DOI issue:
December 4, 1880
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17764#0260
December 4, 1880.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
253
ROUND ABOUT TOWN.
Lillie Bridge.
Otf receipt of an invitation to be present at “ Gale’s Great Walk,”
I travelled, down, a few days since, to West Brompton. My card of
admission informed me that the feat would be performed by the
pedestrian getting over “ 2500 miles in 1000 hours, walking miles
every half-hour.” I was further told that the promenade would
continue “from Saturday, November 20th, 1880, to Saturday,
January 1st, 1881.”
Until my visit my impressions of Lillie Bridge had been rather
vague. I had believed that it once had been the head-quarters of a
Club given up to skating on wheels. I had heard it whispered that
the Link had been changed subsequently into a Gymnasium. I had
seen on the hoardings about Town, just before Easter, large placards
of men wrestling, labelled “ Lillie Bridge on Good Friday,” and from
this I had gathered that the Club might have extended the scope of
its original objects.
It has been my lot to be present at many depressing spectacles. I
have visited a town immediately after a bombardment, I have seen
convicts at work in a prison conducted on the silent system, I have
passed through the confirmed melancholy ward of a lunatic asylum ;
but I never witnessed anything so utterly depressing as the grounds
of Lillie Bridge during the early days of “ Gale’s Great Walk.”
I presented myself at half-past two on a cold and wet afternoon, a
few days ago. A passage beside a Railway Station led to a deserted
turnstile, over which was placed a placard giving the price of ad-
mission. The label had been altered from some larger sum to six-
pence. As I reached the stile, a youth, who had been walking away,
returned hurriedly, and seemed surprised to find that I desired
admission. However, the exhibition of my card, inscribed “ Admit
Representative of Punch—H. B. Green', Manager,” obtained ready
recognition, and the lad was good enough to conduct me into the
grounds.
At first I could hardly believe my eyes. I was prepared for a
melancholy sight, but not for solitude. I had fancied that Mr. Gale
would have been surrounded by
enthusiastic admirers and sup-
porters, who would occasionally
break into bursts of loud applause.
I had even thought it possible that
there might be some flags and a
band. The place was quite empty,
with the exception of two little
men toiling round a heavy sodden
track. One was Mr. Gale, and
the other was his attendant. The
first (in the distance) looked like a
criminal lunatic doing his exercise,
and the last like his keeper.
After learning from the youth
that I was free of the place and
might go where I pleased, I looked
around me. I was standing on a
large piece of uncultivated ground.
There were two tracks—one was
being used for the “ Great Walk,”
the other was being slowly flooded
_ __o __ _ On one side were the walls of
Brompton Cemetery; on the other, a number of new taverns
and small dwelling-houses, amidst which towered a workshop that
had come to grief, and was now in the hands of the auctioneers.
On the north were some ramshackle refreshment-rooms, apparently
closed for the winter; on the south some low building that looked
like a laundry or a Parish Union. ^ The principal features of the
grounds themselves were a small unfinished iron summer-house, and
a swing that seemingly was the forgotten remnant of a long-past
country fair. In a corner were two cannons of ancient make, that
might have belonged to a Volunteer Corps that had left them there
after being disbanded. Near the unfinished iron summer house was
a board recording the number of miles that had been walked by the
limping pedestrian now coming towards me.
“Two! ” was shouted as I stood looking at the dismal scene in the
drizzling rain. It was the only sound I had heard since entering
the grounds, with the exception of the cemetery bell hard-by, which
was tolling every minute in compliment to an approaching funeral.
The Pedestrian, with a peculiar swinging gait, passed on and com-
menced Lap Three. As I stood, note-book in hand, an Official joined
me. He was very civil and full of information. Yes, the Pedes-
trian had to come out every hour and half-hour to do his appointed
distance. He generally took about twenty minutes, which gave him
ten minutes rest. He could not sleep, but he sometimes doeed. I
was not to mind the limp, it was his style, and he had had it during
previous trials of endurance. I might go and talk to him. He was
never tired of chattering. He had the Press to look after him. If I
liked (and this was told me as if a great favour were being conferred
on me) I could come and see him walking in the middle of the night !
The gate was always open, and he would be found doing his work
every hour and half-hour from week’s end to week’s end.
“ You have not many spectators,” I observed.
Well, no, they had not. My friend the Official was of opinion that
they (presumably the Public) would not come much before the end.
Then, he gave me to understand, they would flock to see him—if he
only could last out!
“Does he ever have a band?” I asked/fancying that perhaps
music might be an assistance in a “ Great Walk.”
The Official looked surprised. He evidently thought I was’quizzing
him. A band for one man! But finding I was serious, he didjhis
best to conciliate me.
“ Oh, I daresay he will have a band during the last week,” he
returned; and then added, as if to confirm the good opinion I cer-
tainly must now entertain of the arrangements, “ And I shouldn’t be
surprised if they didn’t give him a lot of illuminations! ”
By this time the voice 1 had heard before had called “Three,”
“ Four,” and lastly, “ Finished.” Upon this the Pedestrian quitted
the track, and was assisted
up some steps into a large
uncarpeted room surrounded
with lockers. I followed him,
and found two gentlemen
seated at a wooden table.
One was cutting out extracts
from a sporting paper, the
other was dividing the con-
tents of a large dish of boiled
beef, cabbages, and potatoes.
Mr. Gale was assisted to take
a seat on one chair, while his
legs were propped up upon
another. His lower man was
covered with a horse-rug. I
no w saw him close, and felt the sincerest pity for him. His face was
thin, and his eyes seemed to be staring out of his head with an ex-
pression of intense weariness. He was wearing a cap closely drawn
over, his head, a rough coat, knee-breeches, woollen stockings, and
a pair of heavy boots. These last had holes in them. He appeared
to be a lively fellow enough, and most anxious to afford informa-
tion. He would take beef, but no carrots. He was fond of beef-
tea. He found the track soft now, but during the night it had been
as hard as nails. He had just got through some mouthfuls of food
when a bell sounded. In a moment he was on his feet, and the beef
was discarded. Another bell sounded, and he was out and away once
more with his attendant. The time had already arrived for him to
do another mile and a quarter in the space of half-an-hour !
I followed him, and saw him again limping beside the small dwell-
ing-house, the Parish Union, the slowly increasing pool. As he
finished each lap the voice recorded the fact as before. Now he
appeared to me pale, now flushed, but always distressed. And as I
looked at all this I thought why has a card of invitation to witness
this sorry sight been sent to “a representative of Punch ? ” There
was nothing comic about it, nothing amusing. I did not laugh, and
felt that no true description of the matter could provoke merriment.
I considered that the wretches of Port-
land would shudder at the idea of
changing places with this poor creature.
I knew that were a horse treated as
this man was consenting to be treated,
the Royal Society for the Prevention of
Cruelty to Animals would interfere. But
there’s no Royal Society, and no power
in the world that can prevent a man
making an ass of himself if he chooses
to do so. But why send a card of ad-
mission to ‘ ‘ the representative of
Punch V' Was it because many a
shameful transaction has been crushed
in these pages? Was it because Mr.
Punch for nearly half a century has
been a powerful advocate on the side
of justice? Was it because the pro-
“ Finished ' ” moters of this stupid, cruel, degrading
piece of tomfoolery wished the matter
to be placed in the proper light? Very well, then, Mr. Punch's
Representative has done it. When I was at Lillie Bridge I did
not see a single spectator who looked as if he had paid for admission,
and I earnestly hope that not even “a band and illuminations
during the last week ” will attract more visitors. But supposing
this walk kills Mr. Gale, what will be the Coroner’s verdict?
His own fault ? or whose ?
As 1 left, the voice was crying “ Finished” to the appropriate
accompaniment of a tolling bell—in the neighbouring Cemetery I
On the Track.
Rest! (Ten Minutes in each
Half-Hour.)
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
253
ROUND ABOUT TOWN.
Lillie Bridge.
Otf receipt of an invitation to be present at “ Gale’s Great Walk,”
I travelled, down, a few days since, to West Brompton. My card of
admission informed me that the feat would be performed by the
pedestrian getting over “ 2500 miles in 1000 hours, walking miles
every half-hour.” I was further told that the promenade would
continue “from Saturday, November 20th, 1880, to Saturday,
January 1st, 1881.”
Until my visit my impressions of Lillie Bridge had been rather
vague. I had believed that it once had been the head-quarters of a
Club given up to skating on wheels. I had heard it whispered that
the Link had been changed subsequently into a Gymnasium. I had
seen on the hoardings about Town, just before Easter, large placards
of men wrestling, labelled “ Lillie Bridge on Good Friday,” and from
this I had gathered that the Club might have extended the scope of
its original objects.
It has been my lot to be present at many depressing spectacles. I
have visited a town immediately after a bombardment, I have seen
convicts at work in a prison conducted on the silent system, I have
passed through the confirmed melancholy ward of a lunatic asylum ;
but I never witnessed anything so utterly depressing as the grounds
of Lillie Bridge during the early days of “ Gale’s Great Walk.”
I presented myself at half-past two on a cold and wet afternoon, a
few days ago. A passage beside a Railway Station led to a deserted
turnstile, over which was placed a placard giving the price of ad-
mission. The label had been altered from some larger sum to six-
pence. As I reached the stile, a youth, who had been walking away,
returned hurriedly, and seemed surprised to find that I desired
admission. However, the exhibition of my card, inscribed “ Admit
Representative of Punch—H. B. Green', Manager,” obtained ready
recognition, and the lad was good enough to conduct me into the
grounds.
At first I could hardly believe my eyes. I was prepared for a
melancholy sight, but not for solitude. I had fancied that Mr. Gale
would have been surrounded by
enthusiastic admirers and sup-
porters, who would occasionally
break into bursts of loud applause.
I had even thought it possible that
there might be some flags and a
band. The place was quite empty,
with the exception of two little
men toiling round a heavy sodden
track. One was Mr. Gale, and
the other was his attendant. The
first (in the distance) looked like a
criminal lunatic doing his exercise,
and the last like his keeper.
After learning from the youth
that I was free of the place and
might go where I pleased, I looked
around me. I was standing on a
large piece of uncultivated ground.
There were two tracks—one was
being used for the “ Great Walk,”
the other was being slowly flooded
_ __o __ _ On one side were the walls of
Brompton Cemetery; on the other, a number of new taverns
and small dwelling-houses, amidst which towered a workshop that
had come to grief, and was now in the hands of the auctioneers.
On the north were some ramshackle refreshment-rooms, apparently
closed for the winter; on the south some low building that looked
like a laundry or a Parish Union. ^ The principal features of the
grounds themselves were a small unfinished iron summer-house, and
a swing that seemingly was the forgotten remnant of a long-past
country fair. In a corner were two cannons of ancient make, that
might have belonged to a Volunteer Corps that had left them there
after being disbanded. Near the unfinished iron summer house was
a board recording the number of miles that had been walked by the
limping pedestrian now coming towards me.
“Two! ” was shouted as I stood looking at the dismal scene in the
drizzling rain. It was the only sound I had heard since entering
the grounds, with the exception of the cemetery bell hard-by, which
was tolling every minute in compliment to an approaching funeral.
The Pedestrian, with a peculiar swinging gait, passed on and com-
menced Lap Three. As I stood, note-book in hand, an Official joined
me. He was very civil and full of information. Yes, the Pedes-
trian had to come out every hour and half-hour to do his appointed
distance. He generally took about twenty minutes, which gave him
ten minutes rest. He could not sleep, but he sometimes doeed. I
was not to mind the limp, it was his style, and he had had it during
previous trials of endurance. I might go and talk to him. He was
never tired of chattering. He had the Press to look after him. If I
liked (and this was told me as if a great favour were being conferred
on me) I could come and see him walking in the middle of the night !
The gate was always open, and he would be found doing his work
every hour and half-hour from week’s end to week’s end.
“ You have not many spectators,” I observed.
Well, no, they had not. My friend the Official was of opinion that
they (presumably the Public) would not come much before the end.
Then, he gave me to understand, they would flock to see him—if he
only could last out!
“Does he ever have a band?” I asked/fancying that perhaps
music might be an assistance in a “ Great Walk.”
The Official looked surprised. He evidently thought I was’quizzing
him. A band for one man! But finding I was serious, he didjhis
best to conciliate me.
“ Oh, I daresay he will have a band during the last week,” he
returned; and then added, as if to confirm the good opinion I cer-
tainly must now entertain of the arrangements, “ And I shouldn’t be
surprised if they didn’t give him a lot of illuminations! ”
By this time the voice 1 had heard before had called “Three,”
“ Four,” and lastly, “ Finished.” Upon this the Pedestrian quitted
the track, and was assisted
up some steps into a large
uncarpeted room surrounded
with lockers. I followed him,
and found two gentlemen
seated at a wooden table.
One was cutting out extracts
from a sporting paper, the
other was dividing the con-
tents of a large dish of boiled
beef, cabbages, and potatoes.
Mr. Gale was assisted to take
a seat on one chair, while his
legs were propped up upon
another. His lower man was
covered with a horse-rug. I
no w saw him close, and felt the sincerest pity for him. His face was
thin, and his eyes seemed to be staring out of his head with an ex-
pression of intense weariness. He was wearing a cap closely drawn
over, his head, a rough coat, knee-breeches, woollen stockings, and
a pair of heavy boots. These last had holes in them. He appeared
to be a lively fellow enough, and most anxious to afford informa-
tion. He would take beef, but no carrots. He was fond of beef-
tea. He found the track soft now, but during the night it had been
as hard as nails. He had just got through some mouthfuls of food
when a bell sounded. In a moment he was on his feet, and the beef
was discarded. Another bell sounded, and he was out and away once
more with his attendant. The time had already arrived for him to
do another mile and a quarter in the space of half-an-hour !
I followed him, and saw him again limping beside the small dwell-
ing-house, the Parish Union, the slowly increasing pool. As he
finished each lap the voice recorded the fact as before. Now he
appeared to me pale, now flushed, but always distressed. And as I
looked at all this I thought why has a card of invitation to witness
this sorry sight been sent to “a representative of Punch ? ” There
was nothing comic about it, nothing amusing. I did not laugh, and
felt that no true description of the matter could provoke merriment.
I considered that the wretches of Port-
land would shudder at the idea of
changing places with this poor creature.
I knew that were a horse treated as
this man was consenting to be treated,
the Royal Society for the Prevention of
Cruelty to Animals would interfere. But
there’s no Royal Society, and no power
in the world that can prevent a man
making an ass of himself if he chooses
to do so. But why send a card of ad-
mission to ‘ ‘ the representative of
Punch V' Was it because many a
shameful transaction has been crushed
in these pages? Was it because Mr.
Punch for nearly half a century has
been a powerful advocate on the side
of justice? Was it because the pro-
“ Finished ' ” moters of this stupid, cruel, degrading
piece of tomfoolery wished the matter
to be placed in the proper light? Very well, then, Mr. Punch's
Representative has done it. When I was at Lillie Bridge I did
not see a single spectator who looked as if he had paid for admission,
and I earnestly hope that not even “a band and illuminations
during the last week ” will attract more visitors. But supposing
this walk kills Mr. Gale, what will be the Coroner’s verdict?
His own fault ? or whose ?
As 1 left, the voice was crying “ Finished” to the appropriate
accompaniment of a tolling bell—in the neighbouring Cemetery I
On the Track.
Rest! (Ten Minutes in each
Half-Hour.)