London that the most liberal donations were made. Again, look at the Religious Societies. In last year the income of the Church Missionary Society was £163,629. 1s. 4d.; of the Bible Society £162,020. 13s. 5d. Of the Wesleyan Missionary Society, £141,000. 5s. 11d. Of the London Missionary Society, £93,000. Thus gigantic and all-persuading are the charities of London. The almshouses erected by private individuals or public subscriptions are too numerous to be described, except we refer to the London Almshouses erected at Brixton to commemorate the passing of the Reform Bill; nor would I forget the Charter House with its jovial and grateful chorus:—
“Then blessed be the memory
Of good old Thomas Sutton,
Who gave us lodging, learning,
And he gave us beef and mutton.”
Nor Christ’s Hospital, with its annual income of £50,000; nor the Foundling Hospital, with its 500 children; nor Alleyn’s magnificent gift of Dulwich; nor the Bethlehem Hospital, with its income of nearly £30,000 a year; nor the Magdalene. But we must say a few words about the Hospitals; of the more than 500 Charitable Institutions of the metropolis, one quarter consists of general medical hospitals, medical charities for special purposes, dispensaries, &c. In 1859, in Bartholomew’s, I find there were patients admitted, cured, and discharged, 5,865 in, 86,480 out;
in St. Thomas’s 4,114 in, 44,744 out; the Charing Cross Hospital has, I believe, on an average 1,000 inpatients, 17,000 out. Guy’s, with its annual income of £30,000, has an entire average of in and outpatients of 50,000. But we stop, the list is not exhausted, but we fear the patience of the reader is.
CHAPTER VIII.
PEDESTRIANISM.
I am a great advocate of Pedestrianism, and take it to be a very honest way of getting through the world. If you ride in a carriage you may be upset; if you throw your leg across a horse’s back you may meet with the fate of Sir Robert Peel; and as to getting into a railway carriage, the fearful consequences of that require for their description a more vigorous pen than mine. I like to see a good walker; how delightful his appetite, how firm his muscle, how healthy his cheek, how splendid his condition. Has he a care, he walks it off; is ruin staring him in the face, only let him have a couple of hour’s walk, and he is in a condition to meet the great enemy of mankind himself. Has his friend betrayed him—are his hopes of fame, of wealth, of power blighted?—is his love’s young dream rudely broken? Let him away from the circles of men out on the green turf, with the blue sky of heaven above, and in a very little while the agony is over, and “Richard’s himself again.” Were it only for the sake of the active exercise it inculcates
and requires I would say—Long live the Rifle Corps movement. The other day a gallant little band in my own immediate neighbourhood set out for an evening’s march. They were in capital spirits; they were dressed in their Sunday best; they had a band playing at their head; a miscellaneous crowd, chiefly juvenile, with a few occasional females behind, brought up the rear. A deputy of the London Corporation and his brother formed part of the devoted troop. Gaily and amidst cheers they marched from the bosoms of their families, leaving “their girls behind them.” On they went, up-hill and down-hill, many a mile, amidst Hornsey’s pleasant green lanes, till at length the London deputy turned pale, and intimated—while his limbs appeared to sink beneath him, and his whole body was bathed in sweat—that he could stand it no longer. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak. A halt was ordered—beer was sought for for the London deputy, and with considerable difficulty they got the martial hero home. Had that gallant man been a good pedestrian, would he not have scorned the beer, and laughed at the idea of rest? Look at Charles Dickens—I am sure he will forgive me the personality, as no harm is intended—why is he ever genial, ever fresh—as superior to the crowd who imitate his mannerism, but fail to catch his warm, sunny, human spirit, as the Koh-i-noor to its glass counterfeit, but because no man in town walks more than he? What a man for walking was the great Liston, foremost operator of his age. The late Lord Suffield, who fought all
the Lords, including the bench of Bishops, in order to win emancipation for the slave, was one of the most athletic men of his day. On one occasion he ran a distance of ten miles before the Norwich mail as a casual frolic, without any previous training, and he assured Sir George Stephen that he never experienced any inconvenience from it. When we talk of a man being weak on his pins, what does it imply but that he has been a rake, or a sot, or a fool who has cultivated the pocket or the brain at the expense of that machine, so fearfully and wonderfully made, we call man. The machine is made to wear well, it is man’s fault if it does not. The pedestrian alone keeps his in good repair; our long livers have mostly been great walkers. Taylor, the water-poet, says of old Parr—
“Good wholesome labour was his exercise,
Down with the lamb, and with the lark would rise,
In mire and toiling sweat he spent the day,
And to his team he whistled time away.”
People are getting more fond of physical exercise than they were. We may almost ask—Are we returned back to the days of the Iliad and the Odyssey? The gentlemen of the Stock Exchange greet Tom Sayers as if he were an emperor, and, it is said, peers and clergymen think it right to assist at a “mill.” We have heard so much about muscular Christianity—so much stress has been laid upon the adjective—that we seem in danger of forgetting the Christianity altogether. Undoubtedly our fathers are to blame in some