Bladud was the eldest son of a British King (whose name I perfectly
remember, but do not choose to write) _temp_. Solomon--who does not
appear to have known Bladud, however. Bladud was, therefore, Prince of
Wales. He was more than that: he was a leper--had it very bad, and the
Court physician, Sir William Gull, frequently remarked that the
Prince's death was merely a question of time. When a man gets to that
stage of leprosy he does not care much for society, particularly if no
one will have anything to do with him. So Bladud bade a final adieu to
the world, and settled in Liverpool. But not agreeing with the
climate, he folded his tent into the shape of an Arab, as Longfellow
says, and silently stole away to the southward, bringing up in
Gloucestershire.
Here Bladud hired himself out to a farmer named Smith, as a
swineherd. But Fate, as he expressed it in the vernacular, was
"ferninst him." Leprosy is a contagious disease, within certain
degrees of consanguinity, and by riding his pigs afield he
communicated it to them; so that in a few weeks, barring the fact that
they were hogs, they were no better off than he. Mr. Smith was an
irritable old gentleman, so choleric he made his bondsmen
tremble--though he was now abroad upon his own recognizances. Dreading
his wrath, Bladud quitted his employ, without giving the usual week's
notice, but so far conforming to custom in other respects as to take
his master's pigs along with him.
We find him next at a place called Swainswick--or Swineswig--a mile or
two to the north-east of Bath, which, as yet, had no existence, its
site being occupied by a smooth level reach of white sand, or a stormy
pool of black water, travellers of the time disagree which. At
Swainswick Bladud found his level; throwing aside all such nonsense
as kingly ambition, and the amenities of civilized society--utterly
ignoring the deceitful pleasures of common sense--he contented his
simple soul with composing _bouts rimés_ for Lady Miller, at
Batheaston Villa; that one upon a buttered muffin, falsely ascribed by
Walpole to the Duchess of Northumberland, was really constructed by
Bladud.
A brief glance at the local history of the period cannot but prove
instructive. Ralph Allen was then residing at Sham Castle, where Pope
accused him of doing good like a thief in the night and blushing to
find it unpopular. Fielding was painfully evolving "Tom Jones" from an
inner consciousness that might have been improved by soap and any
water but that of Bath. Bishop Warburton had just shot the Count Du
Barré in a duel with Lord Chesterfield; and Beau Nash was disputing
with Dr. Johnson, at the Pelican Inn, Walcot, upon a question of
lexicographical etiquette. It is necessary to learn these things in
order the better to appreciate the interest of what follows.
During all this time Bladud never permitted his mind to permanently
desert his calling; he found family matters a congenial study, and he
thought of his swine a good deal, off and on. One day while baiting
them amongst the hills, he observed a cloud of steam ascending from
the valley below. Having always believed steam a modern invention,
this ancient was surprised, and when his measly charge set up a wild
squeal, rushing down a steep place into the aspiring vapour, his
astonishment ripened into dismay. As soon as he conveniently could
Bladud followed, and there he heard the saw--I mean he saw the herd
wallowing and floundering multitudinously in a hot spring, and
punctuating the silence of nature with grunts of quiet satisfaction,
as the leprosy left them and clave to the waters--to which it cleaves
yet. It is not probable the pigs went in there for a medicinal
purpose; how could they know? Any butcher will tell you that a pig,
after being assassinated, is invariably boiled to loosen the hair. By
long usage the custom of getting into hot water has become a habit
which the living pig inherits from the dead pork. (See Herbert Spencer
on "Heredity.")
Now Bladud (who is said to have studied at Athens, as most Britons of
his time did) was a rigid disciple of Bishop Butler; and Butler's line
of argument is this: Because a rose-bush blossoms this year, a
lamppost will blossom next year. By this ingenious logic he proves the
immortality of the human soul, which is good of him; but in so doing
he proves, also, the immortality of the souls of snakes, mosquitos,
and everything else, which is less commendable. Reasoning by analogy,
Bladud was convinced that if these waters would cure a pig, they would
cure a prince: and without waiting to see _how_ they had cured the
bacon, he waded in.
When asked the next day by Sir William Waller if he intended trying
the waters again, and if he retained his fondness for that style of
bathing, he replied, "Not any, thank you; I am quite cured!" Sir
William at once noised abroad the story of the wonderful healing, and
when it reached the king's ears, that potentate sent for Bladud to
"come home at once and succeed to the throne, just the same as if he
had a skin"--which Bladud did. Some time afterwards he thought to
outdo Dædalus and Icarus, by flying from the top of St. Paul's
Cathedral. He outdid them handsomely; he fell a good deal harder than
they did, and broke his precious neck.
Previously to his melancholy end he built the City of Bath, to
commemorate his remarkable cure. He endowed the Corporation with ten
millions sterling, every penny of the interest of which is annually
devoted to the publication of guide-books to Bath, to lure the unwary
invalid to his doom. From motives of mercy the Corporation have now
set up a contrivance for secretly extracting the mineral properties of
the fluid before it is ladled out, but formerly a great number of
strangers found a watery grave.
If King Bladud was generous to Bath, Bath has been grateful in return.
One statue of him adorns the principal street, and another graces the
swimming pond, both speaking likenesses. The one represents him as he
was before he divided his leprosy with the pigs; the other shows him
as he appeared after breaking his neck.
Writing in 1631, Dr. Jordan says: "The baths are bear-gardens, where
both sexes bathe promiscuously, while the passers-by pelt them with
dead dogs, cats, and pigs; and even human creatures are hurled over
the rails into the water." It is not so bad as that now, but lodgings
are still held at rates which might be advantageously tempered to the
shorn.
I append the result of a chemical analysis I caused to be made of
these incomparable Waters, that the fame of their virtues may no
longer rest upon the inadequate basis of their observed effects.
One hundred parts of the water contain:
Brandate of Sodium 9.50 parts.
Sulphuretted Hydrogen 3.50 "
Citrate of Magnesia 15.00 "
Calves'-foot Jelly 10.00 "
Protocarbonate of Brass 11.00 "
Nitric Acid 7.50 "
Devonshire Cream 6.00 "
Treaclate of Soap 2.00 "
Robur 3.50 "
Superheated Mustard 11.50 "
Frogs 20.45 "
Traces of Guano, Leprosy, Picallilly,
and Scotch Whiskey .05 "
Temperature of the four baths, 117 degrees each--or 468 altogether.
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