We seat ourselves on the clean marble at the edge of the Lavaterina; our host plays the soft pad of gazul over the head, the back, the sides; we complete the operation on the limbs and feet ourselves; Basin after basin of warm water rinses the gazul and the loosened epidermis from the surface, and we rise from the Lavaterina to recommence our observations.
Immediately in front of the flight of steps already described, and occupying the centre of the remaining wall of the hall, is a square pool, between four and five feet in depth, and reached by several steps. In this pool are two feet of water, perfectly cold, with a tap from which as much may be obtained as may be required. This water is pumped up from the river, and filtered before it is admitted into the bath: it, like the bather, is made to leave its dusty shoes outside the door, and is thoroughly cleansed before it is permitted to invade the sanctuary. In this pool, this piscina, the bather refreshes himself with a plunge in cold water—in the summer cooled down with ice—when he issues heated from the "hottest of hots," or when he completes the bath; and here he may take his dip or his plunge, his douche or his swim, with the sun shining in upon his polished skin.
Having received my freedom of the bath in the Lavaterina, I commenced a series of visits to all the soft, the warm, the perfumed, the hot, the cool, the cold nooks, that I could find. I rolled in enjoyment on the divan by the side of the piscina, watching my "companions of the bath," and especially a little Antinous, or rather an infant Hercules, of five years of age, who one while crept into the fiery tent, and another while disported himself like a young sea-god, with evident delight, in the cold piscina. I then took my place in the higher temperature of the torrid zone, on the divan that was breathed over by the sweet expirations of the mignionette; and anon crept into the tent with the scarlet curtains serving as a door, and wondered that I could breathe an atmosphere heated to 240° without inconvenience.
It was now approaching the hour of breakfast, and however disinclined I might be to leave the warm world in which I had spent more than an hour, I was ready to acknowledge certain material warnings of the charms of breakfast. Before, however, I could quit the bath, it was necessary that the pores, which had been all this while filtering the waste fluids of the body through their numberless apertures, should be made to close; and with this intent I descended into the pool, to experience and enjoy a new sensation. I crouched under the tap, while a cold torrent poured over me, the little Hercules catching greedily on his head any waste jets that glanced aside, and then shaking his flaxen ringlets over his face and shoulders with a joyous laugh. But my last experience was to come. At the word "Hold firm!" a full pail of hot-water rushed upon me like an avalanche, and was instantly followed by the same quantity of cold; this was repeated in quick succession a number of times, and then, when my host's arms seemed tired of the further repetition, I arose from the pool, and shook my soused frame on the platform above, with a feeling of freshness and vigour that I shall long remember—remember when the bath and all its vagaries shall have become too familiar to suggest a note of their early impressions.
I was soon warm enough to quit the region of water, and ascend into that of air—to quit the region of fire, and mount into that of the sun, then smiling beamingly in at the window. My host gave my head a good rub with a warm, soft Turkish napkin, and threw a warm mantle over my shoulders; and it was with a feeling of "divided duty," the bath on one side and the breakfast on the other, that I ascended to the Frigidarium. Throwing myself on a softly-cushioned dureta, a half-hour was spent in suggestive and instructive conversation, and then "to breakfast with what appetite we may." Shades of immortal Shakespeare! Speaking for myself, I should say, with the appetite of a man. Need I say more. This is my memory of the delicious bath at Riverside.
My host placed before me a dish, or rather a basket, of that wonderful Moorish food, the kuscoussoo, and our conversation naturally drifted away to the mode of preparing food pursued by different nations, and particularly to the mode of its preparation in the countries where the particular food is indigenous. I was struck with my host's remark, that while we draw food from other countries, we fail to learn the native manner of preparing that food; and that from our ignorance on this point we frequently deteriorate, and often destroy its properties altogether.
It is to be regretted that the very highest branch of the science of chemistry—that which has for its object the preparation of the food which God in his goodness has bestowed upon us, for the sustenance and preservation of His greatest work, man himself—should be so miserably neglected. How much happier man's state would be if this department of chemistry were more cultivated and better understood; how greatly would the nutritive power of food be developed, how much would be economized in its use! How much might even the life of man be prolonged! Of the many that die daily in their beds, surrounded by warm coverings, costly hangings, and sorrowing friends, there are many who die of absolute starvation—starved, because the modern science of culinary chemistry has no better nourishment to offer than abominable beef-tea, wretched mutton-broth, miserable arrowroot or sago, or detestable gruel. Tell me, ye sick who have so narrowly escaped death, whether what I am saying is not perfectly true; and that between nauseating physic on the one hand, and equally nauseating diet on the other, have you not "run the gauntlet" of destruction, from which your escape is indeed miraculous?
The plan of the bath at Riverside was not lost upon me in an undertaking on which I was then engaged—namely, building a bath for myself. My Apodyterium is at the back of my house; from this a Xystos, with a glazed roof, leads to the outer door of the Calidarium. Within the outer door is a vestibule, which upon occasion may serve as a Tepidarium. At the end of the vestibule is a second door, and this opened, we are in the Calidarium, an apartment more than ten feet high, fifteen feet long, and twelve wide. Along the side of the room runs a flue, with an area of four feet by nine inches; the flue crosses the end, and returns for a distance of two feet on the opposite side. At the point of return is the chimney. Two windows with thick glass let light into the room; and five circular openings, four inches in diameter, and closed by a telescopic lid (Looker's ventilator), supply an abundance of air; while a similar ventilator in the chimney-shaft secures its free circulation. The floor is a tesselated pavement of coloured octagonal tiles; and on the side corresponding with the door is a sunken Lavaterina, three feet six in length, two in breadth, and eighteen inches deep. Over the centre of the Lavaterina are two spouts, for cold and hot water; the latter being obtained from a galvanized iron tank, capable of holding twenty-five gallons, that stands on the returned flue, against the chimney-shaft. In this bath, as in Mr. Urquhart's, I expect to get various degrees of temperature, increasing in altitude from a temperate standard in the vestibule, to the highest temperature that can be required, immediately over the furnace, where I have established my Laconicum.