauper marriage; one son was an ill-doing pauper labourer ; and another, having been transported for theft, was flourishmg at Sydney, and likely to get more money than all Cousin 'Marshall's honest children put together. Mrs. Bell was prima of this son's prosperity, and would not have been sorry to hear any day of the other getting transported in like manner. Now and then it occurred to Cousin Marshall that there was little use in answering those who could ask such a question as wherein she was better off than Mrs. Bell ; but it oftener happened that her replies were given in a style of eloquence that did not increase her popularity. Death came at last, in time to save her from the dependence she dreaded, though not from the apprehension of it. In crossing her threshold, one winter's day, with her apron full of sticks, she tripped and fell. She seemed to sustain no injury but the jar ; but that was fatal. She survived just long enough to see the daughter who lived in the neighbourhood, and make a bequest of her Bible to one child, her bed to another, her few poor clothes to a third, pointing out the corner of her chest where was deposited the little hoard she had saved for her burial, e God has been very good to me and mine," she said. " They tell me I have not always said so; but I'meant no mistrust. I may have been too much in a hurry to go where ' the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest but it is all right now that I am really going at lest. Thank God ! I can say to the last that He has been very good to me." She left her blessing for every one by name, and died.

Mr. Burke met the funeral train coming out of the churchyard, and immeshately knew Ned, long as it was since they had met. "Your cousin Blershall's funeral ! " he exclaimed. "My wife and Louisa and I inquired for her in vain a long while ago, and supposed she had been dead some time. She must have been a great age." • . :" Eighty-one, Sir." In answer to Mr. Burke's inquiries how she had passed her latter days, and in opposition to Ned's affectionate report of her, a neighbour observed, with a shake of the head, that she was awfully forsaken at times, "It was but the day before she died, Sir, that she complained that the Almighty had forgotten her, and that she was tired of looking to be releaeed." Ned brushed his hand across his eyes as he observed that her neighbours were not capable of judging of such a woman as Cousin Marshall, and not worthy to find fault with what she let fall in her dark moments.

"My wife said at the time, however," replied the man, " that it would be well if a judgment did not conic upon her for such words : and sure enough, by the same helm the next (lay she was dead ; and not in a natural way either." Mr. Burke smiled at Ned, who gravely observed that his cousin had lived too late to be done justice to. By what he had heard her tell, he judged that a hundred years ago she would have been honoured and tended in her old age, and saved all she had suffered from fear of the parish, and have had it told on her tombstone how ninny children she had bred up by her industry. It would not be difficult, for that matter, to put on a tombstone now ; hut where would be the use of it, unless it was honoured ? The want lay there. "I hope," said Mr. Burke, "that we may as reasonably say that your cousin lived too early as that she lived too late. The time will come, trust sue, when there will be end of the system uuder which she has suffered. It cannot always be that the law will snatch the bread from the industrious to give it to the idle, arid turn labour from its natural channel, and defraud it of its due reward, and authorize the selfish and dissolute to mock at those who prize independence, and who bind themselves to self-denial that they may practise charity. The time will come, depend upon it, when the nation will effectually take to heart such injustice as this. There is much to undo, much to rectify, before the labours of the poor, in their prime, shall secure to them a serene old age ; but the time will come, though by that day yonder grave may be level with the turf beside it and there may be none to remember or speak oi Cousin Marshall."

INTERIOR OF A WORKHOUSE.

Miss Burke had gone into the country the morning after the fire, and remained some weeks. When she returned, she inquired of her brother what had become of the family who had been burnt out. She was an occasional visitor at the workhouse school, and besides knew some of the elderly paupers, and Went to see them now and then. Her visits were made as disagreeable as possible by the matron, who hated spies, as she declared, and had good reasons for doing so; many practices going forward under her management which would not bear inspection. She was sometimes politic enough to keep out of sight, when she was aware that something wrong hadalready met the lady's eye; but she more frequently confronted her near the entrance with such incivility as might, she hoped, drive her away without having seen any thing. The master

• was an indolent, easy Man, much afraid of the more disorderly paupers, and yet more of his wife. He seldom appeared to strengers till called for ; but was then quite disposed to make the hest of every thing, and to agree in all opinions that were offered. There was little more use, though less inconvenience, in pointing out abuses and suggesting remedies to him than to his wife ; yet Mr. Burke and his sister conscientiously persevered in doing this,—the gentleman from the lights he obtained in his office of surgeon to the workhouse infirmary, and the lady, from her brother's reports and her own observations.

Miss Burke's first inquiry at the workhouse gate was for nurse Rudrum. The porter's office consisted merely in opening the gate; so that when the lady had entered the court, ihe had to make further search. The court was half-full of people, yet two women were washing dirty linen at the pump in the midst. Several men were seated cutting pegs for the tilers and shoemakers, and others patching shoes for their fellow-paupers; while several women stood round with their knitting, laughing loud ; and some of the younger ones venturing upon a few practical jokes more coarse than amusing: At a little distance, sat two young women shelling peas for a grand corporation dinner that was to take place , the next day, and beside them stood a little girl whose business was apparently to clean a. spit on which she was leaning, but who was fully occupied in listening to the conversation which went on over the pea-basket. This group looking the least formidable, Miss Burke approached to make her inquiry. Being nnperceived, time conversation was carried on in the same loud tone till she came . quite near, when one of the young women exclaimed, "I don't want to hear any . more about it. I wonder you had the heart to do it." . "To do what ?" asked Miss Burke. "Something that you do not look ashamed oft" she continued, turning to the first speaker.

C'Lord, no," said the girl, with a bold stare. "It is only that a young mis. tress of mine, that died and left a child a week old, bade me see that it was taken

care of till her husband came back, who was gone abroad; and I could not be troubled with the little thing, so I took it direct to the Foundling Hospital; and I heard that the father came home soon after, and the people at the hospital could not the least tell which was his child, or whether it was one that had died. I kept out of the way, for I could not have helped them, and should only have got abused ; for they say the young man was like one gone mad."

" And was it out of your own head that you took the child there,or who mentioned the hospital to you?" " I knew enough about it myself," said the woman with a meaning laugh, " to manage the thing without asking any body. It is a fine place that FoundlingHospital, as I have good reason to say." " Pray find the matron," said Miss Burke to the little spit-cleaner, who was listening with open mouth ; "and ask whether Miss Burke can be admitted to see nurse Ruthann I think," she continued, when the little girl was out of hearing, " you might choose your conversation better in children's company." " And in other people's company too," said the other sheller of peas. " I've not been used to such a place as this, and I can't bear " You'll soon get used to it, Susan my love," replied the bold one. " Where do you come from, Susan, and why are you here?" inquired Miss Burlse.

With many blushes, Susan told that she was a servant out of .place, without fi iemla and with no one to give her a character, her last master and mistress haying gone off in debt and left her to be suspected of knowing of their frauds, though she had been so ignorant of them as not to have attempted to secure her own wages. It was a hard case, and she did not know how to help herself; but she would submit to any drudgery to get out of the workhouse. " Aud who are you?" said the lady to the other. " Are you a servant out. of place too ?"

• " Yes."

" And without a character ?"

" 0 yes quite," said the woman with a laugh. " It is well for me that there are some places where characters don't signify so much as the parson tells us. Susan and I ale on the same footing here." Susan rose in au agony, and by mistake emptied the shelled peas in her lap among the husks.

" There ! never mind picking them out again," said the other. " if I take such a trouble, it shall be for my own supper, when the rest are done." " So you really think," said Miss Burke, " that you and Susan are on the samefooting because you live under the same roof and sit on the same seat? I hope Susan will soon find that you are mistaken." At this moment appeared Mrs. Wilkes the matron, shouting so that all the yard might hear leer. .

" Is it nurse Rudrum you want? She is out of her mind and not in a state for prayer. Gentlefolks are enough to send poor people out of their minds with praying and preaching:" I' I am not going either to pray or preach," replied Miss Burke ; "and you well lenow that it is :some years since ntuee Itudrumu was in her right mind.. I only eels the way to her."

" Yonder lies your way, madam. Only take care of the other mad people, that's all."

Surprised and vexed to perceive Miss Burke persevering in her purpose, notwithstanding this terrifying warning, she continued, "Remember, if you please, that the doctors don't allow their patients to be made methodists of; though God knows how many are sent here by the methodists. You'll please to take it all upon yourself, ma'am." Miss Iturke, not seeing how all this concerned herself and nurse Rudrum, who were about equally far from methodism, pursued her way, as well as she could guess, to the right ward. She could not easily miss it when once within hear ing of nurse Rudrum's never-ceasing voice, or the tip-tap of her ancient highheeled shoes, which she was indulged in wearing, as it was a fancy not likely to spread. Nurse was employed as usual, pacing to and fro in the ward appropriated to the harmless insane, knitting as fast as her well-practised fingers would go, and talking about Jupiter. "Miss Burke, I declare," cried she, as soon as her visitor appeared. " You are welcome, as you always are—always very welcome; but," and she came

nearer and looked very mysterious, "you. are come from them people at a distance, I doubt. Now don't deny it if you be. If they have practised upon me, you didn't know it ; so no need to deny it, you know."

"I am come from Mr. Earle's, nurse; and Mr. Earle sent his love to you, and hopes you will accept some tea and sugar ; and the young ladies will come and see you When they visit me, and in the meanwhile they havesent you Sunday shawl."

A dozen curtseys, and "My duty to theta, my duty and many thanks; and I dare say it is because they are so sorry about them people at a distance that practise upon my ankle, -without so much as shaking their heeds."

" 0, your ankle ! I was to ask particularly how your ankle is. You seem able to walk pretty briskly."

"That's to disappoint 'cm, you see," and she laughed knowingly. "I only tell you, you know, so you'll be quiet. They can't touch me anywhere else, because of Jupiter in my cradle."

"What was that, nurse?"

" 0 that was when they made me a watch-planet ; and a fine thing it was to keep me from harm,—all except my ankle, you see. It was Jupiter, you know; and I feel it all over me now sometimes,—most in my elbows. It was only Jupiter; none of the rest of them.. That was my mother's doing ; for Jupiter is the most religious of all the planets." And so she ran on till her visitor interrupted her with questions about some of her companions in the ward. " Ay—a queer set for me to be amongst, a'n't they ? That poor man! Look at his sash ;' and she :giggled while she showed how a poor idiot was fastened by a leathern belt to a ring in the wall. "He spins a good'aleal as it is ; but if he could walk about, he would do nothing. He has no more sense than a child, and people of that sort are always for tramp, tramp, tramping from morning till night, till it wearies one's ears to hear them." And nurse resumed her walk. When she returned to the same place she went on—" If these people could be made ta hold their tongues, they would be better company; but you never heard such a chatter; they wont hear one speak. That girl sings to her spinning-wheel the whole day long, and she has but one tune. They say I am growing (leaf; but I'm sure I hear that song for ever, as much when she is not singing as when she is. But do you think thatI am growing deaf, really now Miss Burke could only say that when people got to nurse's age, and so on.

"Well now, 'tis only because of Jupiter,—listening as a watch-planet should, you know. You should have heard -his music last night ;—that that I used to sing to the little Earles, when Master Charles was afraid to go tie bed alone because of the ghost-story I told him ; and I put him to bed in Miss Emma's room for once and nobody knew :. so don't tell my mistress, for she never forgave such a thing."

Miss Burke smiled and sighed;; for this Master Charles was now a man of forty, and Mrs. Earle had been in. her grave nearly twenty years. As the visitor was about to take leave, nurse laid her hard on the lady's arm,-drave up her

tight little person to its best advantage, and gravely said—" One thing more, Miss Burke. . You will give me leave to ask why I am detained in this place, among idiots and dolts that are no companions for me? This is a poor reward for my long service, and so you may tell Mr. Earle."

"We hoped you had every thing comfortable, nurse. You always seem in good spirits." "Comfortable! You mean as to tea and sugar and shawls; but what is that compared with the company I keep ? The Earles don't know what they miss by what they do. Many a time I would go and see them, and carry them a piece of gingerbread, if I was not prevented." "Well, nurse, you shall come and see them at our house by and by. In the meanwhile—you knoweehe boys in the yard are very rude, and they are too apt to tease old people. We think you are more comfortable out of their way." Nurse still looked haughty and dissatisfied. "Besides," continued Miss Berke, "watch-planets are not common, you know; end who knows how they might be treated in the world ? " "True, true, true," cried the delighted old woman. " There are but two in the world besides me, and they are at Canterbury, where my mother lived nurse twenty years. 'Tis only them that study the stars that bow before watchplanets. Well ! we shall all study the stars up above, and then will be the time for us watch-planets." Su saying, nurse Rudruin returned to the track she had worn in the floor, and Miss Burke heard the well-known pit-pat all the way down stairs.