Part 4 — "A BOOK IN A BUSTLE." A TRUE TALE OF THE WARWICK ASSIZES. BY THE GHOST OF CRABBE. PUNCH.

The partial power that to the female race Is charged to apportion gifts of form and grace, With liberal hand molds beauty's curves in one, And to another gives as good as none: But woman still for nature proves a match, And grace by her denied, from art will snatch. Hence, great ELIZA, grew thy farthingales; Hence, later ANNA, swelled thy hoops' wide pales; To this we must refer the use of stays; Nor less the bustle of more modern days.

Artful device! whose imitative pad Into good figures roundeth off the bad— Whether of simple sawdust thou art seen, Or tak'st the guise of costlier crinoline— How oft to thee the female form doth owe A grace rotund, a line of ampler flow, Than flesh and blood thought fit to clothe it with below!

There dwelt in Liverpool a worthy dame, Who had a friend—JAMES TAYLOR was his name. He dealt in glass, and drove a thriving trade And still saved up the profits that he made, Till when a daughter blessed his marriage bed, The father in the savings-bank was led In his child's name a small sum to invest, From which he drew the legal interest. Years went and came; JAMES TAYLOR came and went, Paid in, and drew, his modest three per cent, Till, by the time his child reach'd girlhood's bounds, The sum had ris'n to two-and-twenty pounds.

Our cautious legislature—well 'tis known— Round savings-banks a guardian fence has thrown: 'Tis easy to pay into them, no doubt, Though any thing but easy to draw out. And so JAMES TAYLOR found; for on a day He wanted twenty pounds a bill to pay, And, short of cash, unto the bank applied; Failing some form of law, he was denied!

JAMES TAYLOR humm'd and haw'd—look'd blank and blue;— In short, JAMES TAYLOR knew not what to do: His creditor was stern—the bill was over due. As to a friend he did his plight deplore— The worthy dame of whom I spoke before— (It might cause pain to give the name she owns, So let me use the pseudonym of JONES); "TAYLOR," said MRS. JONES, "as I'm a friend, I do not care if I the money lend. But even friends security should hold: Give me security—I'll lend the gold." "This savings-bank deposit-book!" he cries. "See—in my daughter's name the sum that lies!" She saw—and, satisfied, the money lent; Wherewith JAMES TAYLOR went away content. But now what cares seize MRS. JONES'S breast! What terrors throng her once unbroken rest! Cash she could keep, in many a secret nook— But where to stow away JAMES TAYLOR'S book? Money is heavy: where 'tis put 't will stay; Paper—as WILLIAM COBBETT used to say— Will make wings to itself, and fly away! Long she devised: new plans the old ones chase, Until at last she hit upon a place. Was't VENUS that the strange concealment planned, Or rather PLUTUS'S irreverent hand? Good MRS. JONES was of a scraggy make; But when did woman vanity forsake? What nature sternly to her form denied, A Bustle's ample aid had well supplied, Within whose vasty depths the book might safely hide!

'Twas thought—'twas done! by help of ready pin, The sawdust was let out, the book put in. Henceforth—at home—abroad—where'er she moved, Behind her lurk'd the volume that she loved. She laughed to scorn the cut-purse and his sleight: No fear of burglars scared her through the night;

But ah, what shrine is safe from greed of gold, What fort against cupidity can hold? Can stoutest buckram's triple fold keep in, The ODOR LUCRI—the strong scent of TIN? For which CHUBB's locks are weak, and MILNER's safes are thin.

Some time elapsed—the time required by law, Which past, JAMES TAYLOR might the money draw, His kind but cautious creditor to pay, So to the savings-bank they took their way. There MRS. JONES with modesty withdrew— To do what no rude eye might see her do— And soon returning—with a blushing look, Unmarked by TAYLOR, she produced the book. Which he, presenting, did the sum demand Of MR. TOMKINS, the cashier so bland.

What can there be upon the red-lined page That TOMKINS's quick eye should so engage? What means his invitation to J.T., To "Walk in for a moment"—"he would see"— "Only a moment"—"'twas all right, no doubt," "It could not be"—"and yet"—here he slipped out, Leaving JAMES TAYLOR grievously perplexed, And MRS. JONES by his behavior vexed. "What means the man by treating people so?" Said TAYLOR, "I am a loss to know." Too soon, alas, the secret cause they knew! TOMKINS return'd, and, with him, one in blue— POLICEMAN X, a stern man and a strong, Who told JAMES TAYLOR he must "come along"— And TOMKINS, seeing MRS. JONES aghast, Revealed the book was forged—from first to last!

Who can describe the wrath of MRS. JONES? The chill of fear that crept through TAYLOR'S bones? The van—the hand-cuffs—and the prison cell Where pined JAMES TAYLOR—wherefore pause to tell? Soon came the Assizes—and the legal train; In form the clerk JAMES TAYLOR did arraign; And though his council mustered tears at will, And made black white with true Old Bailey skill, TAYLOR, though MRS. JONES for mercy sued, Was doomed to five years' penal servitude; And in a yellow suit turned up with gray, To Portland prison was conveyed away!

Time passed: forgot JAMES TAYLOR and his shame— When lo—one day unto the bank there came A new JAMES TAYLOR—a new MRS. JONES— And a new book, which TOMKINS genuine owns! "Two TAYLORS and two JONESES and two books"— Thought wary TOMKINS, "this suspicious looks— "The former TAYLOR, former JONES I knew— These are imposters-yet the book is true!" When like a flash upon his mind it burst— Who brought the second book had forged the first!

Again was summon'd X, the stern, the strong— Again that pair were bid to "Come along!" The truth before the justices appear'd, And wrong'd JAMES TAYLOR'S character was clear'd.

In evil hour—by what chance ne'er was known, Whether the bustle's seam had come unsewn, Or MRS. JONES by chance had laid aside The artificial charms that decked her side— But so it was, how or whene'er assailed— The treacherous hiding-place was tried—and failed!

The book was ta'en—a forged one fill'd its place;- And MRS. JONES was robb'd—not to her face— And poor JAMES TAYLOE doom'd to trial and disgrace!

Who shall describe her anguish—her remorse? James Taylor was at once released, of course; And Mrs. Jones, repentant, inly swore Henceforth to carry, what she'd keep, before.

My tale is told—and, what is more, 'tis true: I read it in the papers—so may you. And this its moral: Mrs. Joneses all— Though reticules may drop, and purses fall, Though thieves may unprotected females hustle, Never invest your money in a bustle.

STANZAS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL. PUNCH.

I.

ON A TEAR WHICH ANGELINA OBSERVED TRICKLING DOWN MY NOSE AT DINNER TIME.

Nay, fond one I will ne'er reveal Whence flowed that sudden tear: The truth 't were kindness to conceal From thy too anxious ear.

How often when some hidden spring Of recollected grief Is rudely touched, a tear will bring The bursting breast relief!

Yet 't was no anguish of the soul, No memory of woes, Bade that one lonely tearlet roll Adown my chiseled nose:

But, ah! interrogation's note Still twinkles in thine eye; Know then that I have burnt my throat With this confounded pie!

II.

OM MY REFUSING ANGELINA A KISS UNDER THE MISTLETOE

Nay, fond one, shun that misletoe, Nor lure me 'neath its fatal bough: Some other night 't were joy to go, But ah! I must not, dare not now! 'Tis sad, I own, to see thy face Thus tempt me with its giggling glee, And feel I can not now embrace The opportunity—and thee.

'Tis sad to think that jealousy's Sharp scissors may our true love sever; And that my coldness now may freeze Thy warm affection, love, forever. But ah! to disappoint our bliss, A fatal hind'rance now is stuck:'Tis not that I am loath to kiss, But, dearest, list—I DINED OFF DUCK!

III.

ON MY FINDING ANGELINA STOP SUDDENLY IN A RAPID AFTER-SUPPER POLKA AT MRS. TOMPKINS'S BALL.

EDWIN. "Maiden, why that look of sadness? Whence that dark o'erclouded brow? What hath stilled thy bounding gladness, Changed thy pace from fast to slow? Is it that by impulse sudden Childhood's hours thou paus'st to mourn? Or hath thy cruel EDWIN trodden Right upon thy favorite corn?

"Is it that for evenings wasted Some remorse thou 'gin'st to feel? Or hath that sham champagne we tasted Turned thy polka to a reel? Still that gloom upon each feature? Still that sad reproachful frown?" ANGELINA. "Can't you see, you clumsy creature, All my back hair's coming down!"