The original mandate of the Creator has provided that by various natural processes a constant equilibrium shall be preserved and maintained, so that from age to age, until all the purposes for which the earth is sustained be completed, the same ends will be accomplished by the same agency:

We further know that all organized matter, whether animal or vegetable, possesses the materials of which they are composed, for a limited time only, life itself being but a boon, lent to serve the purposes of Infinite Wisdom—

Again, on reviewing the histories of bygone ages, we learn that from the earliest times disease has visited every country with a frequency and malignancy always proportioned to the intensity of the predisposing causes. Under the head of Nature and Causes of Disease, I have already advanced that disease arises from certain conditions or vicissitudes of the atmosphere, together with the application of other powers producing direct debility. Over the former, as the exciting, the vital cause, we have but little control; it is the latter only, the predisposing causes, that we can attempt to counteract with a fair prospect of success. Seeing that such predisposing causes more generally arise from the infraction of the unalterable laws originally laid down for the government of mankind,—from a neglect of the most obvious laws of our being,—and that Providence, for the most part, acts by SECONDARY CAUSES, we should direct our efforts to the arresting of every condition which predisposes to or aggravates disease, such condition being more or less subject to human regulations.

“Prevention,” says the adage, “is better than cure.” When the sources of sickness have been remedied, the production of the evil has been limited, if not totally annihilated; it is, therefore, to the adoption and enforcement, by judicious legislative enactments, of prophylactic measures, based on scientific views, that we would direct especial attention; for by such measures we not only, to a great extent, prevent disease, by rendering the body less susceptible of it, but, when attacked by it, we lessen its fatality, by placing the vital system in a normal condition, capable of bearing up against it:—

“Salus populi est suprema lex.”

It is a lamentable fact, that in this our own country, with all its practical talent, and its great advance in civilization, hitherto so little progress has been made in a matter deeply involving the moral, as well as the physical, condition of the great mass of our population. As one proof out of many of what may be effected by judicious measures, we may advert to the present condition of our navy, as contrasted with that of the last century. Formerly we heard among our seamen of nothing but dysentery, fevers, scurvy, &c., which diseases have been known to depopulate whole fleets. In the year 1726, when at sea, great mortality occurred from these scourges in the fleet, consisting of seven ships, under the command of Admiral Hosier, on the West India station. He twice lost the crew of his own ship. In the year 1741, also at sea, half the crew of Captain Anson’s fleet died from scurvy in less than six weeks after leaving England; and in the year 1780, 11,732 cases of scurvy, dysentery, and fever were sent to Haslar Hospital from the Channel fleet! whilst now, from the attention paid to the construction of our shipping, to ventilation, cleanliness, and diet, we scarcely meet with these diseases among the seamen, and the wards of Haslar Hospital, which formerly were crowded with cases of scorbutic disease, now seldom exhibit a case.

The two grand essentials for vitality are Light and Air, to which may be added, Water. These, which are supplied to us by an all-wise and beneficent Creator in unlimited abundance, are indispensably necessary to a healthy state of animal life; the absence of the one, or impurity of the other, as being detrimental to life, should take the lead of all sanitary measures.

We know from experience, that the influence of light and atmospheric temperature upon living bodies is very similar, being manifested by the strongest stimulating effects; in fact, light is known to be an important agent in varying the phenomena of the atmosphere, its stimulating effects being more or less modified by light, according to the permanence and intensity of such light. The sun being the principal source of light and heat, their influences may be considered as inseparable, and acting in concert; if a thermometer were to be removed from the dark into the light, the mercury would be seen to rise, and, on the other hand, if it were to be conveyed from the light to the dark, it would fall.

Milton beautifully apostrophizes the great luminary, Light, thus:

Commencing with the properties of light, we find its influence on inorganic bodies and vegetables to be unequivocal; in short, it may be said that so very extensive is its influence, that there is not a substance which, when exposed to its action, does not experience some alteration. Without light, independently of the heat which is its ordinary concomitant, there would scarcely exist a trace of vegetation, and when we reflect on the remarkable dependence of the animal and vegetable kingdoms on each other, the animal by the extrication of carbonic acid gas, affording a fluid essential to vegetation; the plant, on the other hand, by the emission of oxygen, supplying the atmosphere with the gas which is equally necessary for the well-being of the former, we cannot suppose light to be less essential to animal life.

The chemical effects of light, and its influence on animal and vegetable vitality, have much engaged the attention of philosophers:—

With reference to the vegetable kingdom, we see that the most delicate of the discous plants or flowers turn constantly towards the sun; it is also well known that the change of position of the leaves of plants, at different periods of the day, is entirely owing to the agency of light; plants growing in the shade, or in darkness, are pale, and without their natural and healthy colour—they become ‘etiolated’ or blanched. Gardeners avail themselves of a knowledge of this fact, and, by excluding the light, they obtain celery, lettuce, &c., in a white state. If a potato be placed in a dark cell, with but one small aperture for the admission of light, on germinating, the sprout will turn and grow towards the light, and will continue pale and light until it reaches the light, and becomes fairly exposed to its stimulus, when its natural and healthy colour will be assumed.

Light contributes to the maturity of seeds, fruit, and flowers. Professor Davy found by experiment that red rose-trees, carefully excluded from light, produced roses almost of a white colour. Vegetables are not only indebted to the light for their colour,[3] but their taste and odour are likewise derived from, or at all events greatly influenced by, the same source. Light is also an essential element in the topographical arrangement of plants. The southern slopes of our hills and mountain ranges are always clothed with a more fully developed race of plants than the northern; this depends wholly upon the greater degree of light and heat which the former enjoy. The more free the exposure, the more readily will most plants blossom, and yield a rich fruit; so well is this understood in the grape countries on the Rhine, that the right bank of that river, which faces the sun, is reckoned to be much more valuable than the left, and commands a higher price for its wines.

Turning to the animal kingdom, which is more immediately our province, we find in that portion of nature an equal dependence on light for its proper development and vitality. Animals droop when they are deprived of light; there are instances on record where persons having been long confined in dark places or dungeons (even though well ventilated), their whole complexion has become sallow, their general health deteriorated, pustules, with aqueous humours, have opened out upon their skin, and they have become languid, and frequently dropsical. In the absence of light, there is a predominance of the white fluids of the body; the action of the lymphatic system is exalted, and it imparts to the organization of animals that remarkable blanched appearance called ‘etiolement.’ Hence the well-founded supposition, that the absence of the solar rays of light contributes greatly to the development of scrofula.

“Let in the sun, and you shut out the doctor,” says an old Italian proverb. The effects of the free admission of light, as a point of great importance to the well-being of every individual, has been proved by the experiments of Dr. Edwards, who has shown that if tadpoles be nourished with proper food, and exposed to the renewed action of water (so that their bronchial respiration may be maintained), but are entirely deprived of light, the growth continues, but their metamorphosis into the condition of air-breathing animals is arrested, and they remain in the form of large tadpoles. Dr. Edwards also observes, that persons who live in caves and cellars, or in very dark, narrow streets, are apt to produce deformed children. Rabbits, which were kept in a dark cellar, were affected with mollities ossium, their limbs being useless.

It has been recently stated, that the cases of disease in the dark side of an extensive barrack at St. Petersburgh, have been uniformly, for many years, in the proportion of THREE to one to those on the side exposed to a strong light.

Dupuytren relates the case of a lady whose maladies had baffled the skill of several eminent practitioners. This lady resided in one of the narrow streets of Paris, and in a dark room in which the sun never shone. After a careful examination, Dupuytren was led to refer her complaints to the absence of light, and recommended her removal to a more cheerful situation: the change was followed by the most beneficial results; all her complaints in a very short time vanished.

In a series of experiments made by Mr. Simon upon cats, which that gentleman confined in dark cellars, he found after death disease of the kidney, resembling that morbid state of the gland generally known as morbus Brightii (Bright’s disease), and, in other cases, incipient fatty degeneration of the liver.

Humboldt has remarked, that among several nations of South America, who wear very little clothing, he never met with a single individual with a natural deformity; and the celebrated Linneus, in his account of his tour through Lapland, enumerates constant exposure to solar light as one of the causes which render a summer’s journey through high northern latitudes so peculiarly healthful and invigorating; whilst the reverse is observed in less favoured regions—

We will now enter upon the consideration of another of the grand essentials of vitality. Air—

“Vivit Ætherias vitaleis suscipit auras.”

The word ‘atmosphere’ is of Greek origin, and signifies a body of vapour in a spherical form. The rapidity of atmospheric air cannot be explained on any principle but its fluidity; therefore atmospheric air, the permanently elastic fluid which surrounds the earth, although invisible, may be said to be material, and to possess all the common properties of matter; for it occupies space, attracts and is attracted, and consequently has weight. It likewise partakes of the nature of a fluid, for it adapts itself to the form of the vessel in which it is contained, and presses equally in all directions. Its power, when vitiated, as a cause of disease, can only be determined by a scientific examination of its properties, especially as regards its affinities to other things. It should therefore claim the attention of every individual, professional or non-professional, who has the comfort of mankind at heart.

“It is scarcely possible,” says Professor Davy, “duly to appreciate, in the vast economy of terrestrial adaptations, the importance of the mechanism by which gases and vapours rapidly permeate each other’s bulks and become equally diffused. The atmosphere which surrounds the globe consists of a mixture of several aeriform fluids in certain fixed proportions, upon the proper maintenance of which, by measure and weight, the welfare of the whole organic creation depends.”

One of the principal uses of the atmosphere is to supply animals with a medium for breathing. Breathing is an essential effort of the human system. Its immediate effects are the operation of considerable changes on the blood—

“In the blood is life, which vitality depends on air.”

An outlet is also afforded to carbonic acid gas, and the acquisition of a quantity of oxygen and nitrogen, which, combining with the constituent parts of the chyle, convert it into the nature and quality of nutritious blood. The temperature of the animal is supposed also to be a consequence of the decomposition of air in the respiratory process. The processes of respiration and combustion perpetually tend to the destruction of the vital air, and the substitution of another, which is a deadly poison to animal life. By means of ventilation and circulation,—causing currents of air,—such poisonous air is not allowed to accumulate, but is diffused through the surrounding space, while the vital gas rushes, by a counter-tendency, to supply the deficiency which the local consumption may have created; and thus is explicable one of the self-apparent reasons as to the imperious necessity for free ventilation.

Notwithstanding our imperfect acquaintance with the manner in which water is suspended in the atmosphere, it is well known that the human body is greatly influenced by the aqueous vapour in such a state of suspension, and that the sources of poisonous emanations are active in proportion to the grade of atmospheric humidity and its temperature. An atmosphere surcharged with humidity not only prevents the cuticular discharge necessary to a healthy state, but sensibly diminishes the watery exhalations from the lungs, thereby inducing various morbid effects on the system. We observe the conversion of volatile bodies into a gaseous form exemplified in the perfume of flowers being more sensible during the fall of dew of an evening or in a morning, when the dew evaporates and is dissipated by the rays of the morning sun: in the same manner, the exhalation of deleterious matters, such as the filth of ditches and badly-drained sewers, becomes more active. Excess of moisture also, by diminishing the vital action, provides another cause of disease in conjunction with the enervating effects of deleterious gases: hence the more poisonous properties or injurious action of those gases in stagnant atmospheres, which are always more humid than where there is efficient circulation, i. e. ventilation.

Signal benefit from ventilation was observed some years ago in the Savoy and Newgate prisons, in both of which the jail fever was, as it had always been, frequent and very fatal. It was tried on the recommendation of the great and good Dr. Hales, whose studies and experiments were constantly directed to the benefit of mankind. The good effects exceeded even the Doctor’s most sanguine expectations, for the numbers attacked were greatly decreased, and the fever became less fatal, after due ventilation had been established, and the supposed contagion had been thereby arrested. On a reference to the writings of the benevolent Howard, we shall perceive that he found the prisons on the Continent perfectly free from pestilential fever, owing to the apartments in which the prisoners were confined being spacious and well-aired.

Dr. Thomas Bateman, writing on the low fevers of London occurring among the poor, observes that he has often been surprised, after having seen a patient in the low muttering delirium of fever while in his own habitation, to find him with clear intellect and invigorated system after passing a night in the House of Recovery, although no medicine whatever had been given. We have ourselves observed the remarkable and decided effects on the pulse, caused by the removal of patients suffering from low typhus and other fevers;—their improvement has been general and decided, merely from the removal from a lower to an upper ward, where the ventilation has been more perfect. Of the many striking illustrations of the benefit resulting from the free access of pure air, the remarkable decrease of disease and death among the carnivora in the Zoological Gardens, as reported in 1845, since the improvement of the ventilation, may be instanced. The following statement, taken from the history of the Dublin Lying-in Hospital, shows in an extraordinary degree the advantages resulting from free ventilation. In this hospital, 2944 infants out of 7650 died in the years 1782–83–84 and 1785, within the first fortnight after their birth,—that is to say, nearly one child out of every six died of convulsions, which were called nine days’ convulsions by the nurses. These children foamed at the mouth, the jaws became locked, the face swelled, and looked blue, as though they were choking. This last circumstance led the physician in attendance to attribute the disease and great mortality to the close and crowded state of the hospital, causing a deficiency of good air. Air-pipes, with other openings, were contrived,—the rooms were kept sweet and fresh by means of ventilation,—and the consequences observed were, that in the year

So that, since ventilation has been properly effected, out of 4243 children there died 165; whereas the average number of deaths from the same numbers, previously to ventilation, was 1632!

Dr. Barron, among a series of experiments, confined a number of young rabbits in a close damp situation; many of the animals died at intervals varying from five to seven weeks from the time of their incarceration. On the removal of the survivors to dry localities, which were otherwise favourable to health from being well ventilated, their condition soon became manifestly improved. This fact has been further confirmed by the experiments of Sir James Clark and Dr. (now Sir Robert) Carswell and Dr. Jenner.

In a report of the sickness which occurred among the Edinburgh Police, as drawn up by the medical attendant, the effects of an ill-ventilated station-house are noticed. It furnishes an additional example, if such were needed, of the importance of pure air and plenty of it. The men boarded and lodged in this place were originally the healthiest and youngest men in the force; yet the rate of sickness among them was very high, as was also the mortality—being more than treble that of the other part of the force located elsewhere. Out of thirty-seven men occupying the house in question, only one was found to be free from functional disorder: the prominent symptoms being great sensibility to atmospheric changes, copious cold perspirations, a constant sense of fatigue, with pain in the eye-balls and loss of appetite.

It would appear that in all propositions for sanitary improvements, the all-engrossing topic is—the noxious properties of stinking vapours. The cesspools and sewers seem to be the chief object of solicitude, even in legislative proceedings; as though there were no deleterious gases surrounding our globe, inappreciable to the olfactories, and yet of far more consequence in a sanitary point of view. Now, although vapours arising from cesspools and imperfect drainage unquestionably constitute one of the many predisposing causes to disease, they are not of such paramount importance as ventilation; for their noxious influence, from whatever source they may arise, depends more or less on their existence in open or confined places. The indefatigable Parent Duchâtelet, in his work on ‘Hygiene Publique,’ has shown that stenches, filthy exhalations, however disgusting, are not necessarily the cause of disease, when not pent up, as à priori they might be supposed to be. He informs us that at one of the most extensive ‘Chantierres d’Equarrissages,’ situated at Montfauçon, within a mile or two of Paris, occupying a large open space of ground, where thousands of horses, dogs, and cats are taken yearly to be slaughtered, and where almost all the ordure of Paris is collected together, the most abominable stenches are to be met with: the ground, saturated with the blood of the slaughtered animals, sends forth a most disgusting fœtor, as do also the enormous mounds of putrid flesh collected for the purposes of manure, and for the generation of maggots for feeding poultry! Yet the workmen living and employed in these places, in the filthy occupation of glue and music-string making, &c., enjoy an immunity from disease that is truly astonishing, while their exemption from illness during the destructive prevalence of cholera in Paris was equally remarkable. The existence of such disgusting nuisances, as represented by Duchatelet, can by no means be approved of; but reference to them is made here to show, by well-ascertained facts, that the remedying of the effluvia arising from imperfect drainage, cesspools, et hoc genus omne, is not of such VITAL importance as the free admission of the atmosphere; for we have seen that stagnant air is caused by the want of a free current, and that it is rendered more humid than usual by the non-admission of light (which is heat), and further that that humidity increases the activity of noxious gases, so that where ventilation is defective, there will always be an accumulation, and consequently a concentration, of the gases from cesspools, exhalations from the body by expiration, and from the skin; all these facts, physiologically considered, will show the vast importance of the access of light and of pure air, on which all sanitary measures, to be effective, must be based. Ventilation, by striking at the root of the mischief, will remedy all its evil consequences.

Again, it must be recollected that the object of ventilation is not solely to dissipate and get rid of odours offensive to the olfactories, but also to supply the system with a vital stimulus—the very pabulum vitæ—the oxygen necessary for the proper performance of the functions of the different organs, which cannot be obtained in due proportion from stagnant air—the supply in such an atmosphere from defective circulation being inadequate to the demand or consumption. When an animal is inclosed in a limited quantity of atmospheric air, it dies as soon as the oxygen has been consumed; and no other air will maintain animal life but oxygen, or a mixture which contains it in a certain proportion. Further, ventilation, by supplying the vital stimulus, and inducing a normal condition, also fortifies the system against atmospheric vicissitudes—the grand excitant of disease.

Opening up and enlarging drains, or establishing them where none had previously existed, while the localities are allowed to remain in a crowded state, will, while such operations are being carried on, multiply the evil. A commencement must be made by rasing to the ground the dens of physical and moral iniquity which have been so disgracefully permitted to exist in the occupancy of those unfortunates who have it not in their power to remedy the miseries to which it never was the intention of Creative Wisdom that the meanest reptile should be subjected, much less Man, once the image of his Creator,—His noblest work!

The subjects of Light and Air having been disposed of, we will next discuss the properties of Water:

It is a necessary beverage for man and other animals,—is perpetually used as a solvent for a great variety of solid bodies,—acts an important part in conveying nourishment to the vegetable world, and gives salubrity to the atmospherical regions,—in fine, it is a fluid so generally distributed over our globe, and consequently so universally known, that to enter into the minutiæ of its various properties would be superfluous for the purposes of these pages.

Considering water dietetically as well as medicinally, it cannot but be a matter of wonder, to all who know anything of the water drunk in this great metropolis, that no measures have ever been taken for the purification of an element so essential to a healthy existence, although many excellent plans have from time to time been suggested by persons practically conversant with such matters. In the Report of a committee of the House of Commons, published so far back as 1836, it is stated of the water from the Thames, that it “receives the excrementitious matter from nearly a million and a half of human beings;—the washings of their foul linen,—the filth and refuse of many hundred manufactories,—the offal and decomposing vegetable substances from the markets,—the foul and gory liquid from slaughter-houses,—and the purulent abominations from hospitals and dissecting-rooms, too disgusting to detail.” The polluted state of the water supplied to this vast metropolis is not, however, the only crying evil. The deficiency in quantity as well as the deleterious quality is also a matter of just complaint, the supply of this first necessary of life being insufficient for drinking and culinary purposes, independent of its uses as an hygienic agent, for personal ablution; the salutary effects of which we will next consider—

The use of the bath has doubtlessly existed from the beginning of the world. Bathing appears to have been a practice instinctively adopted by all nations and tribes throughout the universe. Amongst the North and South American Indians—in Africa—even among the most barbarous and uncivilized races—bathing is a usage to which they pay scrupulous attention: yet, strange to say, to this day, personal ablution is little known or practised in this otherwise proudly pre-eminent country, as a hygienic agent: it is viewed more as a matter of luxury, and then but very sparingly had recourse to, even by our wealthy and middle classes.

Socrates tells us that “bathing renders a man pure, both in soul and body.” Clemens Alexandrinus says, it should be practised “for the sake of HEALTH and cleanliness, and, lastly, of pleasure.”

The ancient Romans considered the bath as the most important item in the economy of their lives: they regarded it as indispensable for health and comfort;—an idea of the magnificence and luxurious construction of the Roman baths may be formed from the poetical description by Statius, of the baths of Claudius Etruscus:

The most remarkable bagnios were those of the Emperor Dioclesian and Antonius Caracalla, with their curiously vaulted roofs, spacious apartments, and a thousand other ornaments and conveniences. Those of Dioclesian occupied 140,000 men many years in building them.

Bathing acts morally, as well as physically. It induces habits of cleanliness, which are found allied only with self-respect, improved temperance, intelligence, and morality.

Nothing is more soothing to the irritable impulses of the passions, than the peculiar serenity which the bath imparts. The Romans in their days of sensuality, invariably had recourse to the bath to relieve the effects of their dissipation, and of great fatigue from travelling, &c. Who is there, we would ask, that has not experienced, after a night’s debauch in the indulgence of luxuries, when the head and heart have been oppressed, and the nervous energies prostrated, the restorative and invigorating effects of the bath,—for what allays feverish irritability and perturbation of the nervous system so admirably as the cold, tepid, or hot bath, according as the offender may have been accustomed to use. Everywhere on the Continent, baths are to be had in the greatest state of perfection. The French perform entire personal ablution daily. In Italy, Holland, and Germany they patronise the bath to a great extent, and amongst the Turks and Persians, and throughout Asia, bathing is imperative as a part of their religion. They consider it an absolute necessary of life, whilst we, the most refined people in the world, are satisfied with a change of linen, and that too, very often over a not very clean under-garment, or body flannel!

The Hungarians and Russians bathe after the manner of the ancients; in Russia especially, where the bath makes so much a part of the system of living, it is used by persons of every age, and under all circumstances. A Russian considers that the bath is a remedy for all his ailments; he flies to it on all occasions; men, women at their lying-in, and children, in almost all sicknesses, and before and after a journey, &c., resort to the bath as their solatium—which, to use the words of the illustrious Cullen, “imparts a sense of youth, vigour, and self-complacency.” The Romans for five hundred years together were without physicians; it was by means of the bath they effected all their cures of disease, and to this day many nations cure their maladies by the use of baths,—in which there is nothing so very marvellous, as the simplicity of such means at first sight may lead persons to suppose, when we consider the importance of the skin in the animal economy, that it is not merely the organ of sensation, but that it is endowed with an extensive and complicated nervous apparatus, through which its sympathies with the entire organism are managed, and that it possesses extensive secretory, excretory, and absorbing powers, the normal condition of these functions being essential not only to health, but to life itself.

Considering our pretensions to all that is refined, there is perhaps no race of people more devoid of personal cleanliness than ourselves.[4] This is a fact (however unpleasant the reference to it may be) that admits of no contradiction, for the greater proportion, including even the higher and the middle classes of the population of this country, are never subjected to entire ablution during the whole period of their lives,—from their childhood to their death. Fancy an octogenarian sweltering in the accumulated impurities of three-fourths of a century!

“Buried in smoke, in filth, and poisonous damps.”

Can it be wondered at that he hands down to his offspring a corrupt, a tainted condition of fluids, which entails misery on them in the shape of scrofula, and every variety of skin disease?

Independent, however, of any hereditary predisposition to skin and other diseases, it is too much the custom for persons who merely splash with water their neck, face, and hands daily,—neglecting to wash their bodies from year to year, so that the effete matters of the system become condensed on the skin, thereby obstructing the exhalant pores, and causing various internal complaints, and very frequently universal itching,—to reconcile themselves with the idea that their sufferings have been caused by a scorbutic diathesis, which has been communicated to them by their progenitors, without any fault of their own, or any reference to their own filthy personal habits.

There is perhaps no greater absurdity than the common notion, that washing the face and hands, and occasionally the feet, constitutes personal cleanliness, or that such partial ablution can act hygienically. It is from all parts of the body’s surface (more so from some than from others, especially from those that are covered) that chemical compounds and effete elements are eliminated in the shape of the sensible and insensible perspiration—therefore, to escape the evils attendant on filthy personal habits, we must not be content with partial ablution, but extend it to the entire body.

To all those who may be ignorant of, or any way sceptical on, the point of the hygienic value of personal ablution, we would recommend the perusal of the writings of Drs. Andrew Combe, Southwood Smith, &c.—they will then become acquainted with the important uses and functions of their own covering,—they will find in the above-mentioned authorities the subject of cuticular economy ably investigated, and the intimate connexion of the outer and inner skins (the one being a continuation of the other) clearly set forth, showing that through the perspiratory system, consisting of openings in the skin called pores, the temperature of the body is not only managed to a certain extent, but also that a number of compounds, noxious to animal life, are removed from the system, by which means the blood and other fluids are kept in a state of purity. Perspiration, both as to matter or quality and its quantity, is absolutely necessary for the well-being of the human body: and in order to give some idea of the injurious effects of interference with the functions of the skin by the retention and the necessary accumulation of innumerable chemical agents, we may refer to Lavoisier and Seguin’s researches on the subject. It was estimated by them that eight grains of perspiration are exhaled by the skin in the course of a minute, a quantity which is equivalent to thirty-three ounces in the twenty-four hours. On the cuticular surface it has been computed by them that there are seven millions of pores, which being blocked up by impurities for want of personal cleanliness, must prevent the elimination of their contents, and these being again thrown into the system by the circulation, cannot but be highly detrimental to health. Again,

Irrespective of the importance of the skin to external life, it is no less so to the internal economy of the body in preserving the grand equilibrium of the different systems (the body being a system of systems) by which the human frame is supported.

To a want of personal purification by washing, therefore, the frequency of many of our most distressing and fatal diseases, such as those of the lungs and of the kidneys, termed consumption and Bright’s disease, may be traced, as also the affection so common in this country, and very justly termed ‘an Englishman’s inheritance,’ ‘dyspepsia,’ by our making the lungs, the kidneys, and bowels, which are depurating organs as well as the skin, act the part of scavengers to the entire system, in the elimination of the greater portion of its impurities, and thus perform the proper office of the skin.

“We know,” says an experienced and talented writer, “no country of Europe where there is so little disposition on the part of the people as in ours to give themselves even the exhilarating kind of ablution which is derived from bathing. Dirty faces, dirty clothes, dirty houses,—in fine, dirt all over,—are the characteristics of our people; and yet, bad as they are (from necessity generally), we know that there are worse effects underneath the surface, for where physical dirt is seen, there also presides moral degradation.”

It is true that within the last few years many praiseworthy exertions have been used for the purpose of establishing baths and wash-houses for the poor, which it is to be hoped will meet with further encouragement and extension; but as fashion rules a large portion of mankind, even in physic, we would suggest, that in order to secure a more complete and general use of personal ablution, our leaders of fashion and the upper classes who have so much to say on the subject of wash and bath-houses for the poor, should set the example by establishing baths, after the custom of the Orientals, in their own private residences; for, in spite of the increase of wealth and luxury, of the splendour and extent of the houses of recent erection in this country, baths are very far from being universal. Much may also be attained by patronising the few excellent but neglected public baths of this great metropolis; such measures would not only have the effect of increasing the number of those baths already established, but of inducing, from the increased facility, that personal purification, which ultimately would be found to be indispensable. “Usus est altera natura.”

In concluding these our remarks on the three grand essentials to life, we would observe that it is astonishing with what little amount of food a human being may live in health and strength, (we of course allude to those who eat to live,) when supplied in due proportion with the requisites for vitality,—namely, Light, Air, and Water. Further, we would ask, what can be more monstrous in this enlightened age, so outrageous of every principle of reason—so contrary to daily experience and common sense, as “the barring-out the free fresh air, and the meting-out to mortals of Heaven’s light,” by that blot on civilization, the window-tax,—a tax which originated in iniquity,[5] at a time, too, when so much is being agitated about sanitary measures?[6] We neglect the first principles of vitality, to go groping into sewers and cesspools, which we repeat are but secondary considerations, the ultimatum of which will prove to be but little better than the relief of the olfactories, to tickle the gustatory nerves by furnishing for our palates, in the shape of Thames water, the filthy abominations of an overgrown city.

While on the subject of Prophylaxis, we must not omit allusion to the barbarous and pestiferous custom of intramural burial, which cannot be too strongly deprecated, as being not only subversive of every Christian feeling—from the daily revolting spectacle of violated sanctuaries—but otherwise demoralizing in the extreme, and poisonous to the public. “Pessimum est tempore Pestis habitare in locis mortuorum monumentis propinquis.”

From the disgusting apathy evinced in this huge metropolis in the disposal of the dead, it would appear that nothing short of one of those terrible epidemic inflictions—inflictions with which in former days the Almighty was wont to visit the iniquities of his people, will bring those whose immediate province it is to a sense of the evils and perils of such abominations, which they, in spite of common sense, actuated by cupidity and fool-hardiness, still perpetuate.