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Title: The swimming baths of London

Author: R. E. Dudgeon

Release date: May 19, 2025 [eBook #76117]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Henry Turner and Co, 1870

Credits: deaurider, David Wilson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SWIMMING BATHS OF LONDON ***





                        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.

I shall now pass on to a description of the tepid swimming baths of
London, but, before doing so, I will first make a few remarks on tepid
swimming baths in general. If the water be but moderately heated, say
not above 70°, and frequently renewed, and if the ventilation of the
bath be good, swimming in it would be refreshing and salubrious, and
if not possessing all the charm or all the hygienic power of open-air
bathing, it may still be a health-giving exercise not altogether
despicable. But if, as often happens, the water is too warm, say about
80°, seldom renewed, and the ventilation bad, in all or either of such
conditions swimming, in place of being a healthy exercise, becomes
just the reverse. On coming out of such a bath we feel no refreshment,
but, on the contrary, we feel limp and exhausted from the heat of
the sodden water which has lost all its vivifying air, and from the
confined atmosphere of the bathing room, tainted with the exhalations
from the bodies of the bathers. The temperature in these baths, even
of the same bath at different times, is very unequal. Sometimes they
are fresh and cool and apparently unmixed with warm water. I found this
to be the case in one of the best of these baths one Sunday morning.
I asked the attendant how it happened that the bath was so pleasantly
cool, and he informed me that it was often so on a Sunday morning,
as so many people came there for warm baths that there was no warm
water to spare for the swimming bath. However, he added a piece of
information not altogether so agreeable, to the effect that when it was
deemed necessary to heat the swimming bath under these circumstances,
this was often done by letting into it the water that had already been
used in the warm baths. If this little manœuvre, so naïvely revealed
to me by this bath attendant, often takes place, it will fully account
for the flat “wersh” feel of the water of so many of the swimming
baths. But, without supposing anything so nasty, the water will readily
acquire this unrefreshing character, with a number of persons bathing
in it, if it be not frequently renewed. In some of the swimming baths
the water is allowed to flow off every night and fresh water admitted
in the morning, and in them a certain amount of freshness is always
perceptible. But in many baths this excellent plan is not adopted,
and the water is either very seldom allowed to flow off entirely, or
the dribbling inflow from a meagre jet and a corresponding outflow are
considered sufficient. Swimming in baths of this character is neither
refreshing nor wholesome. Imperfect ventilation is not such a common
occurrence in the metropolitan swimming baths, for they have mostly
lofty roofs and plenty of open windows. However, some of them are
defective on this point, and all swimming in such a tainted atmosphere
must be more prejudicial than beneficial. On the whole, however, a
careful examination of the London swimming baths has convinced me that,
as a rule, they are highly creditable to the parochial authorities by
whom they have mostly been erected. If not equal in hygienic influence
to open-air swimming baths, they are, at all events, excellent swimming
schools, and, as they are to be found in every quarter of the town, and
their price is extremely moderate, it is the fault of the Londoners
themselves if they do not learn to swim. The art acquired even in a
tepid swimming bath will be serviceable under all other circumstances;
and though one accustomed to these artificially warmed shallow pools
may at first feel not altogether at his ease in cold deep water,
yet the power of swimming will not forsake him under these novel
conditions, and familiarity will soon enable him thoroughly to enjoy a
swim in river, lake or sea, and lead him to despise the languid joys of
the tepid tank.

In the absence of any better classification I shall describe the
swimming baths of London in alphabetical order.

  _Albany Swimming Bath_, York Road, Lambeth.—Length of bath
  17 yards; breadth 12; depth from 3 to 5 feet. 50 boxes with half
  doors along 3 sides of the bath. A footway all round the bath;
  a rude spring-board at the deeper end. The ceiling is traversed
  by great beams; is dark coloured and pierced by few windows. The
  water is of a yellowish colour, and so opaque that no part of a
  body immersed in it is visible. This peculiar appearance, I was
  told, was owing to the quantity of iron it contains. “Highly
  recommended by the faculty for its strengthening effects,” I was
  informed. It would need to have some great medicinal virtues, for
  its appearance is not very inviting.

  _Alexandra Swimming Bath_, Bennett Park, Blackheath.—This bath
  is 18 yards long by 8 wide. Sides and bottom faced with white
  porcelain tiles. Depth from 3 ft. 6 in. to 5 ft. 6 in. Ceiling
  low, whitewashed. The lighting is effected by 4 dimmed windows
  in a recess at the shallow end, and 6 windows at one side, 5 of
  which open on to large square bathing boxes under a glazed roof
  capable of accommodating each three or four bathers. A gallery
  runs along the windows projecting over the bath, and opposite
  this is another elevated gallery or platform, on which stand 13
  other bathing boxes of unequal sizes, with curtains in place
  of doors. Few of the boxes are provided with mirrors. There
  is a spring-board at the deep end, and “headers” may be taken
  from the platform on which stand the bathing boxes. The water
  is clear, but the ventilation seemed to me not very perfect,
  and the illumination very indifferent, for though the bath has,
  apparently, plenty of windows, 5 of these windows do not admit
  the direct light of heaven, but only the light reflected from the
  walls of the bathing boxes, and the other windows are dimmed and
  unfavorably placed for illuminating purposes. Bathing drawers are
  required to be worn and are supplied by the establishment.

  _Bermondsey Swimming Baths_, Spa Road, Bermondsey.—This bath is
  13 yards long by 9 wide. The sides are of white porcelain tiles,
  the top row having an ornamental blue pattern. Bottom of white
  glazed bricks. Depth from 3 ft. 6 in. to 5 ft. 6 in. The ceiling,
  of tasteful iron work, nicely painted, forms a double slope, in
  which there is plenty of glass to illuminate the bath well. The
  bathing boxes, 34 in number, are at both ends of the bath, 18
  at the deep end, in two tiers, 14 at the shallow end similarly
  arranged. They are roomy, neatly painted, and are provided with
  mirrors and curtains in place of doors. There is a broad footway
  in front of the boxes, and a gangway across the water at one
  side, leading from one end to the other, and which, being about
  5 feet above the water, may be used as a spring-board. Walls
  painted in oil colour rise from the water on both sides. The
  water is quite clear. There is a second class bath precisely the
  same in dimensions, the only difference being that the boxes are
  not painted nor furnished with mirrors or curtains, and that
  there is no ornamental border round the top of the bath.

  _City of London Swimming Baths_, Golden Lane, Barbican.—These
  baths are situated in a squalid district, the teeming population
  of which seem not to avail themselves to any great extent of the
  facilities for ablution the establishment affords. The first
  class swimming bath is underground, dimly lighted by grimy
  windows at both ends and one side, which derive their light at
  second hand from other windows rising from the level of the
  pavement. It is about 30 yards long by 11 wide; is deepest (5 ft.
  6 in.) in the centre, and shallow (3 ft. 6 in.) at either end.
  The sides and a few feet of the bottom at one end are paved with
  white porcelain tiles, the rest of the bottom with reddish tiles.
  The water is clear. There is no visible out-and-in flow. The
  bathing boxes, 20 in number, are sufficiently roomy. They seem
  originally to have had half doors, but only two or three of these
  remain. These boxes stand upon a sort of platform overhanging the
  bath on one side. On the opposite side is a spring-board, and
  another at one end. At the other end a sort of Chinese bridge
  without a parapet crosses the water. The ceiling is of moderate
  height, and consists of boards, through which project clusters
  of iron pipes, evidently connected with the bath and laundry
  arrangements above. The sides of the walls are painted over with
  pious texts, with which the language of the bathers at my visit
  did not correspond. There was a close smell about the place,
  which must be much intensified when the bath is full. Although
  the size of the bath is great, and the water clear, and at my
  visit not too warm, this bath is not very inviting, it being
  dark, ugly, and ill-ventilated. There is a second class bath here
  of somewhat smaller dimensions.

  _Greenwich Swimming Baths_.—The first class bath is 17 yards
  long by 6 wide. Depth from 3 ft. 6 in. to 5 ft. 6 in. Sides and
  bottom covered with a sort of asphalte painted white. Fourteen
  open bathing boxes painted light blue, with curtains and mirrors,
  along one side of the bath. Footway in front of the boxes of
  slate. A narrow stone ledge at deep end, and in front of it
  a plank across the bath for a spring-board. Walls of brick,
  whitewashed, rise directly from the bath at the shallow end and
  the side opposite the boxes. Ceiling, of iron work, double slope,
  with glass let in at the top. Ventilation and lighting good. The
  second class bath is almost precisely the same, differing only in
  the colour of the boxes, and there being no curtains to them.

  _Hammersmith Swimming Bath_, Bridge street, Hammersmith.—This
  bath is 20 yards long by 7 wide. The sides are of white porcelain
  tiles with round black spots at the angles, the top row having a
  blue flower pattern. The bottom of white and black glazed bricks
  forming a pattern. Depth from 3 ft. 6 in. to 5 ft. 6 in.; 22
  bathing boxes, painted drab and blue, with small mirrors and half
  doors, run along one side and the shallow end. The footway in
  front of the boxes and at the deep end is of wood, and projects
  over the water. A narrow stone ledge runs along the opposite
  side. The walls are sized stone colour. The ceiling is moderately
  lofty, arched, and whitewashed. Gaseliers depend from it.
  Daylight is admitted by two large windows in the side wall, and
  three semicircular windows at each end. Panes of thick unpolished
  glass are let into the roof all down the side where the boxes
  are. The illumination is good. There is a spring board at the
  deep end. The warm water is admitted at the surface of the water
  at one corner of the bath, whereby the heat is very unequally
  distributed. At my visit the top of the water in many parts was
  quite warm, while the depths of the bath were very cold. The
  water is clear. This bath is first class on Mondays, Wednesdays
  and Fridays, and second class on the other days of the week. It
  is an excellent bath, of good size, well lighted and ventilated,
  and very clean—perhaps because it is new, and the only fault to
  be found with it is in regard to the heating of the water, which
  would be better if the warm water were admitted at the bottom
  of the bath about its middle, in place of at the surface of the
  water at one end.

  _Kensington Swimming Bath_, High Street, Kensington.—This little
  bath is about 10 yards long by 7 wide. It is lined, sides and
  bottom, with cement painted white. Depth from 3 to 5 feet. The
  walls, which rise straight up from the bath on three sides, are
  painted in imitation of stone, and are festooned all round with
  chains for the bathers to lay hold of. The ceiling, not very
  lofty, is of wood, whitewashed, pierced by six windows, which
  admit a good quantity of light. Four chains hang from the ceiling
  to near the surface of the water. The water is very clear and
  fresh. There are 8 boxes for bathers, entered at the back by
  doors, and with half doors facing the water. Stone steps lead
  down to the bottom of the water from these boxes, which occupy
  the whole of the shallow end of the bath, are rather narrow, but
  clean and neat, with mirrors. At one side of the bath is a short
  footway projecting about 10 feet over the water. A spring-board
  in the middle of the deep end, and at the corners ladders for
  diving from. This bath, though small, is clean, well ventilated,
  and select.

  _Lambeth Swimming Baths_, Westminster Bridge Road.—The first
  class bath is 41 yards by 15. Depth from 3 to 5 feet. The sides
  of the bath have a row of white porcelain tiles above, the rest
  of the sides and the bottom are lined with dusky tiles. The water
  tolerably clear. An elegant fountain in the centre admits the
  warm water. An aquarium at the shallow end. A lofty spring-board
  at the deep end, a lower one at one side. Eighty roomy boxes for
  bathers with half doors, running along each side of the bath.
  Above these, on each side, is a gallery supported on light iron
  pillars, with 16 superior rooms for bathers. Ceiling lofty,
  double slope, pierced with numerous windows, which light the bath
  well. A broad paved space between the boxes and the water. This
  is the largest first class bath in London, and is much used for
  swimming matches. It is well lighted and ventilated. There is a
  second class bath nearly as large, 38 yards by 17.

  _Marylebone Swimming Baths_, Marylebone Road.—The first class
  bath is 15 yards by 8. Depth from 3 ft. 6 in. to 5 ft. 6 in.
  It is paved with blue and white porcelain tiles arranged in a
  pattern. The sides are of slate slabs, with an elegant border
  at the top, of blue and white pattern, in porcelain tiles. The
  boxes, 10 in number, and provided with a complete door that
  closes with a spring lock, which can be opened on the inside by a
  handle, but on the outside only by a key, are roomy, clean, and
  provided with mirrors. They run along one side of the bath only,
  and in front of them is a footway of slate. The walls rise from
  the water on the other sides, and are painted imitation stone.
  A spring-board passes across the deep end of the bath. At the
  shallow end is a shell fountain of white marble, whence fresh
  water is always flowing into the bath with a pleasant sound. The
  ceiling is lofty, ridge and furrow, with many lights. This is a
  little gem of a bath, the water is generally fresh and clear, the
  lighting and ventilation excellent. It is open on Wednesdays till
  2 o’clock for ladies. There are also a second and a third class
  bath below the level of the street, each 23 yards long, lined
  with blue and white porcelain tiles, well lighted by glass roofs,
  clean and tasteful. Accommodating respectively 30 and 40 bathers
  in neat, open, varnished wooden boxes.

  _Metropolitan Swimming Baths_, Ashley Crescent, City Road.—The
  principal bath is 33 yards long by 11 wide. Depth from 3 ft.
  10 in. to 5 ft. There is also a smaller bath 16 yards long by 9
  wide, of a uniform depth of 5 feet. The large bath is lined with
  reddish bricks, and a row of white porcelain tiles runs round
  the top. The boxes, 47 in number, run down both sides and along
  the shallow end. They are placed two and two between pillars
  supporting arches. They are roomy, and are entered by a door
  leading from a corridor at the back. A half door opens on to the
  water, down to which there are wooden steps in front of each box.
  The boxes have no mirrors. The corridor extends all round the
  boxes, which are between it and the bath, so that the bath can
  only be entered through the boxes or at the deep end of the bath,
  where there is a platform and spring-board, beneath which the
  water is admitted, when required, in a large cascade. Ornamental
  colouring is applied to the pillars and arches supporting the
  ceiling, which is moderately lofty, flat, and whitewashed, with
  two circular skylights. The bath is further lighted by 22 windows
  looking into the corridor, placed just below the ceiling. The
  lighting is not so good as might be expected from the number of
  windows, as they are unfortunately placed. The water is clear,
  and the ventilation good.

  The smaller bath is lined with cement painted. It is surrounded
  by 48 boxes with half doors placed against the wall, and there is
  a broad footway betwixt the boxes and the bath. Some of the boxes
  are in a recess at the head of the bath. There is a spring-board
  at one end. The water is clear, and apparently kept somewhat
  cooler than that in the large bath.

  _The Wenlock Swimming Bath_, Wenlock Road, is the second class
  bath to the Metropolitan. It is 60 yards long and 10 wide. It can
  accommodate a vast number of bathers in boxes with half doors on
  either side and at the top, and an unlimited number of spectators
  in galleries above the boxes. This bath being the longest in
  London is much used for swimming matches. The water is very far
  from clear, and the arrangements are altogether very second class.

  _North London Swimming Baths_, Pentonville Road.—The first class
  bath is 18 yards by 7. Depth from 3 to 4 feet; deepest in the
  middle. The sides are lined with white porcelain tiles with
  ornamented top row, the bottom paved with red tiles. There are 24
  roomy bathing boxes, with mirrors, running along one side and
  one end. Above these is a gallery which will accommodate bathers
  or spectators. A flagged footway runs in front of the boxes.
  At the end and side not occupied by the boxes, a spring-board
  runs along the whole length, and there is another spring-board
  near the middle of the opposite side. Three trapezes hang from
  the ceiling for the daring flights of amphibious Leotards. The
  ceiling is lofty, of dark stained wood, and glass in sufficient
  quantity to light the bath well. The side walls are of bare
  yellow brick. The water is clear, the lighting and ventilation
  good, but the depth of the bath is quite insufficient, and in
  plunging from the spring-board one must take care of one’s head
  against the bottom. There is a second class bath somewhat smaller.

  _Poplar Swimming Baths_, East India Dock Road.—There are two
  baths, first and second class, of similar dimensions, 15 yards
  by 9. I was unable to inspect them, as the baths close at the
  end of September, and my visit was made during the first days
  of October, when the baths were locked up, and the man who had
  the key was absent. They were described to me by an intelligent
  policeman as very nice baths—I presume of the usual character of
  parochial baths, of which I have examined and described so many.

  _Royal York Swimming Baths_, York Terrace, Regent’s Park.—There
  are two swimming baths, one for gentlemen, the other for ladies.

  The gentlemen’s bath is of an irregular shape, about 22 yards
  long by 7 wide. Depth from 3 to 5 feet. A spring-board at each
  end. The bath is floored with tiles of a dusky reddish-brown
  colour, the sides of white bricks. The bathing boxes, 20 in
  number, very narrow, with half doors, run along the top and down
  a part of one side. The walls, whitewashed, support a low ridge
  and furrow ceiling, with dimmed panes of glass let into it. A
  narrow ledge runs along one side of the bath. Small jets of water
  run in at one end. At my visit the plaster was peeling off the
  walls in patches, and green mould was creeping up the walls.
  This, with the low ceiling, the dim illumination, and the dismal
  colour of the material of which the bath is constructed, gave a
  gloomy and uninviting aspect to the place. Still, I am bound to
  say, the water was clear and pleasant.

  The ladies’ bath is smaller, 10 yards by 7. Depth 4 ft. 6 in.
  Lined with white porcelain tiles. Platform and 6 boxes with
  curtains at one end. The walls, whitewashed, rise up from the
  bath at the other three sides, and support a not very lofty
  ridge and furrow ceiling pierced with a few windows. This bath,
  which is the only one I know of in London exclusively devoted to
  ladies, deserves attention on that account. It is far from being
  everything that is desirable, but the water is clear, and there
  is just room enough to learn swimming.

  _St. George’s Swimming Bath_, Davies Street, Berkeley
  Square.—This bath is 14 yards by 8. Depth 3 ft. 6 in. to 5 ft.
  6 in. Sides paved with white porcelain tiles with black spots at
  angles; a top row with Greek pattern in blue, bottom of white
  glazed bricks. Open boxes with mirrors and half curtains, 42 in
  number, all round the bath. A sloppy, slippery wooden footway in
  front of boxes. Spring-board at deep end. Wooden steps down to
  the bath at the middle of one side and at one corner. Ceiling,
  supported on iron pillars, of painted iron work. The light comes
  from a large skylight at the top of a high narrow funnel with
  painted iron sides, and from 7 small windows over the top of
  the boxes on one side. The water is clear, but the lighting is
  very indifferent, and the ventilation decidedly defective. The
  wringing machine belonging to the laundry keeps up an almost
  incessant and very lugubrious noise. This bath is first class on
  Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and second class on the other
  days of the week. It is under the same management as the

  _St. George’s Swimming Bath_, Buckingham Palace Road.—This bath
  is 20 yards by 8. Depth from 3 ft. 4 in. to 5 ft. 4 in. Sides of
  white porcelain tiles with black spots at angles, and a Greek
  pattern in blue along the top row. Bottom of white glazed bricks.
  Forty-six open boxes, with half curtains and mirrors, on three
  sides of the bath. Wooden footway all round. Ceiling, of iron
  work, lofty, supported on painted iron pillars all round the
  bath. Lighted by a large glass roof. Spring-board at deep end.
  This bath is much superior in size, lighting, and ventilation, to
  the establishment in Davies Street. Like the latter, it is first
  class on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and second class on
  other days. It closes the end of October, but the bath in Davies
  Street is open all the year.

  _St. Giles’ and St. George’s, Bloomsbury, Swimming Baths_, Endell
  Street.—The first class bath has an oblong shape, broader at one
  end than the other. Its length is 12 yards by 10 at the deep end,
  tapering off to 8 at the shallow end. Depth from 4 ft. to 6 ft.
  Sides lined with white porcelain tiles with round black spots
  at angles, a blue pattern on top row. Bottom of white glazed
  bricks. Twenty-three open boxes, with mirrors and curtains, on
  one side and along the shallow end. A wide footway of slate on
  three sides of the bath. A spring-board at deep end. Pillars,
  of painted iron, round three sides of the bath, supporting the
  roof. A painted screen about 12 feet high separates this from the
  second class bath, which is in all respects the same as the first
  class, except that the boxes are not painted and have neither
  mirrors nor curtains. The two baths have a common roof of glass,
  very lofty, and with elegant iron-work supports. The water is
  clear and fresh, the ventilation and lighting excellent. This
  and the Tower Hamlets bath are the only ones in London where a
  middle-sized man can get out of his depth, which is a great charm
  to the practised swimmer.

  _St. James’ Swimming Bath_, Marshall Street, Golden Square.—You
  mount up a flight of steps to get to this bath. It is about
  13 yards by 9. Depth from 3 to 5 feet. Sides of bath slate,
  bottom plaster. Eighteen open boxes. A lofty ceiling, well
  lighted. The water is dirty looking, and the whole arrangements
  very inferior, and altogether second class.

  _St. Margaret’s and St. John’s Swimming Baths_, Great Smith
  Street, Westminster.—The first class bath is 12 yards by 10. It
  is lined throughout, and for 3 feet above the water, with white
  glazed bricks. Depth from 3 ft. to 5 ft. 6 in. Boxes 16, open,
  with mirrors, in two tiers at the shallow end. A footway 6 feet
  broad in front of boxes, about 3 feet above the water, to which
  two flights of wooden steps lead down. A narrow gangway, about
  6 feet above the water, leads to a door opening on to the second
  class bath, which is very similar to this, only 3 feet longer,
  and with double the number of boxes arranged similarly at either
  end. The walls, whitewashed, rise from the water on three sides.
  They support a lofty double sloped ceiling of painted wood, with
  glass let in along each slope. The water is clear, and the bath
  is tolerably well lighted and ventilated, but as it is deficient
  in everything ornamental, it has rather a mean appearance.

  _St. Pancras Swimming Baths_, King Street, Camden Town.—The
  first class bath is 19 yards by 8. The corners of the bath
  are rounded. The sides of white porcelain tiles, the top row
  ornamented with blue dolphins. The bottom is of glazed black and
  white bricks arranged in a pattern. Depth from 3 ft. 4 in. to
  5 ft. 5 in. A spring-board at deep end. The boxes, 25 in number,
  with mirrors and half doors, run down one side and along deep
  end. At the shallow end, and in front of the boxes, a footway of
  stone flags. At the other side runs a screen about 10 feet high,
  separating it from the second class bath, which is identical with
  it in all respects save the mirrors and dolphins. The two baths
  are covered, to the extent of one half, by a very lofty glass
  dome. The other half of the bath is overhung by a not very lofty
  ceiling of plaster and ironwork, with sundry round holes in it,
  displaying intricate conglomerations of iron pipes. The water is
  beautifully clear, and the lighting and ventilation good. It is
  one of the most recent of the parochial baths, and does great
  credit to the much-reviled St. Pancras Board of Guardians.

  _Tower Hamlets Swimming Baths_, Church Street, Mile End New
  Town.—First class bath 23 yards by 10. Depth from 5 to 6 feet.
  The sides and bottom of bath of cement painted white. Forty-two
  unnumbered boxes, with doors which do not lock, and are cut
  away slightly at top to admit light, run along the two ends
  and one side of the bath. Above them is a gallery with seats,
  where more bathers or spectators can be accommodated. On the
  opposite side runs a gangway over the water, which can be used
  as a spring-board. The footway in front of the boxes is of stone
  flags. The walls, of brick, are whitewashed on the three sides
  where the boxes are, with some attempt at colour near the top,
  and a gorgeous Royal Arms at one end. The other side is of wood
  painted, forming the partition between this and the second class
  bath. The roof is on the double slope, of wood, dark and grimy.
  Glass is let in at the top on both sides. The illumination is
  indifferent, the boxes rather rickety, and, on the whole, the
  bath, though extent and depth of water are satisfactory, is
  decidedly shabby. The second class bath is the same as the first,
  except that the boxes are open, 26 in number, and so much larger,
  that each box will accommodate on an emergency ten bathers. The
  proprietor informed me that he has seen 1200 bathers together
  in this bath, 500 or 600 in the water at one time. There is no
  attempt at colouring on the whitewashed walls, and the water is
  not so deep as that in the first class bath by half a foot.

Some of the above tepid swimming baths are open all the year round.
Some, where there are first and second class baths, close one of these
during the winter and strike an average of the prices of admission.
Some close at the end of September, others at the end of October, to
reopen in April. The prices of the swimming baths connected with the
parochial baths and washhouses are usually 4d. for the 1st class and
2d. for the 2nd class. A few charge 6d. 1st class, some 3d. 2nd class,
and one, the Marylebone, charges 8d. 1st, 4d. 2nd, and 2d. 3rd class.
The non-parochial swimming baths, Kensington and Blackheath, are 1s.
each.

Almost all the swimming baths are the head quarters of one or more
swimming clubs, which generally have one night a week for their
meetings and practisings. With few exceptions they have all attached to
them a professional swimmer, in most cases one of the bath attendants,
who teaches swimming to beginners and coaches aspirants after prizes
in that extraordinary mode of rapid swimming adopted by the London
aquatic athletes, in plunging, in picking up eggs from the bottom of
the bath, and other equally useless feats. The shallowness of the baths
prevents all practice of the really useful accomplishment of diving
deep in water from a height or while swimming; and I am not aware of
any instruction being given in the very difficult art of rescuing a
drowning person. I need not say that this is a dangerous and difficult
operation as long as the person to be rescued is able to struggle and
clutch at his rescuer. It too often happens that the desperate efforts
of a drowning person drag both himself and his would-be preserver to
the bottom. In some books it is recommended not to attempt the rescue
of a drowning man until he has ceased to struggle, when it may be too
late. There is a method of grasping and supporting a drowning person,
however lively, that should be taught to swimmers, which will enable
them to save life without much peril to themselves; and this could be
taught in our swimming baths, but no prizes are awarded for it, and
professionals, for the most part, think only of teaching what will win
prizes at the swimming competitions. By the way, either Shakspeare
understood little about swimming or he intended to represent Cassius
as a vain boaster, which, however, is hardly consistent with his
character in the play, when he makes him talk about rescuing the
drowning Cæsar by taking him on his shoulders as Æneas did Anchises.

The above, as far as I can ascertain, are all the places expressly
constructed for swimming purposes at present existing in London,[3]
and if they fully answered the ends for which they were designed, and
enabled their frequenters to obtain the full benefit of the hygienic
exercise of swimming, one could scarcely say that they were too few for
even such an immense town. But they are of little use in a hygienic
point of view. I must remind the reader that in order to derive the
full health-giving advantages from swimming, it must be performed
in cool and deep water, with plenty of room, and surrounded by the
wholesome accessaries of fresh air and sunlight. Moreover, the mind
of the swimmer should not be harassed and anxious. Now, the London
swimming baths satisfy none of these requirements. They are, with one
exception (for we cannot count the three ancient plunge baths among
swimming baths, on account of their puny dimensions), all tepid. This
is no fixed temperature, but varies in every bath, and in the same bath
at different times. It may mean any temperature from 65° to 80°, or
upwards. The lower temperature would not be objectionable in the point
of view of salubrity, but it would not be relished by the swimmers,
who would insist on more warm water being added, or otherwise the
most of them would forsake the bath. When the water approaches the
higher temperature indicated, swimming in it is followed by languor
and prostration, more prejudicial to health than otherwise. To me
the water in this state feels sodden and lifeless, and though one can
stay in it a long time without shivering, the longer one stays in the
more prostrated does one feel afterwards, and a good cold douche or
shower-bath would be required to restore anything like tone to the
system.

  [3] There are, I believe, several additional tepid swimming baths
      in the course of construction in London and suburbs, and one
      has been recently opened at Stratford, but that town can
      scarcely be considered as part of London, though within the
      postal district, and as Mr. Sweedlepipe says, “we must draw
      the line somewhere.” Some may think I have not drawn the line
      narrowly enough, when I have included in my survey Hampstead,
      Hammersmith, Greenwich, and Blackheath, but I preferred to
      make it possibly too wide than to incur the reproach of having
      made it too narrow.

The London swimming baths are all shallow, with two exceptions,
and these are only six feet deep at their deepest part. There is
consequently no opportunity for diving deep and experiencing the
powerful influence of the pressure of a considerable column of water
on the organs of respiration and circulation.

With few exceptions the London swimming baths are too small. When
any considerable number of bathers are in the water, then there is
hardly room for the swimmers, who are consequently continually butting
against, or kicking, or even scratching one another in a manner
anything but favorable for the preservation of good temper—a most
essential requisite in a hygienic point of view.

None of the London baths have the advantage of pure fresh air. Some of
them are close, stuffy and fœtid. The best of them can only be said to
be well ventilated, but no amount of ventilation in a covered building
is an equivalent for the caller air with its fresh breezes, that play
around and about the exposed body of the open air bather.

Few of the London baths have a sufficiency of light. Some are mere
gloomy cellars. In the very best of them the body does not receive the
direct rays of the sun, the light being transmitted through glass of
greater or less thickness, often artificially dimmed, in case it should
impinge too strongly on the exposed body. The powerful hygienic effects
of light on the body have recently received much attention, and it is
no doubt a chief agent in the salubrious influence of open-air bathing.
To construct a swimming bath where the light is nearly excluded is to
forego one of the greatest advantages of the bath.

Lastly, how can the mind remain free from anxiety, when, according
to the arrangement in every bath in London, with one exception, the
bather’s clothes and valuables have to be left in open boxes, to which
any person can enter, while in most baths a notice is stuck up to
the effect that the bath proprietor is not responsible for clothes or
valuables, but that each bather must look after his own. In some of
the baths the ticket givers will take charge of watches, jewellery,
and money, but in many others they refuse to do so, and one is forced
to leave everything exposed. With this alarming notice staring one
in the face, what must be the state of mind of a timid bather under
such circumstances, when the bath is tolerably full of the extremely
mixed company which frequents these baths, I shall leave the reader to
imagine. Certainly if the conditions were otherwise hygienically good,
the moral state thus induced would suffice to neutralize them.

Besides the above swimming baths, cold and tepid, under cover, and not
to be enjoyed without payment, London has, or had, two large open-air
gratuitous swimming baths, fulfilling in many respects the requirements
of hygienic swimming baths, but objectionable in several important
particulars; I allude to the great bathing lake in Hyde Park—the
Serpentine, and the two smaller lakes in Victoria Park.

  _The Serpentine_, before the “levelling-up” operations commenced,
  was in very bad repute. Its depth was supposed to be very great
  in some places; a delusion its drainage has dispelled, for it
  appears to be nowhere above 12 or 14 feet deep. Its bottom was
  supposed to be foul with the accumulated sediment from the
  sewers which discharged themselves into it for many years; its
  drainage has shown it to be foul beyond all conception, and the
  wonder is that its water was not more impure than we know it to
  have been, resting on such a thick stratum of abominations. The
  water was impure,[4] there is no denying it, and its impurity
  was often as obvious to the nose as to the eye. And yet a swim
  in the old Serpentine on a cool spring or autumn morning was not
  a bad thing—_experto credite_. It was a fine expanse of water,
  with beautiful surroundings. The eye rested with pleasure on the
  green sward of the park, the stately old elms, the picturesque
  bridge, the pretty little Swiss boathouse, and the monstrous
  black Duke prancing over the trees. Then if you did not examine
  too minutely the green confervæ that rendered the water almost
  opaque, if you kept your eyes more skyward, if you became used
  to the faint ditch-water smell around you, and “made believe
  a good deal,” you might almost fancy yourself disporting in a
  retired lake far away in the country. The company was not so bad
  as was usually supposed. The roughs don’t like getting up early
  even to wash themselves, so there were few of them; they mostly
  deferred their bathing till the evening. Most of the bathers
  seemed quiet, steady, respectable people. The regular bathers
  would generally bring along with them a bit of carpet, or hire a
  rug from the Humane Society’s boatmen to lay their clothes on,
  and thus save them getting wet by the dew. There was room and to
  spare for all on the broad bosom of London’s great lake, and when
  you could forget the stories about the horrors below you, and
  refrain from looking too curiously at the green abominations that
  thickened the water, a long swim in the deep placid Serpentine,
  with the sun shining down on you, and the gentle breeze fanning
  you, was infinitely preferable to any cold or tepid swimming
  bath in London. If the lover of the swimming bath is to gain
  nothing by the works now going on in the Serpentine besides clear
  water in a shallow bed, he will, perhaps, rather regret the
  loss of his deep but dirty lake. Bathing was permitted in the
  Serpentine from 5 to 8 a.m., and again after sunset for an hour
  or so; but no provision at all was made for the accommodation of
  bathers, beyond a couple of boats belonging to the Humane Society
  stationed near where most bathers resorted.

    [4] I suppose it was this impurity of the water which
        produced a remarkable disease among the young sticklebacks
        and minnows, many of which I have found with deposits,
        apparently of pus, on various parts of their bodies,
        rendering their movements languid and awkward, and in some
        cases, especially where these deposits were on the head,
        causing hideous disfiguration.

  _Victoria Park Bathing Lakes_.—There are two of these lakes. The
  more easterly one is nearly 300 yards long, and is surrounded by
  a gravel walk, beyond which are shrubs. The more westerly one
  is nearly as large, and is more hemmed in by trees and shrubs,
  and has several islands in it. Both have a depth of 6 feet in
  their deepest part, becoming gradually shallow towards the
  shore. The eastern lake is much the clearest. There is a raft on
  one, and a small shabby bathing house on the other. A swimming
  master resides at one end of the eastern lake, who apparently
  adds to the profits of his profession by selling ginger-beer
  and sugar-plums. The time when bathing is allowed is from 4 to
  8 a.m. The remainder of the day the best of the lakes is much
  resorted to by the owners of miniature yachts, in order to test
  the sailing powers of their tiny craft. There is, of course, here
  also no arrangement for the safe bestowal of one’s clothes while
  one is in the water, so that, as in the Serpentine, you bathe at
  your own proper peril.

The lakes in these two parks are the only places in which the
inhabitants of London are permitted to indulge in open-air bathing.[5]
To be sure there is the river, and there are numerous canals in which
the gamins plunge in summer, but they do so at the risk of being seized
by the police and brought before a magistrate charged with the heinous
offence of indecency, so that all who have any respect for the law are
practically debarred from making use of these waters. Besides, in spite
of the recent drainage works, the Thames is still little better than
an open sewer, and it will be long before it is anything else;[6] and
the canals are, with few exceptions, so dirty, that there is little
inducement to the respectable swimmer to brave the terrors of the law,
and defy the threats against trespassers, in order to indulge in his
favorite exercise in either river or canal. So, practically, he is
limited to the Serpentine and Victoria lakes, and to these only at the
inconvenient hours, and under the uncomfortable circumstances I have
described.

  [5] I do not forget the lower ponds of Hampstead, which were once
      magnificent sheets of water, but then they were the property
      of the New River Company, and bathing was strictly prohibited
      in them. Now they seem to be abandoned by the Water Company,
      but they have been allowed to drain away or evaporate, until
      they are little better than muddy pools with a broad margin
      of sticky clay which would deter any one except a London
      street Arab from attempting to bathe in them. It would be
      possible to convert one or more of them into excellent
      swimming baths of any required depth.

  [6] Were the Thames once more the “crystal stream” that poets
      used to call it, I fear its tidal character would offer some
      difficulties to placing on it, between the bridges, floating
      baths, such as we see on the Seine; for these, if placed near
      the side, would be left high and dry at every ebb, and, if
      stationed in mid-stream, would seriously interfere with
      navigation.

While almost every second-rate continental town has ample provision
for open-air bathing, it is disgraceful that a large and wealthy
metropolis like London should virtually have nothing of the sort.
How much pleasure do its citizens consequently lose! what a powerful
hygienic agent are they not deprived of! And yet London offers more
facilities than almost any other town I know of for the construction of
open-air swimming baths of the best kind, and that without infringing
on the comfort or privileges of any one. In the Serpentine, when the
levelling operations are completed, the finest swimming baths the world
can show might be constructed for a very small sum of money, and I
venture to say that while the convenience and wishes of thousands who
delight in swimming, and to whom an open-air bath is a source of health
and pleasure, would be gratified, no person would be inconvenienced,
nor would anything unpleasant be presented to the eye.

The arrangements heretofore in force pleased no one; the bathing public
were put to every sort of inconvenience, and the non-bathing public
were disgusted that for certain hours in the day the banks of the
Serpentine should be handed over to a horde of naked savages, rendering
it impossible for any decent female to venture near them. It is surely
the duty of the authorities who permit bathing in the Park to provide
that it may be done with safety and comfort, and without outraging
decency.

I would suggest that a first and second class swimming bath be built
at the south side of the Serpentine when its depth has been equalised,
as proposed, to 5 ft. 6 in., shelving into shallow water towards the
shore. These ought, I think, to be, not floating baths, but permanent
constructions of light and elegant appearance. Each bath should be
at least 150 yards long by 50 or 60 wide. Round the bath should run
a platform flagged with slates, with steps down to the water, and
spring-boards. There should be boxes for bathers round the whole bath,
to the number of 200 or 300. These boxes should be numbered, and
have complete doors, with a pane of glass let in, and closing with
a spring lock, to be opened by the attendant to the bather having a
corresponding ticket. This for the security of the bather’s clothes
and valuables. For what right, I may ask, has any one to invite me into
his bathing establishment, induce me to divest myself of my clothes
and valuables, and plunge beneath the water, while he offers me no
security for my property, which he directs me hang up in a perfectly
open box, and cautions me to look after myself? How I am to look after
it when I am swimming in or under the water he does not inform me. Even
if, when so engaged, I were to perceive a thief occupied in rifling
my pockets or appropriating my garments, it would avail little that
_de profundis clamavi_, “stop thief!” By the time I could get out of
the water and make towards him, he would probably have got clear off
with his booty. Therefore, the simple plan adopted in the Marylebone
first class swimming bath, of full doors closing with a spring-lock,
is indispensable for the security and comfort of the bather.[7] To
make the security absolute, it would only be requisite to provide
each bather with a ticket of bone or metal, the number of which would
correspond with his box; and this by a simple contrivance might be
fastened to his bathing drawers (without which no one should be allowed
to bathe), and the attendant would only open the door corresponding
to this number. I have dwelt, in what some may think too much detail,
on this apparently trivial matter, but from experience I can testify
that much of the comfort of a bath depends on one being assured that
one’s clothes are in a place of safety. The boxes should be closed in
at top with a glazed roof, as in the Hammersmith bath, and the roof,
either glazed or of corrugated iron, should extend over the platform,
as in a railway station, to afford shelter from sun or rain when not
in the bath. The water should be quite open to sun and air. The prices
of admission need not be greater—might indeed be less—than those of
the generality of the parochial baths, viz. fourpence, first class,
twopence, second class. For this the bather should be supplied with one
or two towels, and bathing drawers, unless he prefer to wear his own.
And here I would hint that the towels should always be washed after
being used, and not merely dried, as seems to be the case in some of
the baths, if I may be allowed to infer from their sickening smell. It
would surely not be too much to expect a refreshment room or buffet in
connexion with these baths, as is often to be found on the continent;
such an addition would be highly desirable, if practicable.

  [7] The proprietor of a swimming bath which has full doors
      inveighed against them to me as affording facilities for
      thieves, but then his doors have neither locks nor numbers.

These baths should be open from an early hour until dusk, so as to suit
the convenience of all. Many persons cannot take an open-air bath in
the morning without injury, but can derive benefit from, and enjoy, a
swim in the middle of the day. Again, their occupations make it more
convenient for some to bathe at one time, for others at another time,
and the tastes and convenience of all would be consulted by having the
bath open all day.

When such swimming baths are built, bathing, except in these, should
be altogether forbidden in the Serpentine. Thus the non-bathing public
would gain greatly by being spared the indecent scenes that have
hitherto rendered that part of Hyde Park impassable for women in the
morning and evening, and swimmers would have everything they could wish
for. It might be a question whether bathers might not be permitted
to swim from the bath in the Serpentine outside of it early in the
morning. In the competitions of swimming clubs, greater space is often
desirable than could be obtained in any bath.

A similar construction might be made on the eastern lake in Victoria
park, which is in size, depth, and form, quite adapted for it. If
the Lilliputian yachters should think their vested rights thereby
interfered with, the other bathing lake might be abandoned to them
entirely.

Excellent swimming baths might also be made on one of the arms at the
east end of the lake in St. James’s Park, without interfering with
any one’s rights or comfort. The water is already of the required
depth, and the part indicated is but little frequented except by a few
water-fowl.

The lake in Regent Park is also well adapted for a swimming bath.
There is a portion of the water, midway between the two suspension
bridges, nearly hidden from every habitation by an island covered with
trees, where the bath might be built so as to be in nobody’s way.
However, as it is quite easy to make the structure pretty, I don’t see
why any person should object to a full view of it.

Battersea Park possesses a large expanse of water, and a few hundred
yards of it might be very well spared by the gardeners and aquatic
birds, to whom it is at present dedicated, for the purpose of a large
swimming bath, which would complement the gymnasia in which the park at
present abounds. The water, being only about 3 feet in depth, would not
be suitable for a swimming bath without further deepening, but that is
an operation which, I presume, would present no difficulty. It would be
a great advantage to have a continuous and steady influx and outflow
of water in all these lakes; this would insure constant freshness of
the swimming baths. I am not conversant with engineering matters, but
I should think that this might easily be effected by means of artesian
wells in suitable situations, if the flow of water cannot be obtained
from the water companies.

I have thus shown how the great want of London, in the matter of
open-air swimming baths, might be supplied by utilizing a portion of
the water in five of the existing parks.[8] As there are other parks
projected, or in course of formation in other parts of London, it
would, of course, be easy to apply the same principle to the lakes that
might be formed in them.

  [8] I have purposely said nothing about the extra-urban parks of
      Greenwich, Wimbledon, Richmond, and Wanstead, all of which
      offer great facilities for the construction of swimming baths,
      all having fine sheets of water. I confine myself to the more
      pressing wants of the teeming millions of London proper.

These baths would not interfere in any way with the existing swimming
baths, for there would still remain a sufficiency of bathers who prefer
tepid to cold water, and as a vastly greater number of persons would
take to bathing than do now, they would, undoubtedly, first resort
to the covered baths, in order to learn to swim, before frequenting
the open-air baths. The covered swimming baths would also still be
resorted to by those who prefer to swim in the evening, and by those
who like to continue their bathing during the winter months.

And here I should say a few words respecting the prejudice in favour
of sea-bathing, which is almost universal with us. It is believed that
there is something in the sea water that renders it far more salutary
than fresh water. This is undoubtedly true with respect to certain
morbid states of the body—such as scrofula; but it is far from being
universally true. To many persons the seaside and sea water are little
else than poisonous, and bathing in the sea, or mere residence near
the sea, produces very prejudicial effects. To most healthy persons it
is not the contents of the water that do good, but the exercise and
the reactions caused by the temperature and the other elements I have
indicated above. By many swimming in the sea is preferred to swimming
in fresh water for various reasons, independent of any medicinal action
of its salts. They like the charm of bathing in the boundless ocean
with all its romantic accompaniments; they swim with greater facility
and confidence, as the greater specific gravity of salt water floats
them higher. It may be urged that medical men invariably send people
to the sea for bathing. That is nearly true; but then medical men are
not altogether free from sharing the national prejudice in favour of
the superior salubrity of sea water. Moreover, it is for patients their
advice is sought, not healthy persons, and the maladies these patients
are suffering from may seem to them to require the medicinal effect of
sea water. But undoubtedly the chief reason for their recommendation
is, that they know that there are facilities for bathing in the sea,
but they would be much at a loss to name any place where their clients
could obtain comfortable freshwater open-air bathing. For my own part,
though I love the sea in all its moods, and in part because it has so
many moods, I dislike the sticky hair and generally dirty feeling it
causes, and its nasty taste when one gets a mouthful; and I would much
prefer that its waters were as soft, sweet, and cleansing as those of
a Scotch or Swiss lake. To my mind the finest swimming bath in the
world is the Lake of Geneva. There you have the changing moods of the
ocean, while the water is fresh and sweet, and of such a lovely blue,
that your body when immersed in it seems as white as marble, and, like
Narcissus, you are ready to fall in love with your beautified person.
Give us freshwater baths in the open air, and a removal to the seaside
will not be desired or needed by many who are now attracted thither.

When speaking of the advantages of swimming in the open air, I have
not meant that these advantages were limited to the male sex. On
the contrary, I am strongly of opinion that swimming is an exercise
equally, if not more, adapted to women as to men. Men have their
hundreds of games and occupations that keep their muscles in constant
and varied play. From these women are practically debarred, and the
exigencies of society limit their exercises to but few, and some of
these can only be enjoyed by the wealthier classes. The tyranny of
fashion, too, compels them to dress themselves in a manner specially
unfavorable to healthy exercise, and the consequence is that thousands
fall into ill health which might be averted if their muscular system
and circulation had only a fair chance. Swimming, which must be
performed without the restraints of fashionable garments, is of all
others the kind of exercise from which most advantage may be reaped. To
most women, also, swimming comes easier than to men. Their bodies are
generally of less specific gravity, and so float more easily in water,
whether fresh or salt. This being so they sooner acquire the confidence
necessary to make good swimmers. Then, as the water sustains the whole
weight of the body, and as they are no longer restrained by the bands,
bones and laces of their dress, they are free to bring into full play,
without fatigue, all those muscles which have hitherto been kept in
thrall by the milliner’s devices.

As a means of maintaining and even restoring health, then, swimming in
the open air is of still greater importance to women than to men. But I
have shown that even in the matter of tepid swimming baths the wants of
the other sex have been almost totally ignored, for with the exception
of the little bath in York Terrace and the Wednesday morning’s use of
the smallest of the Marylebone baths, there is actually no provision
in London for women’s swimming. As far as regards open-air swimming
they have been left out of consideration altogether. Now, if open-air
swimming baths are to be established in London, the interests of
the softer sex should be considered as much as those of the rougher
gender. With this view I would give up the Regent’s Park lake to the
ladies, for which it is already adapted by its inferior depth—4 feet, I
believe. For the same reason it may perhaps be thought best to make the
proposed bath in St. James’s Park one for ladies only, and if the bath
in the Serpentine be only made large enough, there is ample space there
for all the wants of the male sex at that end of the town.[9] The water
in Victoria Park in its present condition is, of course, better adapted
for a men’s bath, but in the event of a women’s bath being required
there, which I doubt not will be the case, one of the other lakes might
be given up for the purpose, or a new lake altogether constructed, for
which there is room enough in the park.

  [9] If it is considered desirable to limit the construction of
      swimming baths at first to the Serpentine, a ladies’ swimming
      bath might be made in the portion of it contained in
      Kensington Gardens.

When women take to swimming, as I have no doubt they will eagerly when
opportunity offers, they will, of course, have to abandon their useless
and inconvenient bathing gowns and adopt the dress universally worn by
their sisters on the continent, or something equally well adapted to
allow free play to the limbs.

When London sets the example, our provincial towns will soon follow its
lead, and when once open-air swimming baths become general throughout
the land, we may hope one day to cease to deserve the reproach—that
though we live in a sea-surrounded and lake and river-abounding
country, a much smaller proportion of its inhabitants can swim well
than is to be found in many continental countries which have none of
our aquatic advantages.




Transcriber’s Note

Apart from one instance of punctuation normalisation, the text
is presented as printed in the original, including inconsistent
hyphenation (ironwork/iron-work/iron work, open-air/open air,
spring-board/spring board, spring-lock/spring lock), period spelling
(accessaries, asphalte, gaselier, Shakspeare) and northern dialect
words (wersh, caller).





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