To the natives of a country possessing a damp, cold, and variable climate, like that of Britain, wherein catarrhs are the scourge of the population (such catarrhs being attributable in most cases to checked perspiration and extreme cooling of the surface of the body), the apprehension of cold and catarrh from the use of the bath is a natural expectation. But the practice of the bath proves such an apprehension to be unfounded, and our reason helps us to see that there is in reality no such danger. The ordinary process of taking a cold is as follows: we are warmed by exercise, perhaps somewhat exhausted at the same time; the skin is bedewed with perspiration; the perspired fluid evaporates, producing chill; and the chill occasions a shock to the nervous system and to the whole economy, that results in the reaction known as "a cold." But if we contrast these conditions with those of the bath, we find that there is no parallel between them. In the bath we perspire; in a warm and genial temperature we abstract from the system all the watery fluid that Nature has, at the time, to spare; we rinse off the perspiration with warm water; we shut up the pores by means of cold water; we warm the body anew; we then rest tranquilly until every particle of moisture is removed from the skin; and when we are thoroughly dry, we put on dry and warm clothes. In this process it is clear that there is not even a chink by which a cold can approach us. If we hear of people taking cold after the bath, we may be assured that they have broken its laws somehow or somewhere. The bath, properly conducted,—and improperly conducted it is not the bath—THE BATH CANNOT GIVE COLD.
That which is most needful to impress upon nations unaccustomed to the bath, is a respect for its ordinances. People are apt, on their first introduction to the bath as a new idea, either to take alarm at the apparent severity of its processes, or to go to the opposite extreme of treating it inconsiderately. People require training to the bath, as they do to other processes which are calculated to affect the well-being of their constitution. If they were bred to the bath from their infancy, no training would be requisite; but as they are not, there are very few who can go through the London Turkish Bath in all its entirety, and as it is at present conducted, without risk of accident of some kind—that is, before they are properly seasoned. I call to mind a gentleman of susceptible constitution, whom I myself introduced to the bath: the temperature did not exceed 135°; he felt very little uneasiness during the process; but his liver took offence at the inordinate and unusual industry of its coadjutor, the skin, and was many days before its anger was appeased, the possessor being much troubled in the meantime by the intestine feud of his interior. But this affords no ground of argument against the bath; it only corroborates the views of moderation which I am endeavouring to inculcate. Had my friend taken the bath at a lower temperature, or reduced its duration to a shorter period, he would have suffered no inconvenience; and, after all, it was but the inconvenience attendant upon the initiation of a new physiological process.
A similar event occurred in the instance of another friend, a literary man, of sedentary habits, but thin, and not overcharged with waste humours. The temperature of the bath was the same, but my friend was not equal to the demand made upon his vaporizable fluids, and the use of the bath tended to derange his nutritive functions and lower his powers. Here, again, it was clear that a more moderate temperature, a slower transpiration, and a shorter period of duration, were the natural agents of cure. With these conditions there would have been no strain on the circulating or nervous system, and the bather would have enjoyed relatively the same advantages as another abounding in humours. If we had a choice, if we had the opportunity of selecting subjects for the bath, we should take them from the latter class; and these are the persons who would derive the greatest benefits from its use. Another example of the abuse of the bath was a lady who had taken twelve baths with enjoyment and advantage: on entering the bath the thirteenth time, the temperature was 190°, she felt uncomfortable, and remained unwell for several days. On the other hand, I have had the pleasure of seeing many with whom the bath had disagreed at first, become accustomed to it, and derive great benefit from its regular use.
Non-bathers often express an alarm lest the bath may be weakening. But the bath strengthens, it never weakens, except, as in the instances above narrated, it be used improperly. The idea of weakening is suggested by the loss of fluids by perspiration; but this loss is, as I have endeavoured to show, a gain and not a loss. The expulsion of watery fluids from the economy is a natural process, necessary to our very existence, and without it we should die. It would be very unreasonable to regard the watery fluids expelled by the lungs, by the skin, and by other emunctory organs, as a loss of material necessary to the economy, or a loss which could in any way affect the nervous and muscular powers of the individual otherwise than beneficially—unless, indeed, the loss be inordinate and excessive. Is it not one of the conditions of our healthful existence, that we should earn our bread with the sweat of our brow? and, writhe as we may under the verdict, we must do so, or suffer the evil consequences of a breach of Heaven's law. Mr. Urquhart has the following observations on this subject:—
"There is an impression that the bath is weakening. We can test this in three ways; its effects on those debilitated by disease, on those exhausted by fatigue, and on those who are long exposed to it.
"1. In affections of the lungs and intermittent fever, the bath is invariably had recourse to against the debilitating nightly perspirations. The temperature is kept low, not to increase the action of the heart or the secretions; this danger avoided, its effect is to subdue, by a healthy perspiration in a waking state, the unhealthy one in sleep. No one ever heard of any injury from the bath. The moment a person is ailing he is hurried off to it.
"2. After long and severe fatigue,—that fatigue such as we never know, successive days and nights on horseback—the bath affords the most astonishing relief. Having performed long journeys on horseback, even to the extent of ninety-four hours, without taking rest, I know by experience its effects in the extremest cases.
"A Tartar having an hour to rest, prefers a bath to sleep. He enters as if drugged with opium, and leaves it, his senses cleared, and his strength restored as much as if he had slept for several hours. This is not to be attributed to the heat or moisture alone, but to the shampooing, which in such cases is of an extraordinary nature. The Tartar sits down and doubles himself up; the shampooer (and he selects the most powerful man) then springs with his feet on his shoulders, cracking his vertebræ; with all his force and weight he pummels the whole back, and then turning him on his back and face, aided by a second shampooer, tramples on his body and limbs; the Tartar then lays himself down for half an hour; and perhaps, though that is not necessary, sleeps. Well can I recal the hamâm doors which I have entered scarcely able to drag one limb after the other, and from which I have sprung into my saddle again elastic as a sinew and light as a feather."
Sir Alexander Burnes, in his "Travels in Bokhara," on the same topic observes:—"You are laid out at full length, rubbed with a hair brush, scrubbed, buffeted, and kicked; but it is all very refreshing." And Anquetil gives the following account of shampooing;—"One of the attendants on the bath extends you upon a bench, sprinkles you with warm water, and presses the whole body in an admirable manner. He cracks the joints of the fingers and of all the extremities. He then places you upon the stomach, pinches you over the kidneys, seizes you by the shoulders, and cracks the spine by agitating all the vertebræ, strikes some powerful blows over the fleshy and muscular parts, then rubs the body with a hair-glove until he perspires, grinds down the thick and hard skin of the feet with pumice-stone, anoints you with soap, and lastly, shaves you and plucks out the superfluous hairs. This process continues for three-quarters of an hour, after which a man scarcely knows himself; he feels like a new being.
"You will see a hammal (porter), a man living only on rice, go out of one of those baths where he has been pouring with that perspiration which we think must prostrate and weaken, and take up his load of five hundredweight, placing it unaided on his back.