Punch (103.1892)

252

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [November 26, 1892.

JIM'S JOTTINGS.

[" Do the poor make the slums, or the shims
make the poor ?" —Henry Lazarus, in "Land-
lordism "]

Is it the poor wot makes the Slums, or the

Slums wot makes the poor ?
"Well, that's the question, Guv'nor, and I've

'eared it arsked afore, [be O.K.

And the arnser ain't so easy, if you wants to
Don't suppose as Jean settle it, but I'11 have

my little say.

My old friend Mister Lazarus, now, he ups

and sez, sez he,
The great Ground Landlord is the great

prime cause. " Yah ! fiddlededee ! "
Cries the House-Farmer ; "Slums is Slums,

acos the Poor is Pigs !
" You try 'em, friend philanthropist! They'll

play you proper rigs."

Yus, there's two sides to heverythink, wus
luck! That's where we 're fogged.

Passiges like foul pigstyes, gents, and back-
yards like black bogs,

Banisters broke for firewood, and smashed
winders stuffed with rags,

These make the sniffers slate the poor,
Perticular if they 're wags.

Well, gents, you know, it's this way. Just

you fancy yerselves born
In a back-slum like Ragman's Rents. 'Old

'ard, don't larf with scorn !
Some on us is born there, yer know ; it might

ha' bin your luck, got the chuck.

If yer mother 'd bin a boozer, and yer father'd

Of course youm was respectable; mine

wosn't; there's the diff. !
Ah ! things like this ain't settled by a snort

or by a sniff. [dark dive,

Jest fancy hopening yer eyes fust time in a
Or a sky-parlour where a plarnt o' musk won't

keep alive.

Emagine, if yer washups can, some ten foot

square o' room,
With a stror-heap in one corner, and a " dip"

to light the gloom;
"With the walls dirt-streaked with damp-lines,

outside, a drunken din,
And hinside, a whiff of sewer-gas in a hat-

mosphere of gin.

Some on you carn't emagine there's sech

'orrors on the earth;
But there are, you bet your buttons. Who'd

select 'em for their birth f [I expect;
Not you, not me, not no one, if you asked 'em,
But yer place o' birth yer see, gents' jest the

thing yer carn't select.

If you 're born where streets is narrer, and

where rooms is werry small,
Where you've damp sludge for a ceiling,

rotting plarster for a wall;
Where yer carn't eat, sleep, wash yerselves,

or lay up when you 're sick,
Without tumbling one o'er tother, wy, yer

sinks, gents, pooty quick.

Sinks ! Yes, when wot yer lives in is a sink,

or somethink wus ;
With a drunkard for a mother, and some

neighbour for a nuss ;
With the gutter for yer playground, and a

'ome from which yer shrink,
Can you wonder that poor Slum-birds is give

o'er to Dirt and Drink.

Ah! them two D's goes together. Just you

plant some orty Q,ueen
In a rookery, in her kidhood, and then tell

her to keep clean,
Wash 'er face, and mend 'er garments,—

wich they're mostly sewed-up rags,—
In six months she'd be a scare-crow, 'ands

like sut, and 'air all jags.

Wot yer washups don't quite tumble to's

the fack as like breeds like.
If you would himprove Slum-dwellers, at the

Slum you fust must strike.
Give us small dark 'oles to dwell in, and you

must be jolly green
If you think folks bred in dirt like, are

a-going to keep 'em clean.

When the sewer-rats take to sweetening and

lime-washing their foul 'oles,
And bright light and disinfectants are the

fads of skunks and moles,
Then poor souls in cellar-dwellings and in

jerry-builders' dens,
Will be smart as young canaries and as clean

as clucking hens.

Nocky Spriggings guyed me proper, in his

chuckly sorter style,
With his thumb 'ooked orful hartful, and his

chickaleary smile.
" Jim," sez he, " wot price your jabber ? Do

yer think the blooming blokes
Cares a cuss for me and you, Jim, any more

than for our mokes ?

"Shut yer face, you pattering josser! Dirt

and Drink is good for Rents !
If the Poor icos clean and sober, where 'ud be

their cent-per-cents ?
If it 's Public 'Ouse 'gainst Wash 'Ouse, if

it's Slumland wersus Swipes,
Jam on for booze and backy 'stead o' drains

and water-pipes.

"You may be too jolly clean, Jim, and a pre-
cious sight too light,

Were's the good to scrub yer skin orf ! And
if when a cove gits tight, [wot a lark

Or would give his donah wot-for on tbe Q..T.

If there weren't no 'andy alleys, nor no
corners snug and dark.

' 'If the Public—and the Slops—wos always

fly to wot we done,
'Long o' widened streets and gas-light, wy

we'd 'ave no blooming fun.

Lagged for larrupping yer missus, nailed for

boozing till yer nod ?
Wy, you jabbering young Juggins, we should

always be in quod/"

'Ard nut is Nocky Spriggings— of the sort

as make the slums,
'Cos there ain't much chance for cleanness, or

for comfort, when he comes.
He's as 'appy in the dirt, gents, as a blowfly

or a 'og; _ [a bog;

Or poor Paddy in his tater-patch alongside of

He'd chop up 'is doors and winders for a fire

to 'ot his lush,
Don't care a 'ang for decency, and never

raised a blush.
But, arter my hexperience—and I've 'ad some

down our court—
I believe that—fair at bottom—it's the Slum

as makes his sort.

Anyways I'm pooty certain, if we'd got more

light and space,
And were not jammed up together in a filthy,

ill-drained, place ;
If the sunlight could but see us, and the

public and the cops,
There would be less booze and bashing, fewer

drabs and drinking-shops.

Aye, and fewer Nocky Sprig gingses ! I

don't go for to say
As it's all along o' Landlords, who'd rent

'ell, if 'twould but pay;
But I've noticed you find fewest mice where

there are lots of cats,
And where there ain't no rat-holes, well—yer

won't spot many rats !

THE LAST DISCOYEEY.

(A Sequel to a recent Lecture. By Mr. Punch's
Prophetic Reporter.)

The enormous crowd cheered again and
again. It was furious. The enthusiasm spread
from throng to throng, until a mighty chorus
filled every portion of the land. And there was
indeed reason for the rejoicing. Had not the
great Arctic Explorer come home ? Had he not
been to the North Pole and back ? At that very
moment were not a couple of steam-tugs draw-
ing his wooden vessel towards his native
shore ? It was indeed a moment for congratu-
lation—not only personal but national, nay
cosmopolitan. The victory of art over nature
belonged to more than a country, it belonged
to the world!

And the tugs came closer and closer, and the
cheers grew louder and louder. Then the
vessel bearing the Explorer was near at hand.
The crowd joyously jumped into the water,
and raising him on their shoulders, bore him
triumphantly to land.

How they welcomed him ! How they seized
his hands and kissed them! How they cried
and called him " Master," and " Yictor," and
'' Hero!" It was a scene never to be forgotten!

When the excitement had somewhat sub-
sided, they began to ask him questions. At
last one of them wished to know how he con-
trived to find the North Pole and get back in
safety ?

"You intended to drift?" said they.
"Great and glorious hero, victorious victor,
triumphant explorer, did you do this ? "

" I did," was the reply.

"And tell us what was your method of
obtaining the knowledge you now possess "t
Oh, great chief, how did you manage it ? "

Then came the answer—

"By sitting still, and doing nothing ! "

And now it being dark, they separated to
illuminate their homes in honour of the fresh
industry—an industry admirably adapted to
that great and contented class of the com-
munity, the Unemployed!

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