It is not incumbent on us to enumerate Mr Lane’s ailments. Blue pill and black draught, taraxacum and galvanism, were successively repelled by the stubborn enemy, whose entrenchments were to be neither sapped nor stormed. In a lucky hour, “an intimate friend of Sir E. Bulwer Lytton detailed, with generous eloquence, the great results of the Water-Cure in many cases; and his own characteristic benevolence prompted him to press upon me, as a duty, the visit of a month to Malvern.” So there he goes. “The drive from Worcester to Malvern is not marked by any particular beauty, except the occasional glimpses of the hills, and the constant succession of rich orchards, at this time luxuriant in apple blossoms.” The trifling exception to the monotony of the landscape, which does not escape his notice, almost suggests the possibility of the patient being a little better already.
“Here I am in the temple dedicated to Dame Nature and the Elixir Vitæ. The Doctor not at home, but a message that we are expected at a pic-nic at St Anne’s Well. Too tired to go, we went to our comfortable double-bedded room, and, being refreshed, waited for the Doctor, who soon returned, and severely scrutinized me. He found my boy in exactly the state which he had expected, and rubbed his hands with delight in anticipation of the change to be wrought in him. To me he boldly said, ‘Give me a month, and I will teach you to manage yourself at home.’ At supper (eight o’clock) we were presented to our fellow patients, all graciously and gracefully welcoming the new-comers. This is the final meal of the day, consisting of bread in many varieties, butter, and biscuits, with bottles of water and jugs of milk. Tea, although allowed in some cases, is not encouraged. The house overlooks the beautiful Abbey church. The monks always knew how to avail themselves of the charms of situation; sheltered by the hills, and yet overlooking the extensive plain, and receiving the first rays of the sun—nothing could be more lovely.
“Doctor examined and asked me divers questions, and then gave his orders to the bath attendant. To bed at ten.”
The compliment to the discrimination of the monks might not be inappropriately transferred to Dr Wilson. There are more things in the Water-Cure than cold water, and more than the body frequently morbid or ill at ease in the visitors to Malvern. Lovely scenery is wholesome food for a depressed mind.
“May 14.—At a little before seven came the bath attendant. He poured about four inches depth of water into a tin bath, five feet long, and directed me to get out of bed and sit in it. He then poured about two gallons of water on my head, and commenced a vigorous rubbing, in which I assisted. This is called THE SHALLOW BATH. After three or four minutes, I got out of the bath, and he enveloped me in a dry sheet, rubbing me thoroughly. All this friction produced an agreeable glow, and the desire to dress quickly and get into the air was uppermost. The same process was repeated with Ned; and, having each taken a tumbler of water, we started to mount the hill. I got as far as St Anne’s Well, with Ned’s help, and, drinking there, sauntered about the exquisite terrace walks on the hill. The fountain of St Anne’s Well is constantly flowing, and though varying in quantity, has never failed. I am told that the water is at nearly the same temperature in summer as in winter. In sparkling brilliancy, as well as purity, it is confessedly unrivalled even at Malvern, except by the water of the ‘Holy Well.’ A cottage, beautifully situated in the hollow of this eminence, encloses the fountain, where it escapes from the rock; the chief apartment of which is free, and open to all who wish to drink; but it is good taste to put down a half-crown upon the first visit, and inscribe a name in the book, which (with a ready pen) is also ‘open to all.’ From this cottage, which is I found a favourite place of rendezvous, paths lead by various routes to the highest hill called the Worcestershire Beacon, and the other commanding heights. We shall see, I trust.
“Another glass of this exquisite water, and home to breakfast at nine. Several sorts of bread (all in perfection) and excellent butter; bottles of the brightest water and tumblers duly arranged on the table; jugs of milk for those who like it, and to whom it is allowed. One jug smokes, and the well-known fragrant flavour soon suggests to the nose tea! Surely this is irregular, or why the disguise? Why not a teapot?
“The Doctor took his seat at the head of the table. In the place of honour on his left was the patient whose longest stay in the house entitled her to the distinction. (I afterwards found that precedence at table is arranged by this rule, subject to the intermixture of the gentlemen.) She is eminently gifted to grace her position, being more than pretty, and with tongue and manner to match. Next to her is a gentleman of a dissenting expression of countenance, then another pretty woman, a young man of distinguished manners, and another very pretty woman, who, unlike the two fair patients above her, is dark in all that beautifies a brilliant complexion.
“Skipping over the gentleman on her left, because on this first morning I found nothing to remark upon, I come to my vis-à-vis, with her kindly and companionable expression (I am sure I shall like her;) and having mentioned our present stock of ladies on the opposite side, the lower part of the table is made up of gentlemen, one of whom presides at that end. On my side of the table, the upper seat is generally reserved for a visitor. I am happy to find in the whole party nothing distressing to look at: no lameness, no appearance of skin diseases, no sign-post or label to proclaim an aliment, no sore eyes, no ‘eyesore;’ nothing, in short, worse than an occasional pallid or invalid character, like my own; and I am told that all who have any palpable or disagreeable infirmity, are treated as out-door patients, which wholesome regulation gives full play to the proverbially high spirits of hydropathists, who almost immediately jump from a state of dejection and perverse brooding over their ailments, to a joyous anticipation of good, even on the first day of initiation into the treatment. The appetite, too, is always ready for the simple, wholesome meal. Nobody ever enjoyed a well-earned breakfast more than I on this morning.”
The gentleman “of a dissenting expression of countenance,” of whom we desiderate a drawing, seems the only bit of shade in this bright scene. We have quoted, without abridgment, the description of the company at the table, as not unimportant, alongside of the hilarity of hydropathists, who jump from grave to gay, “even on the first day of initiation into the treatment.” Mr Lane will understand that we do not at all doubt his account of his illness. He must not quarrel with us for remarking that simple fare, regular diet, agreeable society, lots of laughing and talking, bathing and shampooing, bracing exercise, and enchanting natural prospects, appear admirably adapted to reinvigorate the invalids to whom we have been introduced. It would surprise us to be informed that the process had any where failed; and, as far as we can judge, the prescription of the regular practitioner in London would, without much hesitation, be in similar cases—“Go to Malvern for a month.” Shower-baths and douches, too, may be had in the Great Babylon, but not exactly the refreshing concomitants so vividly brought before us by Mr Lane. Suppose we take a peep at a hydropathist’s dinner:—
“At the head of the table, where the Doctor presides, was the leg of mutton, which, I believe, is every day’s head-dish. I forget what Mrs Wilson dispensed, but it was something savoury, of fish. I saw veal cutlets—with bacon, and a companion dish, maccaroni—with gravy (a very delicate concoction): potatoes, plain boiled, or mashed and browned; spinach, and other green vegetables. Then followed rice pudding, tapioca, or some other farinacious ditto, rhubarb tarts, &c. So much for what I have heard of the miserable diet of water patients. The cooking of all is perfection, and something beyond, in Neddy’s opinion, for he eats fat!
“After dinner, the ladies did not immediately retire, but made up groups for conversation, both in the dining and withdrawing room. A most happy arrangement this, which admits the refreshing influence of the society of ladies in such a house.
“A drive had been proposed, and, by the invitation of two of the ladies, I joined the party.
“Through picturesque lanes, we went to Madresfield Court, the seat of Lord Beauchamp (Ned on the box.) We saw the exquisite conservatories, the grapes in succession houses, and pineries. The principal furniture in this house—carpets, tapestry, &c.—were placed exactly as they now appear, more than fifty years ago. It is a very romantic place, abounding in a great variety of trees of magnificent growth.
“We returned soon after seven, when I prepared to take my first Sitz bath. It is not disagreeable, but very odd, and exhibits the patient in by no means an elegant or dignified attitude.
“For this bath it is not necessary to undress, the coat only being taken off, and the shirt gathered under the waistcoat, which is buttoned upon it; and when seated in the water, which rises to the waist, a blanket is drawn round, and over the shoulders.
“Having remained ten minutes in this condition (Ned and I being on equal terms, and laughing at each other), we dried and rubbed ourselves with coarse towels, and descended to supper with excellent appetite.”
Shall we alter or modify our observations, in consequence of this extract? Not pausing for a reply, we wish to explain, that, in hydropathical nomenclature, to be “half-packed” is to be put to bed, with a wet towel placed over you, extending from shoulders to knees, and enveloped with all the blankets, and a down-bed, with a counterpane to tuck all in, and make it air-tight. Here is complete “packing.”
“May 15.—It was not the experience of the half packing that caused me to awake early, but a certain dread in anticipation of the whole wet sheet; and at six the bath attendant appeared with what seemed a coil of linen cable, and a gigantic can of water, and it was some comfort to pretend not to be in the least degree apprehensive. I was ordered out of bed, and all the clothes taken off. Two blankets were then spread upon the mattress, and half over the pillow, and the wet sheet unfolded and placed upon them.
“Having stretched my length upon it and lying on my back, the man quickly and most adroitly folded it—first on one side and then on the other, and closely round the neck, and the same with the two blankets, by which time I was warm, and sufficiently composed to ask how the sheet was prepared of the proper degree of dampness. [I was told that being soaked well, it is held by two persons—one at each end, and pulled and twisted until water has ceased to drop; or that it may be done by one person putting it round the pump-handle, or any similar thing, and holding and twisting it at both ends.] Two more doubled blankets were then put upon me, and each in turn tucked most carefully round the neck, and under me. Upon this the down bed was placed, and over all another sheet or counterpane was secured at all sides and under the chin, to complete this hermetical sealing. By this time I was sure of being fast asleep in five minutes, and only anxious to see Ned as comfortable, for he was regarding the operation with silent horror. He, however, plucked up, and before Bardon (the attendant) had swathed him completely, favoured me with his opinion, conveyed in accents in which a slight tremor might be detected, that ‘packing is jolly.’”
“What occurred during a full hour after this operation neither man nor boy were in a situation to depose, beyond the fact that the sound, sweet, soothing sleep which both enjoyed, was a matter of surprise and delight, and that one of them, who had the less excuse for being so very youthful, was detected by Mr Bardon, who came to awake him, smiling, like a great fool, at nothing, if not at the fancies which had played about his slumbers. Of the heat in which I found myself, I must remark, that it is as distinct from perspiration, as from the parched and throbbing glow of fever. The pores are open, and the warmth of the body is very soon communicated to the wet sheet, until, as in this my first experience of the luxury, a breathing—steaming heat is engendered, which fills the whole of the wrappers, and is plentifully shown in the smoking state which they exhibit as they are removed: still it is not like a vapour bath. I can never forget the calm, luxurious ease in which I awoke on this morning, and looked forward with pleasure to the daily repetition of what had been quoted to me, by the uninitiated, with disgust and shuddering.
“The softness and delicacy of the skin under the operation is very remarkable, and to the touch, clearly marks the difference between a state of perspiration or of fever.”
We wish to be informed what there is of novelty in all this procedure? It is merely one way, out of many ways, of taking a bath. The shepherds on our hills, long before the Water-Cure had local habitation or name, were well aware, when their hard but faithful service made the heather their bed, that by dipping their plaids in the stream, and wringing them out, and then wrapping them round their bodies, such heat was generated as they could not otherwise procure. Then the alternation of hot bath and cold bath, followed by dry-rubbing! The Russians and the Turks are comparatively beings of yesterday. But what does a hydropathist undergo at Malvern, for which Galen and Celsus had not laid down plain and ample directions? There is no apparatus so intricate or so extensive—there is nothing done by the hand or by machinery at a hydropathical establishment, which is not anticipated at Pompeii, or was not familiar to those eminent ancients whom we have named. The economy of baths was brought to more exquisite and copious perfection by the Romans than it has been since. Vice, luxury, gluttony, fatigue, disease, caprice, indolence, extravagant wealth, inordinate vanity, imperial pomp, were all occupied according to the impulse or the necessity of the individual, or of cities and provinces, to adorn with new contrivances, or to supply the defects of that essential furniture to the comfort of the later Roman. The poets teem with allusions to and descriptions of the expedients used in ministering to their effeminacy in the baths. The medical writers have considered and discussed the whole subject of baths and bathing with a minuteness and a comprehensiveness which leave nothing to be learned from hydropathy now-a-days. The Greeks wanted only the enormous riches of Rome to be cited as of tantamount authority. Galen differs from Celsus in arranging the order according to which different baths should be taken; but the interval between them may account for all changes. Did it ever occur to Galen that water was a panacea? No; but many patients were under his care, the counterparts of the sojourners at Malvern; and that he treated them much after the fashion of Dr Wilson, we shall accord to the later gentleman our belief. Rome, in the reign of Commodus, was not less likely than London to send forth sufferers whose roses would renew their bloom, and whose nerves would regain their tension, at the bidding of rustic breezes, lively chat, and methodical discipline.
It has seldom been our happiness to meet with a more astute lady of her rank than the woman at the cottage at St Anne’s, who replies to Mr Lane, when he wonders at his power to mount the steep hills,—“Indeed, so do I, sir; but when I tell how the Water-Cure patients get strength to come up here, after a few days, and how well they look, some gentlefolks are hard enough to say the Doctor pays me to say so.” We exonerate the woman and the Doctor.