“Servants, labourers, and workmen of different kinds, make up by far the greater portion of every great political society. But what improves the circumstances of the greater part can never be regarded as an inconveniency to the whole. No society can surely be flourishing and happy of which the far greater part of the members are poor and miserable. It is but equity—besides that they who feed, clothe, and lodge, the whole body of the people should have such a share, as to be themselves tolerably well fed, clothed, and lodged. The liberal reward of labour, as it is the effect of increasing wealth, so it is the cause of increasing population. To complain of it is to lament over the necessary effect and cause of the greatest public prosperity. It deserves to be remarked perhaps, that it is in the progressive state, while the society is advancing to the further acquisition, rather than when it has acquired its complement of riches, that the condition of the labouring poor, of the great body of the people seems to be the happiest and most comfortable. It is hard in the stationary, and miserable in the declining state.”
In a visit I paid to a poor patient in Burne Street, I could not help being struck with the cold, damp, dirty condition of this “attic near the sky.” The cold wind pierced through every crevice. The rain had come in plentifully through the ceiling and soaked the bed. The walls were black and grimy; the fire in the grate, like the life of my patient, feebly struggled for existence.
What dirt and neglect had done for the room—dirt, disease, and poverty had done for the inmate. I feel sure that had the dwelling been in a better condition my patient would have been in better health, and consequently stood better in every relation to society.
’Tis an old proverb that “prevention is better than cure;” yet how few there are who practically believe it. The principle embodied in this proverb received the approval and sanction of past ages, but which it is most difficult to enforce at the present time; it may be explained by the fact, that men not being forewarned cannot be forearmed, and further, because another principle which is expressed in the words, “men think all men mortal but themselves,” lies deep in the human mind. The blessing of health is not valued till it is lost. Let the mysterious hand of disease touch us, and we throb with painful anguish. Then do we long most earnestly for our valued health and strength; we resolve that once well again we will adopt such regulations and precautions as shall ensure a continuance of the invaluable blessings of health: such is the reasoning of the sick and afflicted. To the invalid the quantity and quality of the air he breathes is of vital importance, but to the man in comparative health, it is a matter of indifference. The laws which regulate the diffusion of gases on which ventilation depends, or the action of pure or impure air on the animal economy, is to him a subject of indifference; it does not yet affect him, and he has enough to do without it. The subject of ventilation bears such an important relation to health, and health is one of the greatest blessings of life, that I conceive it to be the duty of all to be fully alive to its value. In these days when the schoolmaster is abroad, and the march of intellect so rapid, it is not a little remarkable that the knowledge of the laws of health, based upon scientific data, are so little known.
If therefore, some of the general laws which govern the preservation of health be simply stated and illustrated, it may be the beginning of much good, by teaching or inciting men to become the guardians of their own health. One of the primary laws of health is to have a good supply of fresh air. The voice of nature cries aloud for fresh air, the cry comes to us alike from the newly born babe in the cellar, and the aged sufferer worn out in life’s troubles in the garret. It is the cry of the weary and worn; their thin blood flows feebly, and their life is ebbing fast as they cry, “Oh, for one short hour to breathe the breath of the cowslip sweet and to feel as I used to feel.” This is all that is craved ere the weary one welcomes the stifling hand of death. Such is the cry of thousands in our city. Who wonders at it? Not those who are practically acquainted with the dwellings of the poor. For those who are not, I shall in general terms indicate some of the features of the homes in my district. It is not my object to raise the veil of poverty to satisfy idle curiosity, or to awaken a morbid philanthropy. Scenes which are photographed on my mind, I shall from feelings of delicacy alike for the subject and the reader omit. As parochial medical officer for Christ Church district, it is very often my duty to visit East Cottages, and Little Church Street, and I am daily called upon to witness the suffering and sickness in crowded rooms, which is fostered by bad ventilation and insufficient drainage; here small-pox and typhus fever are frequent visitors. It is not an uncommon thing for a family of eight or ten to occupy one small room. In this single apartment, men women and children of all ages eat, drink, and sleep; in such a place as this, and under such circumstances, where little air enters, and less light, can it be a matter of surprise that sickness and death are frequent visitors. Death is so frequent a visitor, that to those who witness his work he has lost all his terrors; yea, he is rather a friendly visitor when he calls the younger members home. Think, reader, of such a home as this in the day of sickness, in the hour of nature’s woe, in the gloomy night of death. Picture children of tender years becoming familiar with these scenes, and can it reasonably be expected that they should grow up healthy either in mind or body. I could not but allude to the number of occupants in one small apartment, as it bears directly on the amount of air supplied to each one, and the necessity for free ventilation; overcrowding also tends very materially to demoralise the rising generation. In a word, it degenerates both body and mind. At an early age they sow the seeds of consumption, bronchitis, rheumatism, and a whole list of complaints, which may be traced more or less to the violation of the ordinary sanitary laws of health. The youth of our cities before they are young grow old, before the bud blooms the blossom is blasted; as flowers without the light of heaven, they are blanched, withered, and die. These sickly ones crawl into their homes, such as they are, from which the light of day is almost excluded, and with it the light of hope. Under these circumstances the parish doctor is sent for, but too often it is his lot only to be a passive witness of the irreparable mischief which has been done. I have a vivid and painful recollection of a visit I paid to Devonshire-place. The room was small, dark, dirty, and gloomy. There were but few squares of glass left in the frame, through which the yellow light feebly struggled to enter; the chimney was stopped up, the air stagnant and very oppressive, even for the few minutes I was present, yet there were no less than five people sleeping in this apartment, two children ill with scarlet fever, and one resting in death. The ventilation was so bad, that the recovery of my little patients was doubtful, and the deterioration of the health of their parents certain. In cases of this kind how important it is for every one to know, that by excluding the breath of heaven, we are extinguishing the breath of life. It is of the highest importance that we should have fresh air in health, but it is imperatively necessary in disease. Then more than ever does nature feel the necessity for fresh air. A lowered vitality like a fire that is dying out, requires a larger supply of atmospheric air, but alas! how often is this innate craving for fresh air stifled by prejudice and ignorance. Close rooms are rendered closer by chimneys being blocked up, and every crook and crevice being stuffed up by rags and paper, as if the great object to be attained was effectually to prevent one breathing. All this is done from the purest motive, and with the best intention; it is done to prevent the patient taking cold. So the patient has to struggle against sickness, poverty, and impure air.
Those who are in health, though they may sleep in overcrowded rooms, have the advantage of being out in the open air some part of the day, and this in some measure compensates for their close confinement. The open air quickens the pulse and restores the vitality of the various functions of the body. Fortunate are those whose employment is out of doors. This obtains rather with the male than the female poor. They too often leave a closely confined and overcrowded bed-room to go into a still worse work-room, there to work twelve or fourteen hours under flaring gas-lights in a heated and impure atmosphere. Those who live like this succumb at an early period of life to disease:—
“With fingers weary and worn,
With eye-lids heavy and red,”
they rush out of their overcrowded work-rooms and seek to palliate their physical sufferings at the gin-shop.
The air which surrounds us on every side, though invisible, is not inactive. To the casual observer its existence might be doubted if it did not manifest itself in the gentle breezes which bear the faded leaves of the widowed trees to their resting place; or in the wintry blast which uproots the sturdy oak of the forest, or lashes the white-crested billows of the ocean into a storm. In this way does the air we breathe make itself known to us. The composition of atmospheric air, the laws which govern it, as illustrating the theory of ventilation, the action of air on the animal economy, on the vegetable and mineral kingdoms, we must pass by. Suffice it to say that atmospheric air is a compound; that oxygen is the life-sustaining element; and that carbonic acid gas has an opposite effect; also the nitrogen; and that when we breathe we take in oxygen and give out carbonic acid gas. There is a law which governs cases called gaseous diffusion, by which gases pass equally into one another, and thus become equally diffused. If it were not for the operation of this law, there would be no variation of climate, no winds to waft the mariner over the briny deep, no provision for the scattering of the sun’s golden rays of light. The beauty of a summer’s sky would have been lost. No clouds would have hung around the portals of the setting sun tinged with crimson and with gold. No verdure in the meadow would have greeted our eye. No ark of hope would have spanned the clear vault of heaven. But, by the combination of oxygen and hydrogen, and the laws which govern them, provision is made for all these blessings. Light and heat are freely scattered. Animal and vegetable life rejoice. The priests of the morning chant their matins when the sun arises, and the flowers scatter their evening incense when the sun descends to glorify the western world.
In a sanitary point of view the law of gaseous diffusion is of importance, because noxious gases are thereby diluted by the atmosphere, and are thus rendered comparatively harmless; hence, by free ventilation, we may do much to lessen the predisposition to epidemics, and the virulence of poisonous malaria.