PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 102.

February 20, 1892.

JIM'S JOTTINGS.

No. II.—RATS'-RENTS, THE RENTERS AND THE RENTED.

[In which GINGER JIMMY gives his views of Lazarus, Dives, Dirt, Mother Church, Slum-Freeholders and "Freedom of Contract.">[

"The Golgotha of Slumland!" That's a phrase as I am told

Is made use of by a party,—wich that party must be bold,—

In the name of Mister LAZARUS, a good Saint Pancrage gent,

Wot has writ a book on Slumland, and its Landlords, and its Rent.[¹]

He's a Member of the "Westry 'Ealth Committee," so it seems,

And the story wot he tells will sound, to some, like 'orrid dreams.

But, lor bless yer! we knows better, and if sech 'cute coves as 'im

Want to ferret hout the facks, they might apply to GINGER JIM.

There's the mischief in these matters; them as knows won't always tell.

Wy, if you want to spot a "screw," or track up a bad smell,

You've got to be a foxer, for whilst slums makes topping rent,

There will always be lots 'anging round to put yer off the scent!

I can tell yer arf the right 'uns even ain't quite in the know,

And there's lots o' little fakes to make 'em boggle, or go slow.

Werry plorserble their statements, and they puts 'em nice and plain,

And a crockidile can drop 'em when 'e once turns on the main.

All the tenants' faults; they likes it, dirt, and scrowging, and damp walls!

They git used to 'orrid odours! O the Landlord's tear-drop falls.

Werry often, when collecting of his rents, to see the 'oles

Where the parties as must pay 'em up prefers to stick, pore souls!

No compulsion, not a mossel! Ah, my noble lords and gents

Who are up in arms for Libbaty—that is, of paying rents—

You've rum notions of Compulsion. NOCKY SPRIGGINS sez, sez 'e,

While you've got a chice of starving, or the workus, ain't ye free!

Free? O vus, we're free all round like; there ain't ne'er a bloomin' slave,

White or black, but wot is free enough—to pop into 'is grave;

Though if they ketch yer trying even that game, and yer fail,

Yer next skool for teaching freedom ain't the workus, but the jail!

'Andcuffs ain't the sole "Compulsion," nor yet laws ain't, nor yet whips;

There is sech things as 'unger, and yer starving kids' white lips,

And bizness ties, a hempty purse, bad 'ealth, and ne'er a crust;

Swells may swear these ain't Compulsion, but we know as they means must.

Ah! wot precious rum things words is, 'ow they seems to fog the wise!

If they'd only come and look at things, that is with their hown heyes,

And not filantropic barnacles or goldian giglamps—lor!

Wot a lob of grabs and gushers might shut up their blessed jor!

The nobs who're down on workmen, 'cos on "knobsticks" they will frown,

Has a 'arty love for Libbaty—when keepin' wages down.

Contrack's a sacred 'oly thing, freedom carnt 'ave that broke,

But Free Contrack wot's forced on yer—wy, o'course, that sounds a joke.

If they knowed us and our sort, gents, they would know Free Contrack's fudge,

When one side ain't got a copper, 'as been six weeks on the trudge,

Or 'as built his little bizness up in one pertikler spot,

And if the rent's raised on 'im must turn hout, and starve or rot!

Coarse words, my lords and ladies! Well, yer may as well be dumb,

As talk pooty on the questions wot concerns hus in the Slum.

There ain't nothink pooty in 'em, and I cannot 'elp but think

Some of our friends 'as spiled our case by piling on the pink.

Foxes 'ave 'oles, the Book sez; well, no doubt they feels content,

For they finds, or makes, their 'ouses, and don't 'ave to pay no rent;

But our 'oles—well, someone builds 'em for us, such, in course is kind,

But it ain't a bad investment, as them Landlords seems to find.

The Marquiges and Mother Church pick lots of little plums,

And the wust on 'em don't seem to be their proputty in slums.

Oh, I'd like to take a Bishop on the trot around our court,

And then arsk 'ow the Church spends the coin collected from our sort.

Wot's the use of pictering 'errors? Let 'im put 'is 'oly nose

To the pain of close hinspection; lot his venerable toes

Pick a pathway through our gutter, let his gaiters climb our stairs;

And when 'e kneels that evening, I should like to 'ear 'is prayers!

I'm afraid that in Rats' Rents he mightn't find a place to kneel

Without soiling of his small clothes. Yus, to live in dirt, I feel

Is a 'orrid degradation; but one thing I'd like to know,

Is it wus than living on it? Let 'im answer; it's his go.

"All a blowing" ain't much paternised, not down our Court, it ain't.

Wich we aren't as sweet as iersons, not yet as fresh as paint!

For yer don't get spicy breezes in a den all dirt and dusk,

From a 'apenny bunch o' wallflower, or a penny plarnt o' musk.

Wot do you think? Bless yer 'earts, gents, I wos down some months ago

With a bout o' the rheumatics, and 'ad got so precious low

I wos sent by some good ladies, wot acrost me chanced to come—

Bless their kindness!—to a 'evvin called a Convalescent 'Ome.

Phew! Wen I come back to Rats' Rents, 'ow I sickened of its smells,

Arter all them trees and 'ayfields, and them laylocks and blue-bells,

And sometimes I think—pertikler when I'm nabbed by them old pains—

Wot a proper world it might be if it weren't for dirt and drains.

Who's to blame for Dirt? Yer washups, praps it ain't for me to say,

But—I don't think there'd be much of it if 'twasn't made to pay!

Who does it pay? The Renters or the Rented? I've no doubt

When you spot who cops the Slum-swag—wy, yer won't be so fur out!

Footnote 1: [(return)]
Landlordism, by HENRY LAZARUS.

WRIGHT AND WRONG.

"We are getting on by leaps and bounds," remarked Mr. WILDEY WEIGHT, during a recent case. Whereat there was "laughter." But Mr. HORACE BROWNE, for Plaintiff, "objected to remarks of this kind." Then Mr. Justice COLLINS begged Mr. W. WRIGHT "not to make such picturesque interjections." Later on, Mr. HORACE BROWNE said to a Witness (whose name, "BURBAGE," ought to have elicited from Judge or Counsel some apposite Shakspearian allusion—but it didn't), "Then you had him on toast." This also was received with "laughter." But Mr. WILDEY WRIGHT did not object to this. No! he let it pass without interruption, implying by his eloquent silence that such a remark was neither a "picturesque interjection," nor sufficiently humorous for him to take objection to it. The other day, in a County Court, a Barrister refused to go on with a case until the Judge had done smiling! But—"This is another story."

Good Grace-ious!

Two out of three, my GRACE! That sounds a drubber.

No chance for England now to "win the rubber."

We deemed you romping in, that second Cable;

But your team didn't. Fact is, 'twasn't ABEL

(Though ABEL in himself was quite a team).

Well, well, your SHEFFIELD blades met quite the cream

Of Cornstalk Cricketers. Cheer up, cut in!

And when March comes, make that Third Match a Win!

We're sure that while you hold the Captain's place,

Your men will win or lose with a good GRACE!

SUGGESTED TITLE FOR AN ACCOUNT OF A GORGEOUS BALLET OF UGLY GIRLS.—The Story of the Glittering Plain.

"STRAY SHEEP."

"THOSE SHEEP WHO NEVER HEARD THEIR SHEPHERD'S VOICE;

WHO DID NOT KNOW, YET WOULD NOT LEARN THEIR WAY;

WHO STRAYED THEMSELVES, YET GRIEVED THAT I SHOULD STRAY."

PERFECTLY PLAIN.

Young Wife. "OH, I'M SO HAPPY! HOW IS IT YOU'VE NEVER MARRIED, MISS PRYMME?"

Miss Prymme. "MY DEAR, I NEVER HAVE ACCEPTED—AND NEVER WOULD ACCEPT—ANY OFFER OF MARRIAGE!"

THE TWO SHEPHERDS.

[Mr. JOHN MORLEY was, on Feb. 6, at Newcastle-on-Tyne, initiated a Hon. Member of the Loyal Order of Ancient Shepherds, and afterwards, in a speech in the People's Palace, sharply criticised Mr. CHAMBERLAIN's plan for Old Age Pensions, expressing his preference for "more modest operations" in the direction of relaxing and enlarging the provisions of the Poor Law.]

To the Tune of Burns's "The Twa Herds."

O, all ye poor and aged flocks,

Dealt with in fashion orthodox

By Bumble bodies hard as rocks,

And stern as tykes;

And treated like mere waifs and crooks,

Or herded Smikes!

Two brother Shepherds, as men thought,

Have somehow fallen out and fought,

Though each your welfare swore he sought;

Flock-herding elves,

What can this bickering have brought

Between themselves?

O, earnest JOHN and jocund JOE,

How could two Shepherds shindy so.

Old Light and New Light, con. and pro?

Now dash my buttons!

A squabbling pastor is a foe

To all poor muttons.

O Sirs, whoe'er would have expected

That crook and pipe you'd have neglected,

By foolish love of fight infected

Concerning food?

As though the sheep would have rejected

Aught that is good!

What herd like JOSEPH could prevail?

His voice was heard o'er hill and dale;

He knew each sheep from head to tail

In vale or height,

And told whether 'twas sick or hale

At the first sight.

But JOE had a new-fangled plan

For feeding ancient sheep. The man

Posed as a true Arcadian,

With a great gift

For zeal humanitarian,

Combined with thrift.

But JOHN replied, "Pooh-pooh! Your scheme

Is but an optimistic dream,

Whose 'shadowy incentives' seem

The merest spooks.

Better the ancient plans, I deem,

Food, folds, and crooks.

"You do not grapple with the case

Of poorest sheep, a numerous race.

As to the black ones, with what face

Claim care for such?

'Tis hungry old sheep of good race

My feelings touch.

"Your scheme will cost no end—and fail.

No sheep who ever twitched a tail

So foolish is—I would not rail!—

As such a 'herd.'

I'd 'modest operations' hail,

But yours?—absurd!

"Better reform, relax, extend

The old provisions. I commend

Plenty of food, and care no end,

For all poor sheep;

But flocks would not get poor, my friend,

Had they good keep!"

Fancy how JOE would cock a nose

At "Cockney JOHN," as certain foes

Called JOSEPH's rival. Words like those

Part Shepherd swains.

Sad when crook-wielders meet as foes

On pastoral plains!

Such two! O, do I live to see

Such famous pastors disagree,

Calling each other—woe is me!—

Bad names by turns?

Shall we not say in diction free

With BOBBIE BURNS?

"O! a' ye flocks, owre a' the hills

By mosses, meadows, moors and fells.

Come join your counsels and your skills

To cowe the lairds.

And get the brutes the power themsels

To choose their herds!"

"And a Good Judge, too!"

There is a good Justice named GRANTHAM,

Who tells lawyers truths that should haunt 'em.

There are seeds of reform

In his speech, wise as warm,

And long may he flourish—to plant 'em!

STRANGE BUT TRUE.—When does a Husband find his Wife out? When he finds her at home and she doesn't expect him.

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

No. XXVI.

SCENE—On the Lagoons. CULCHARD and PODBURY's gondola is nearing Venice. The apricot-tinted diaper on the façade of the Ducal Palace is already distinguishable, and behind its battlements the pearl-grey summits of the domes of St. Mark's shimmer in the warm air. CULCHARD and PODBURY have hardly exchanged a sentence as yet. The former has just left off lugubriously whistling as much as he can remember of "Che faro," the latter is still humming "The Dead March in Saul," although in a livelier manner than at first.

Culch. Well, my dear PODBURY, our—er—expedition has turned out rather disastrously!

Podb. (suspending the Dead March, chokily). Not much mistake about that—but there, it's no good talking about it. Jolly that brown and yellow sail looks on the fruit-barge there. See?

Culch. (sardonically). Isn't it a little late in the day to be cultivating an eye for colour? I was about to say that those two girls have treated us infamously. I say deliberately, my dear PODBURY, infamously!

Podb. Now drop it, CULCHARD, do you hear? I won't hear a word against either of them. It serves us jolly well right for not knowing our own minds better—though I no more dreamed that old BOB would—Oh, hang it, I can't talk about it yet!

Culch. That's childishness, my dear fellow; you ought to talk about it—it will do you good. And really, I'm not at all sure, after all, that we have not both of us had a fortunate escape. One is very apt to—er—overrate the fascinations of persons one meets abroad. Now, neither of those two was quite—

Podb. (desperately). Take care! I swear I'll pitch you out of this gondola, unless you stop that jabber!

Culch. (with wounded dignity). I am willing to make great allowances for your state of mind, PODBURY, but such an expression as—as jabber, applied to my—er—well-meant attempts at consolation, and just as I was about to propose an arrangement—really, it's too much! The moment we reach the hotel, I will relieve you from any further infliction from (bitterly) what you are pleased to call my "jabber!"

Podb. (sulkily). Very well—'m sure I don't care! (To himself.) Even old CULCHARD won't have anything to do with me now! I must have somebody to talk to—or I shall go off my head! (Aloud). I say, old chap! (No answer.) Look here—it's bad enough as it is without our having a row! Never mind anything I said.

Culch. I do mind—I must. I am not accustomed to hear myself called a—a jabberer!

Podb. I didn't call you a jabberer—I only said you talked jabber. I—I hardly know what I do say, when I'm like this. And I'm deuced sorry I spoke—there!

Culch. (relaxing). Well, do you withdraw jabber?

Podb. Certainly, old chap. I like you to talk, only not—not against Her, you know! What were you going to propose?

Culch. Well, my idea was this. My leave is practically unlimited—at least, without vanity, I think I may say that my Chief sufficiently appreciates my services not to make a fuss about a few extra days. So I thought I'd just run down to Florence and Naples, and perhaps catch a P. & O. at Brindisi. I suppose you're not tied to time in any way?

Podb. (dolefully). Free as a bird! If the Governor had wanted me back in the City, he'd have let me know it. Well?

Culch. Well, if you like to come with me, I—I shall be very pleased to have your company.

Podb. (considering). I don't care if I do—it may cheer me up a bit. Florence, eh?—and Naples? I shouldn't mind a look at Florence. Or Rome. How about Rome, now?

Culch. (to himself). Was I wise to expose myself to this sort of thing again? I'm almost sorry I— (Aloud.) My dear fellow, if we are to travel together in any sort of comfort, you must leave all details to me. And there's one thing I do insist on. In future we must keep to our original resolution—not to be drawn into any chance acquaintanceship. I don't want to reproach you, but if, when we were first at Brussels, you had not allowed yourself to get so intimate with the TROTTERS, all this would never—

Podb. (exasperated). There you go again! I can't stand being jawed at, CULCHARD, and I won't!

Culch. I am no more conscious of "jawing" than "jabbering," and if that is how I am to be spoken to—!

Podb. I know. Look here, it's no use. You must go to Florence by yourself. I simply don't feel up to it, and that's the truth. I shall just potter about here, till—till they go.

Culch. As you choose. I gave you the opportunity—out of kindness. If you prefer to make yourself ridiculous by hanging about here, it's no concern of mine. I daresay I shall enjoy Florence at least as well by myself.

[He sulks until they arrive at the Hotel Dandolo, where they are received on the steps by the Porter.

Porter. Goot afternoon, Schendlemen. You have a bleasant dimes at Torcello, yes? Ach! you haf gif your gondoliers vifdeen franc? Zey schvindle you, oal ze gondoliers alvays schvindles eferypody, yes! Zere is som ledders for you. I vetch zem. [He bustles away.

Mr. Bellerby (suddenly emerging from a recess in the entrance, as he recognises CULCHARD). Why bless me, there's a face I know! Met at Lugano, didn't we? To be sure—very pleasant chat we had too! So you're at Venice, eh? I know every stone of it by heart, as I needn't say. The first time I was ever at Venice—

Culch. (taking a bulky envelope from the Porter). Just so—how are you? Er—will you excuse me?

[He opens the envelope and finds a blue official-looking enclosure, which he reads with a gradually lengthening countenance.

Mr. B. (as CULCHARD thrusts the letter angrily into his pocket). You're new to Venice, I think? Well, just let me give you a word of advice. Now you are here—you make them give you some tunny. Insist on it, Sir. Why, when I was here first—

Culch. (impatiently). I know. I mean, you told me that before. And I have tasted tunny.

Mr. B. Ha! well, what did you think of it? Delicious, eh?

Culch. (forgetting all his manners). Beastly, Sir, beastly! [Leaves the scandalised Mr. B. abruptly, and rushes off to get a telegram form at the bureau.

Mr. Crawley Strutt (pouncing on PODBURY in the hall, as he finishes the perusal of his letter). Excuse me—but surely I have the honour of addressing Lord GEORGE GUMBLETON? You may perhaps just recollect, my Lord—?

Podb. (blankly). Think you've made a mistake, really.

Mr. C.S. Is it possible! I have come across so many people while I've been away that—but surely we have met somewhere? Why, of course, Sir JOHN JUBBER! you must pardon me, SIR JOHN—

Podb. (recognizing him). My name's PODBURY—plain PODBURY, but you're quite right. You have met me—and you've met my bootmaker too. "Lord UPPERSOLE," eh? That's where the mistake came in!

Mr. C.S. (with hauteur). I think not, Sir; I have no recollection of the circumstance. I see now your face is quite unfamiliar to me.

[He moves away; PODBURY gets a telegram form and sits down at a table in the hall opposite CULCHARD.

Culch. (reading over his telegram). "Yours just received. Am returning immediately."

Podb. (do., do.). "Letter to hand. No end sorry. Start at once." (Seeing CULCHARD.) Wiring to Florence for room, eh?

Culch. Er—no. The fact is, I've just heard from my Chief—a—a most intemperate communication, insisting on my instant return to my duties! I shall have to humour him, I suppose, and leave at once.

Podb. So shall I. No end of a shirty letter from the Governor. Wants to know how much longer I expect him to be tied to the office. Old humbug, when he only turns up twice a week for a couple of hours!

The Porter. Peg your bardons, Schendlemen, but if you haf qvide done vid ze schtamps on your ledders, I gollect bostage schtamps, yes.

Culch. (irritably flinging him the envelope). Oh, confound it all. take them. I don't want them! (He looks at his letter once more.) I say, PODBURY, it—it's worse than I thought. This thing's a week old! Must have been lying in my rooms all this time—or else in that infernal Italian post!

Podb. Whew, old chap! I say, I wouldn't be you for something! Won't you catch it when you do turn up? But look here—as things are, we may as well travel home together, eh?

Culch. (with a flicker of resentment). In spite of my tendency to "jaw" and "jabber"?

Podb. Oh, never mind all that now. We're companions in misfortune, you know, and we'd better stick together, and keep each other's spirits up. After all, you're in a much worse hat than I am!

Culch. If that's the way you propose to keep my spirits up!—But let us keep together, by all means, if you wish it, and just go and find out when the next train starts, will you? (To himself, as PODBURY departs.) I must put up with him a little longer, I suppose. Ah me! How differently I should be feeling now, if HYPATIA had only been true to herself. But that's all over, and I daresay it's better so ... I daresay!

[He strolls into the hotel-garden, and begins to read his Chief's missive once more, in the hope of deciphering some faint encouragement between the lines.

FINIS.

A TENNYSONIAN FRAGMENT.

So in the village inn the Poet dwelt.

His honey-dew was gone; only the pouch,

His cousin's work, her empty labour, left.

But still he sniffed it, still a fragrance clung

And lingered all about the broidered flowers.

Then came his landlord, saying in broad Scotch,

"Smoke plug, mon," whom he looked at doubtfully.

Then came the grocer, saying, "Hae some twist

At tippence," whom he answered with a qualm.

But when they left him to himself again,

Twist, like a fiend's breath from a distant room

Diffusing through the passage, crept; the smell

Deepening had power upon him, and he mixt

His fancies with the billow-lifted bay

Of Biscay, and the rollings of a ship.

And on that night he made a little song,

And called his song "The Song of Twist and Plug,"

And sang it: scarcely could he make or sing.

"Rank is black plug, though smoked in wind and rain;

And rank is twist, which gives no end of pain;

I know not which is ranker, no, not I.

"Plug, art thou rank? Then milder twist must be;

Plug, thou art milder; rank is twist to me.

O Twist, if plug be milder, let me buy.

"Rank twist, that seems to make me fade away,

Rank plug, that navvies smoke in loveless clay,