I have done with the waters; therefore your advice comes a day too late
I grant that physic is no mystery of your making. I know it is a mystery
in its own nature; and, like other mysteries, requires a strong gulp of
faith to make it go down--Two days ago, I went into the King’s Bath,
by the advice of our friend Ch--, in order to clear the strainer of the
skin, for the benefit of a free perspiration; and the first object that
saluted my eye, was a child full of scrophulous ulcers, carried in the
arms of one of the guides, under the very noses of the bathers. I was
so shocked at the sight, that I retired immediately with indignation
and disgust--Suppose the matter of those ulcers, floating on the water,
comes in contact with my skin, when the pores are all open, I would ask
you what must be the consequence?--Good Heaven, the very thought makes
my blood run cold! we know not what sores may be running into the water
while we are bathing, and what sort of matter we may thus imbibe; the
king’s-evil, the scurvy, the cancer, and the pox; and, no doubt, the
heat will render the virus the more volatile and penetrating. To purify
myself from all such contamination, I went to the duke of Kingston’s
private Bath, and there I was almost suffocated for want of free air;
the place was so small, and the steam so stifling.
After all, if the intention is no more than to wash the skin, I
am convinced that simple element is more effectual than any water
impregnated with salt and iron; which, being astringent, will certainly
contract the pores, and leave a kind of crust upon the surface of the
body. But I am now as much afraid of drinking, as of bathing; for, after
a long conversation with the Doctor, about the construction of the
pump and the cistern, it is very far from being clear with me, that the
patients in the Pump-room don’t swallow the scourings of the bathers. I
can’t help suspecting, that there is, or may be, some regurgitation from
the bath into the cistern of the pump. In that case, what a delicate
beveridge is every day quaffed by the drinkers; medicated with the sweat
and dirt, and dandriff; and the abominable discharges of various kinds,
from twenty different diseased bodies, parboiling in the kettle below.
In order to avoid this filthy composition, I had recourse to the spring
that supplies the private baths on the Abbey-green; but I at once
perceived something extraordinary in the taste and smell; and, upon
inquiry, I find that the Roman baths in this quarter, were found covered
by an old burying ground, belonging to the Abbey; through which, in all
probability, the water drains in its passage; so that as we drink the
decoction of living bodies at the Pump-room, we swallow the strainings
of rotten bones and carcasses at the private bath. I vow to God, the
very idea turns my stomach! Determined, as I am, against any farther use
of the Bath waters, this consideration would give me little disturbance,
if I could find any thing more pure, or less pernicious, to quench my
thirst; but, although the natural springs of excellent water are seen
gushing spontaneous on every side, from the hills that surround us, the
inhabitants, in general, make use of well-water, so impregnated with
nitre, or alum, or some other villainous mineral, that it is equally
ungrateful to the taste, and mischievous to the constitution. It must
be owned, indeed, that here, in Milsham-street, we have a precarious and
scanty supply from the hill; which is collected in an open bason in
the Circus, liable to be defiled with dead dogs, cats, rats, and every
species of nastiness, which the rascally populace may throw into it,
from mere wantonness and brutality. Well, there is no nation that drinks
so hoggishly as the English.
What passes for wine among us, is not the juice of the grape. It is an
adulterous mixture, brewed up of nauseous ingredients, by dunces,
who are bunglers in the art of poison-making; and yet we, and our
forefathers, are and have been poisoned by this cursed drench, without
taste or flavour--The only genuine and wholesome beveridge in England,
is London porter, and Dorchester table-beer; but as for your ale and
your gin, your cyder and your perry, and all the trashy family of
made wines, I detest them as infernal compositions, contrived for the
destruction of the human species--But what have I to do with the human
species? except a very few friends, I care not if the whole was--.
Heark ye, Lewis, my misanthropy increases every day--The longer I
live, I find the folly and the fraud of mankind grow more and more
intolerable--I wish I had not come from Brambletonhall; after having
lived in solitude so long, I cannot bear the hurry and impertinence of
the multitude; besides, every thing is sophisticated in these crowded
places. Snares are laid for our lives in every thing we eat or drink:
the very air we breathe, is loaded with contagion. We cannot even
sleep, without risque of infection. I say, infection--This place is
the rendezvous of the diseased--You won’t deny, that many diseases are
infectious; even the consumption itself, is highly infectious. When a
person dies of it in Italy, the bed and bedding are destroyed; the other
furniture is exposed to the weather and the apartment white-washed,
before it is occupied by any other living soul. You’ll allow, that
nothing receives infection sooner, or retains it longer, than blankets,
feather-beds, and matrasses--‘Sdeath! how do I know what miserable
objects have been stewing in the bed where I now lie!--I wonder, Dick,
you did not put me in mind of sending for my own matrasses--But, if I
had not been an ass, I should not have needed a remembrancer--There is
always some plaguy reflection that rises up in judgment against me, and
ruffles my spirits--Therefore, let us change the subject.
I have other reasons for abridging my stay at Bath--You know sister
Tabby’s complexion--If Mrs Tabitha Bramble had been of any other race,
I should certainly have considered her as the most--. But, the truth
is, she has found means to interest my affection; or, rather, she is
beholden to the force of prejudice, commonly called the ties of
blood. Well, this amiable maiden has actually commenced a flirting
correspondence with an Irish baronet of sixty-five. His name is Sir Ulic
Mackilligut. He is said to be much out at elbows; and, I believe, has
received false intelligence with respect to her fortune. Be that as
it may, the connexion is exceedingly ridiculous, and begins already
to excite whispers. For my part, I have no intention to dispute her
free-agency; though I shall fall upon some expedient to undeceive her
paramour, as to the point which he has principally in view. But I don’t
think her conduct is a proper example for Liddy, who has also attracted
the notice of some coxcombs in the Rooms; and Jery tells me, he suspects
a strapping fellow, the knight’s nephew, of some design upon the girl’s
heart. I shall, therefore, keep a strict eye over her aunt and her,
and even shift the scene, if I find the matter grow more serious--You
perceive what an agreeable task it must be, to a man of my kidney, to
have the cure of such souls as these.--But, hold, You shall not have
another peevish word (till the next occasion) from
Yours, MATT. BRAMBLE BATH, April 28.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college, Oxon.