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!