—sure to be tipsy with water, after a few
days' trial of the sparkling luxury. Whatever
may be the woes of the world in general,
Malvern is always merry—that is, the water
patients are; and when we speak of Malvern
now, we mean water patients.

The conditions of life in England—and, we
may add, in America—are much changed
within this century; much changed since the
beloved Andrew Combe gave us familiar
books, to show us something of the laws of
health, and teach us, among other truths, the
nature and business of the human skin. It is
within the period of steam-boat travelling that
American ladies were wont to emerge from
their berths in the morning, ready dressed,
and to dip the corner of a towel in water,
wipe their eyes and mouth, and consider
themselves finished for the day. It is within the
memory of middle-aged English women, that
when at school,—at an expensive and eminent
school,—the pupils had one foot-bath for the
whole number, and only on Saturday nights.
It is within the memory of middle-aged men
that they were struck with astonishment and
amusement on first hearing of such a thing as
washing all over every day. And, perhaps, it
is too much within the observation of us all,
(as Mr. Tremenheere tells us of the pitmen in
collieries), that, for years together, the clean
shirt goes on every Sunday, over an unwashed
skin. It is not long since a clergyman,
finding an old woman of his flock very ill, met
with a shocking answer to the advice he gave.
"I will send the doctor to you," said he; "and
I can tell you what to do meantime. Put
your feet in warm water, and go to bed."

"Put my feet in water!" exclaimed the
patient; "why, not a drop of water has
touched my feet for thirty years." Moreover,
she vowed that not a drop of water should
ever touch her feet; and, thinking it proper
to render a reason to the clergyman, she told
him that she had had a daughter who had
once been persuaded to wash her feet, and
that that daughter had died before she was
twenty-five. It is not longer ago than some
months, that a decent woman, too ill after her
confinement to dress her infant, interfered to
prevent its arms being washed, saying that if
a child's arms felt the water before it was six
months old, it would become a thief; and,
she added pathetically, "I wouldn't like
that!"

Till lately, the gentle knew as little as the
simple now do, what they suffered from
neglect of the skin, nor how it was that they
suffered as they did. They did not know
how, when the pores of the skin are loaded,
and its action checked, an undue burden is
thrown on the interior organs. When, in this
state of chronic fever, the interior organs
flagged in their work, and the sufferer was
oppressed by sensations of sinking and
languor, he was apt to resort to stimulants,
which, affording relief for the moment,
aggravated the mischief. And when, at last,
the weakest organ gave way, and some attack
of illness occurred, the treatment was for the
immediate symptoms alone, and the false
system of management went on, till occasion
was ripe for another fit of sickness. All the
while the portion of the brain appropriate
to the performance of the bodily
functions was suffering. By day, there was
oppression, languor, and dull pain somewhere;
by night, disturbed sleep, and bad
dreams; and always, night and day, and
from month to month, liability to low spirits,
and all the moral mischiefs which attend
unhappiness. Wordsworth used to say, to the
last, that times were changed for the better,
in homes and in society, since he was young.
In his early days, everybody was understood
to have a temper; and the admission in the
abstract did not much help the endurance of
such peculiarities by neighbours, in daily life.
But now, it was considered the rule that
people should be amiable, and it has become a
sin to be otherwise. No doubt, the bodily
state of bad washers,—that is, of the vast
majority—subject, as they were, to low spirits
—must have had an incalculable amount of
influence on the domestic temper; however
gay may be the traditions that have come
down to us of the mirth of society in the last
and preceding centuries. If we would see the
difference now, let us look round for (not the
bad washers, for that is disagreeable—and
the good ones will answer every purpose) the
most healthy and cheerful households we
know. Is there a house where the doctor
seldom enters, but as a guest,—where the lads
are brisk in shop or warehouse, and the lasses
merry at home? It is pretty certain that
early hours are found there, and plenty of cold
water. The fever patient finds inexpressible
relief from the sponging with vinegar and
water; and the same kind of relief is given by
ablution, under the lesser fever of toil. The
anxious merchant or statesman is haunted in his
bed by images of terror, or wearied with galling
cares: his morning draught and his morning
bath restore all things to their true aspect and
their right proportion. The author—the most
sensitive of human beings—has gone to
Græfenberg, or Beurhydding, or Malvern,
burdened with care and dread, trembling at
the arrival of the mail, recoiling from the sight
of reviews and newspapers—and, in a week or
two, has omitted to speculate on the fate of
his own book. So one of the fraternity bears
witness to his friends in private; and, if one
of the genus irritabile is thus made serene by
cold water, what wonder is there in any effect
that it may have had on the tempers of men
in general?

The slipperiness of the grass on these slopes
seems really worse than ice. As we sit under
a bank, eating our dinner, we see two young
ladies on an opposite slope in a most helpless
position. They have poles, with spikes at the
end, and they hold each others' hands; but
they can make no way, upwards or sideways,