Part 1

THE SWIMMING BATHS OF LONDON.

BY R. E. DUDGEON, M.D.

LONDON: HENRY TURNER AND CO., 77, FLEET STREET, E.C.

1870.

_Price Sixpence._

PRINTED BY J. E. ADLARD, BARTHOLOMEW CLOSE.

THE SWIMMING BATHS OF LONDON.

Swimming is an exercise at once healthful, pleasant, and useful. The full hygienic effects of swimming can only be obtained when it is practised in the open air, and in unpolluted water of a natural temperature. In a close, more or less imperfectly ventilated room, and in water artificially heated, from which, consequently, the air has been partially expelled, swimming, while still retaining its characters of pleasantness and utility, ceases to be a hygienic agent of any considerable power. Every town which aspires to be considered at all perfect in its sanitary arrangements should possess ample swimming baths of pure water in the open air. The seaside towns of this seagirt land are provided by nature with a most exquisite description of swimming bath in the ever-changing, ever-fresh sea—ever-fresh, that is, when not polluted by the drainage of the town, as often happens. But our inland towns are not so well off, and unless in the neighbourhood of a lake or a river, they must construct artificial baths or do without them. Even when they have a lake or a river they too often allow it to be so polluted by sewage as to render it unfit for bathing purposes; and when they have neither lake nor river, they too often neglect to provide artificial substitutes, thus depriving themselves of a powerful hygienic agent, a pleasant recreation, and a useful accomplishment.

The healthful effects of swimming in cold water in the open air result from the peculiar exercise, the temperature of the surrounding mediums, and the exhilaration of the spirits it causes. Before entering the water, and each time of leaving it, we enjoy an air-bath, the beneficial effects of which are not solely or chiefly dependent on the temperature, but are mainly owing to the actual impact of the atmospherical gases, and of the light, and possibly the direct rays of the sun upon the skin. In the water, if it be considerably colder than the ordinary summer air, say 50° to 60°, there is a rapid abstraction of heat from the surface, causing contraction of the cutaneous blood-vessels, and expulsion of their blood, which sometimes produces an almost painful sensation. If we then get out of the water at once, there is a rapid reaction and an intense glow, often so intense as to cause tingling over the whole surface, accompanied with visible redness, owing to the sudden reflux of the blood into the cutaneous vessels. If, however, we remain in the water in spite of the painful sensation caused by the first action of the cold, this gradually subsides, and if the water be not very cold, and our reactive powers good, and we keep ourselves always moving, the blood gradually returns towards the cutaneous surface, and we thus become accustomed to the low temperature, and can remain a considerable time in the water that seemed at first too chilly to be borne. When we then come out of the water we do not perceive any sudden reaction, but unless we have remained too long in the water, we only feel refreshed and invigorated.

The exercise in swimming is quite peculiar. The body and limbs being completely supported by the medium in which they are immersed, the muscles are not employed in supporting their weight, consequently their movements have a freedom not enjoyed in any other exercise, and are attended with little or no fatigue. This is, however, only the case with experienced and confident swimmers, swimming deliberately and at their ease. The inexperienced swimmer finds the exercise very fatiguing. This, I believe, is chiefly owing to his unconscious efforts to keep more of his body out of the water than would be effected by its own natural buoyancy. The experienced swimmer lets the water do all the supporting business, and consequently swims deeper than the tyro. Very rapid swimming, of course, will soon exhaust even the most experienced swimmer, just as any other violent exercise will exhaust. The quickest swimmers show very little above the water when swimming a race. Most swimmers when making a spurt throw themselves on one side. If on the right side, they make a downward stroke with their right arm, then a horizontal stroke with their left, and lastly the legs are forcibly extended, during which last movement their right arm is stretched in front as a cutwater, and the nose and mouth brought to the surface for respiration. Swimming on the left side is done in the same way, _mutatis mutandis_. In this kind of swimming the only parts of the body visible above water are a small portion of the face, and that only for a short time, and occasionally the left shoulder and arm to the elbow. It has a very ridiculous appearance, and as the swimmer from his position cannot see in front of him, it often happens that two competitors in the races that take place in our short swimming baths will, when swimming in opposite directions, run their heads full tilt against one another to their mutual discomfiture. But it is not this sort of swimming I mean, when speaking of swimming as a hygienic agent, a pleasant recreation, or a useful art. It so happens that swimming competitions are confined almost entirely to rapidity of swimming, and everything is sacrificed by competitors to quickness. The kind of swimming cultivated by our swimming athletes, whether amateur or professional, is neither graceful nor salubrious, and its utility, except for gaining cups and medals, is very doubtful. The secret of the hygienic effects of swimming in sea, lake, or river, is gentle exercise in a medium whose temperature excites the system to vigorous reaction. I do not attach much importance to swimming in cold water as a means of cleansing the body. There is no doubt that it does wash off the grosser impurities that accumulate about the skin, but it cannot be considered as a substitute for the daily tub with plenty of soap, by means of which only can the skin be kept perfectly clean and wholesome.

The pleasures of natation need not be dwelt on. To feel oneself completely at home in a new element, to lose the sense of ponderosity, to be able to move one’s limbs in any direction through an unresisting medium, is to enjoy, for the moment, the pleasures of existence of a different order of animals. To feel not the weight of the flesh which we often find “too, too solid” on terra firma; to dart hither and thither at will, roll over on side or back, or dive into the depths beneath us, is little short of ecstasy; we are no longer a terrestrial animal, we have entered a new phase of existence, we are a fish, our limbs are fins, and the water is our element. He who passes through life without learning to swim misses one of the purest pleasures life affords, and deserves to be drowned in a six-foot pond.

The uses of swimming are obvious. To be drowned by the upsetting of a pleasure boat within a few yards of the shore—can anything be more pitiful? To see our friend, perhaps our child, perish because we cannot swim a few yards to save him—can anything be more painful? Think of the number of lives that have been lost by inability to swim, of the number of lives that have been saved by the possession of this faculty. He who cannot swim is as far from being perfectly educated as he who cannot walk.[1]

[1] I believe that no arrangements exist for teaching our soldiers or sailors swimming (except in the training ships, whence a few of our sailors are derived), the consequence of which is that a very small proportion of the men in either service can swim. In some Continental countries, particularly France, every soldier is taught to swim just as he is taught his drill, and yet French soldiers are not nearly so much exposed to “perils of waters” as our own.

But, it will be alleged, there are dangers connected with swimming. And so there are dangers connected with walking, riding, driving, railways, steamboats; but these dangers do not deter us from making use of these means of locomotion. But let us see what these dangers are. In learning to swim you may get out of your depth and be drowned:—Then learn to swim in shallow water. The cold water may give you a chill:—Not much fear of that unless you are very imprudent, but to avoid that insignificant risk you can learn to swim in tepid water. There are plenty of such baths in London and most large towns. There is the risk of cramp overtaking the most practised swimmer and sinking him suddenly to the bottom:—Swimmers do sometimes sink suddenly in deep water and so get drowned, but I doubt if they are often good swimmers, and I doubt if it is cramp that sends them to the bottom. The _Lancet_ lately alluded to this subject, and suggested that it might be a sort of spasm of the respiratory muscles, whereby the air was suddenly expelled from the lungs, and the specific levity of the body being thus lost, the swimmer sank like a stone. That may be partly true, but I am convinced it is not the whole truth, nor does it explain how the catastrophe is caused. I believe the so-called cramp to be a spasm of the heart and respiratory organs, and that it is produced in this way. The swimmer may be accustomed to swimming, but he has never thoroughly mastered the indispensable first step in swimming, of committing the support of his body entirely to the water. He exhausts himself in efforts to elevate his head and shoulders above the water. As he gets into deep water these efforts, which are of the nature of nervousness, are increased; the cold of the water (to which perhaps he is unused from having hitherto practised swimming chiefly in tepid water) sends the blood in upon the heart, he feels choking, throws up his arms with a loud cry, and goes to the bottom at once. The cause of this often fatal seizure I believe to be a compound of nervous exhaustion, anxiety, and cold. It is extraordinary the difference that prevails in regard to the power of resisting cold. I have seen a man shivering and blue after five minutes in one of the tepid swimming baths, while others can remain an hour or longer in the sea and come out warm and comfortable.[2] A dip in cold water, even a cold sponging bath, will cause some men’s extremities to die away and remain apparently devoid of circulation for hours. We can then easily imagine that the cold of the sea, or of a lake or river, may in an individual so sensitive to its effects cause such an accumulation of the blood about the heart and lungs as to produce all the phenomena observed in drowning by so-called cramp. That a certain degree of fear or anxiety is one of the causal elements is, I think, sufficiently proved by the fact, that this so-called cramp never occurs in shallow water. That it is not cramp of the voluntary muscles is, I think, evident from the fact that many people do get cramp in their legs when swimming, and this, though painful, is not dangerous, for we can always throw ourselves on our back or swim in spite of the pain. I have actually plunged into deep water with a slight attack of cramp in one of my legs, but found no difficulty in keeping myself afloat until the cramp subsided. Although, until its nature is precisely understood, there will always remain some risk of accident from so-called cramp, still I believe the risk would be reduced to insignificance if those who chill rapidly, whom swimming fatigues, or who become nervous in deep water, would refrain from venturing beyond their depth until they have conquered these failings, which habit will soon enable them to do.

[2] The power of resisting the cold of the water often depends very much on the condition of our body at the time of immersion. If we enter the water feeling cold we soon become thoroughly chilled, but if we are warm from the heat of the weather, or still better from previous moderate exercise, we can much better resist the cold of the sea, lake, or river.

But the slight risks attending swimming in cold water should not deter a community from providing itself with open-air swimming places. The risk from drowning will be entirely obviated by artificial constructions on a lake or river, such as are to be found in many continental towns. English towns are for the most part entirely destitute of open-air swimming baths, and if they have suitable rivers or lakes near them it is rare, indeed, to see any portion of them inclosed for bathing purposes. London itself, with a population of three millions, is now without any regular open-air swimming bath. A noble river runs through it, but in spite of the gigantic works for intercepting and carrying off the sewage, the Thames is still such a polluted stream that no one with all his senses entire—especially those of sight, smell, and taste—would venture to bathe in it below Teddington Lock. It is true that one sees in summer many boys disporting themselves on its grimy bosom between the bridges, and I have even seen some enjoying a douche at the outfall of a sewer, but such feats will be more admired for their temerity than imitated for their propriety; and the Thames from Richmond downwards must still be considered as unsuitable for bathing. London has many lakes of more or less clear water admirably adapted for swimming purposes, but bathing is forbidden in all these with the exception of three, and in these it is only allowed at such inconvenient hours as practically to exclude all but a few from using them. London has many canals, but bathing is forbidden in them, and though it is impossible to keep the boys out of them, they bathe in peril of being seized by some policeman and of being fined by some magistrate for “indecent exposure of the person.”

In the absence or dearth of open-air swimming baths London is pretty well supplied with covered swimming baths, mostly tepid, but some few cold. With only one exception (and that because it was closed) I have inspected, and with six exceptions (four of these because there was no water in them at my visit, two, because they were so repulsively dirty) I have bathed in all these baths, so that I can describe them from personal experience.

I shall begin with the cold baths, these being entitled to the first place by reason of their antiquity. And here let me pay a tribute of regret to the memory of the only open-air swimming bath London ever possessed, specially constructed for that purpose and available at all hours of the day—I mean the ancient _Peerless Pool_ in Baldwin Street, City Road. It measured fifty yards by thirty, was built of stone, and several flights of steps led down to its bottom. It was amply provided with open bathing boxes, and was a secluded spot in a densely populous neighbourhood. Its water was clear and cold, and it was large enough and deep enough for swimming purposes. Its site is going to be built over, the more’s the pity, as London is now absolutely without a real open-air swimming bath.

_Old Roman Bath_, Strand Lane, Strand.—The ancient Roman bath which gives its name to this bath is not the place used for bathing. It is where the spring rises. It is in a cellar, is built of brick, and is about 3 yards long by 1½ wide. It is said to be near 2000 years old. The water, which rises at the rate of 10 tons per diem, from a spring at one end, is cold and as clear as crystal; it overflows through a pipe into the more modern bath, which is in an adjoining cellar, low-roofed, whitewashed, and obscurely lighted by a dimmed glass window. This bath is said to have been built by the Earl of Essex in Queen Elizabeth’s time. It is a basin 4 yards long by 2½ wide; sides and bottom of marble slabs; steps leading down to it at one corner; depth about 4 feet 6 inches. Flags of sandstone surround the bath. There are seven boxes for bathers in the passage leading to the bath. The water is delightfully clear, cool, and refreshing, but the atmosphere of the apartment is rather musty and cellar-like, and the size hardly admits of anything in the way of swimming except mere paddling about.

_Old Royal Bath_, Bath Street, Newgate Street.—This is a very remarkable bath. It is said to have been built for Charles II, and it still bears traces of royal magnificence. The floor of the apartment is of marble, and the bath itself, which is 7 yards long by 3 wide, is made of black and white marble slabs, forming a pleasing pattern. The depth is 4 feet 6 inches, and in the middle of the bath floor is a depression or trough, making the water 5 feet deep there. In the sides of the bath are six niches faced with Dutch tiles, in which the water agitated by the bather makes a curious noise. On either side of the bath the marble floor is raised a few inches. The walls of the bath room to the height of 9 feet are covered with quaint Dutch tiles, with 4 niches for statuary on either side, also faced with tiles. Above the tiles on both sides of the room is a sort of balcony with a railing, but with no visible access to it. Higher up is an octagonal cornice, from which springs the dome-shaped roof, richly ornamented with carved stone or stucco garlands, whitewashed over and terminating in a round skylight. There is another window at the lower part of the dome. It is on the whole rather dimly lighted. The water is clear and cold and is derived from a spring. At one end of the bath steps cut in the marble floor lead to the bottom of the water. The boxes for bathers run along one side of the room, and a quaint little pyramidal mirror apparently as old as the bath serves for toilet purposes. The ventilation is good and the bath very refreshing, but not large enough for vigorous swimming.

_Coldbath_, Coldbath Square, Clerkenwell.—This bath, whence the name of Coldbath Fields comes, is upwards of 200 years old. Access is obtained to it by a steep narrow and dark staircase, that descends to a considerable depth below the level of the ground. The present bath was originally two baths, one for ladies, the other for gentlemen. They have been thrown into one, which is 7 yards square, lined with marble, 4½ feet deep, with a deeper longitudinal depression in the centre of what was formerly the men’s bath, making the depth there 5 feet, just as in the old Royal Bath. Above the marble, for about 3 feet, the wall is faced with Dutch tiles. Above this, on two sides, rises a whitewashed wall. On the other two sides runs a platform, with a railing at the edge next the bath. At the angle formed by the platform the railing is pierced to allow access down to the bath by means of marble steps. The ceiling is of wood, whitewashed, and is low. Two dim windows afford scanty illumination. There are two or three bathing boxes in the bath room, and there is a dressing room up a few steps, with benches to lay the clothes on. The water is very clear and cold, and is said to possess medicinal qualities from mineral impregnation. It is derived from a spring, and is constantly running into the bath from a lion’s head in clay. It is delightfully fresh and cold, but hardly large enough for swimming comfortably in, and its underground situation is a great drawback.

_Camden Swimming Bath_, Hampshire Grove, Torriano Avenue.—This bath is about 20 yards long by 5 wide. It is lined throughout with plaster, and is accessible only from one end, where there are wooden steps down to the bottom. The walls, whitewashed, run sheer up from the bath on either side and at the other end. The depth is about five feet. At the entrance end is a platform and six quite open boxes like square church pews. The ceiling is on the double slope, whitewashed, and pierced by seven small skylights, which illuminate the bath but dimly.

These are all the cold plunge baths London possesses. The three first are too small for swimming purposes, and the last, though long enough, is very narrow and decidedly mean in appearance. Being all under cover and some of them quite subterranean, the air feels chilly and cellar-like, and the great charm that all swimming in cold water should possess, namely, the accompaniments of pure fresh open air and sunlight, are sadly conspicuous by their absence in them all. All except the Camden bath are open all the year.