Itis not our intention to speak in any special manner about prescribed remedies for different ailments, since our concern is with the general standard of health and fitness rather than with temporary ailments, for which in many cases some special treatment is the most convenient remedy. But our object being to show how by a proper mode of life the body may be put into a state of health in which it is the least likely to need any help from drugs or special treatment, it would be clearly out of place, and imply a want of faith on our part in our present system if we thought it in theleast necessary to talk much about remedial treatments. But there are certain simple applications of water and heat, which though they may be adopted remedially, are yet part of a rational and healthy mode of life—that is to say, they can both be used by anyone suffering from some definite complaint, and at the same time belong to the daily and regularrégimeof the thoroughly healthy man. The different sorts of baths, for instance, are, if rightly and scientifically used, both remedial, and will form part of the daily treatment of the healthy body.
As far as concerns the upper classes, at any rate, there is probably no race in the world which nowadays[10]uses so much water as the Anglo-Saxon; but our manner ofusing it is, to a large extent, luxurious rather than practical, sensuous rather than sensible. The morning cold bath, for instance, which some Frenchman the other day wittily called the “Englishman’s castle,” is, though eminently healthy and invigorating for some people, neither healthy nor invigorating for all, and cleansing for none except in a slight degree. The cold bath, indeed, is a sort of fetish; it is regarded as a piece of ritual belonging to the scheme of things which “makes us Englishmen what we are,” and to criticise the use of cold baths is something like “taking the breeks off a Hielander.” But for the sake of those thousands who havecold baths because it is their habit, and feel rather chilled and dispirited than otherwise by the process, it is perhaps worth while to say a few words about cold and other baths.
Water hot or cold, externally applied, has three main functions: (i.) to cleanse, (ii.) to promote or equalise circulation, (iii.) to invigorate and harden. It is mainly to its excellent effects with regard to the third of these functions that the complete cold plunge owes its popularity; for nothing—given that the heart is strong, and the liver not prone to sluggishness—is more delightfully exhilarating than the sudden thrill of cold water when one is either warm from hours in bed, or hot from violent exercise. But it must be remembered that it is distinctly not given to everyone to be sufficiently robust to be able to indulge in it. There are some people who are clearly benefited—as far as we can see—by it; there are many who are not injured by it, and can continue to take it for the sake of the pleasurable sensation it produces; but there are also many who are injured by it, who run a risk anyhow in its use. For the shock and contrast of it is a shock: a sudden drag is put on the racing heart, a sudden check is given to the hot open-pored skin. It is exactly that which is pleasant: it is that also which may be dangerous. Luckily the test of its desirability, or at any rate, harmlessness in any special case, is easy to apply, and if anyone feels chilled after cold bathing, or finds that after it the feet and hands are a little numb and cold, with perhaps a loss of colour under the nails, it is fairly certain that he or she has not the circulation which can be benefited by a cold bath; but may be hurt by it. Or if anyone finds it necessary to make a very vigorous use of the roughtowel afterwards in order to get warm again, the cold bath probably does not suit him. Again, in some it produces a certain torpidity of the liver, equally easily indicated; here, also, we have one of Nature’s clear danger-flags waving us off.
The cold bath suits and probably benefits most of those who do not feel these dispiriting after-effects, and the reason for it is obvious. The cold water checks the circulation momentarily; it is literally a cold sponge on the heart, and it momentarily drives away the blood from the skin. But then, if the bather has good natural reaction, this momentary chill will be succeeded by a fresh assertion of his vigour; the heart momentarily checked will, combatively, reassert itself, the blood will rush back to the skin vessels from which it has been momentarily driven, and the exhilaration of the cold shock willbe succeeded by a fresh exhilaration of tingling vigour. But in any case a cold bath should not be taken by anyone already cold or chilled; it is because the body is warm, the heart beating fully, and the circulation vigorous that the subsequent reaction is vigorous. But to take a cold bath when one is cold is to demand an effort from something which should be not checked but encouraged.
As a cleanser, however, the cold bath is, we regret to say, hopelessly incompetent. For to clean the skin properly it is not sufficient to clean the mere surface of the skin. The pores have to be opened and the dirt and waste products, ordinarily invisible to the eye, taken from them. Now cold water cannot do this, since one of its main effects is to close the pores. But if anyone wants to see what happens when the pores are thoroughly opened and cleaned,let him take a Turkish bath and be well rubbed afterwards. What was ordinarily invisible becomes offensively visible, and though much of what comes away is skin itself, it is skin anyhow of a certain colour, and that colour is neither white nor pink, nor brown, but black. And the colouring matter of that is—dirt.
Now very hot water has in one respect the same immediate function as very cold water; it tightens and closes the skin, and a short very hot bath is as invigorating and bracing as a cold one, and may be used with pleasure and effect by those who are not naturally suited to the cold. But after a very short time, if one remains in a hot bath, the opposite effect begins. The heat will now open the pores of the skin, and, as the water soaks in, the skin is again relaxed, and the hot bath becomes the cleanser. For the first few moments, however, the opposite effect takes place; the skin is braced and tightened, and thus we find that many of the Japanese, for instance, and some athletes in America, use a short hot bath as we naturally use a cold bath, for an invigorator and hardener, and to close the pores of the skin. It is this use of it that we recommend to those who cannot stand a cold bath.
The hot bath, then, will supply the invigorating functions of the cold, if it is really hot and is not too long. In the same way both it and warm baths supply the cleansing functions which are wanting in the cold bath, and the combination of the two—i.e., a hot or warm bath for purposes of cleansing followed by a cold douche or cold sponging, is perhaps the most perfect application of water in all its uses that we know, and contains the same principles as the Turkish bath. Those who have bathrooms will, of course, find this method easy enough to manage, but those who have not can get a perfectly adequate substitute in a large basin of cold water with which they will sponge themselves after the ordinary hip-bath or sponging-tin in their rooms and while still standing in it. Those, however, whom the cold bath does not suit, would be wise to use only cool, not cold water, after the hot bath. A further benefit of this combination of hot and cold water lies in the hardening effect which the change of temperature produces on the skin, for it accustoms it to sudden changes of temperature, and renders it far less liable to catch cold. This, in view of the number of colds that people certainly catch by getting chilled after being hot, is a great advantage.
The best, as also far the pleasantest water to wash in is soft water, approaching as nearly as possible to pure or distilled water,which from its purity and freedom from suspended mineral matter is more eager, so to speak, to take dirt, etc., into solution—that is to say, to wash it off. But distilled water is expensive; rain water, which comes nearest to it, not always to be had; while in chalky districts the water is hard. This hardness may, however, be taken off by the addition of a little oatmeal, or soda, or bath salts, which it will be found give the water the advantages of soft water; soap, for instance, lathers much more readily in it, and thus its efficiency as a cleanser is increased. Hard water also, if continually used, certainly has a sort of drying and unpleasant effect on delicate skins, making them less supple and elastic, and diminishing their power of natural healthy action. The remedy mentioned above largely alleviates this.
With regard to the third of the mainfunctions of water—namely, to promote and equalise circulation, this effect, though obtained from a complete bath (as, for instance, a hot bath when one is chilled) is more particularly to be got from partial baths. Many people, for instance, suffer from cold feet and hands, and such know how unsatisfactory is the effect, when working, for instance, on a cold day, of warming the hands at the fire; for this relief is hardly more than momentary, and as soon as the, mere surface heat obtained is exhausted, the hands are just exactly as cold as they were before. But a remedy far more satisfactory in its effects and just as simple lies at the nearest hot and cold-water taps, and anyone who tries the effect of letting the hot water run over his hands for a few moments followed by the cold water (combining the two in exactly the same way as suggested for the complete bath, but repeating the process a few times) and then drying them thoroughly with a little friction, will quite certainly find the need of constant excursions to the fire much curtailed. For this is a warming on sound principles—the faulty circulation in the hands is remedied, the blood is stimulated to flow there naturally, and in consequence the effect is far more lasting than the momentary relief of the external heat from the blaze.
In the same way with cold feet, though it would be extravagant and foolish to recommend any busy man to put in his office a hot and a cold foot-bath, into which in the presence of his admiring clerks he should in the middle of the morning dip his feet, yet many will find the habit of cold feet greatly reduced if at the morning bath (whether they have a hot bath or a cold) they apply first hot then cold water to their feet. Again, at night cold feet are adefinite and common cause of insomnia, which many unwisely remedy by heaping the bedclothes over them till they restore heat to the feet by immoderate clothing over the whole body. We have suggested in the chapter on sleep the expedient of an extra coverlet over the feet, and the hot bottle is another remedy. But there are many to whom the hot bottle is of a gruesome nature; if it is of earthenware there is the collision with the toe sometime during the night, while if it is of india-rubber there is something clammy and snail-like about it when it has grown cold. The far more thorough and satisfactory system for any confirmed sufferer, because it tends directly to improve the circulation in the feet, and to harden them by the change of temperature, is the hot foot-bath, succeeded by cold sponging and rubbing before going to bed, or after going to bed if there is insomnia.This is particularly efficacious if repeated a time or two. The tingling warmth, due to the restoration of circulation, is far more beneficial and pleasant than the unwilling haling down of the blood to the feet, as it were, by means of a hot water bottle.
In more directly remedial aspects, we may just allude to the value of wet-packs for various parts of the body, a common and excellent instance of which is a cold compress (covered with flannel) round the throat as a cure for sore throat, or cold water bandages (also covered with flannel) for local sprains or inflammations. Such things, however, border on medical questions, and though excellent and simple remedies, are of too specialised a character to be more than alluded to.
Lying half-way, as it were, between the agents of water and heat comes the Turkish bath, that solacer in the life of many citymen, who but for it would undoubtedly, in the conditions under which they live, become confirmed dyspeptics. By it, in a short time, the effects which exercise has on the skin are produced; by it also, if it is followed, as it should be, by rubbing and massage, actual (though passive) exercise is obtained. Thus it counteracts to a great extent what we have before called the “acidity” of city-life, due to its general lack of exercise, and the tendency it often produces to over-eat in proportion to the exercise taken. But frequent Turkish baths, though an excellent substitute for exercise, an excellent corrective for that which advertisements elegantly call “errors of diet,” and even an excellent adjunct to exercise, should be taken as afaute de mieux, except in the case perhaps of very corpulent people, who find it, rightly, almost essential to keep down theexcess of fat. For while the heat produces about the same effect on the skin as would heat derived from physical exertion, and while massage produces about the same effect on the muscles as does physical exercise, yet the absence of fresh air in this bath is a large defect; though, it is true, it is to a certain extent compensated by the fact that the whole body is exposed to the air for a considerable time. But considered as treatment, it is artificial rather than natural; and though certainly the skin and general health of men employed in a Turkish bath asmasseursis in excellent condition, yet the excessive heat (excessive, that is, in respect of the temperatures that the human body seems naturally adapted to encounter) is probably in the long run somewhat trying to the system, while the cold plunge immediately after (to many the best part of the bath) is distinctly bad for those for whomcold baths are bad. But as a substitute for exercise, and a general means of health to sedentary and city-workers, it is probably the best yet contrived. Everyone, however, should rest well after it, and lie in the cooling-room for at least half an hour, since the bath itself is violent, so to speak, and demands recuperative measures, and also because after a long exposure in the hot room even the cold douche will not at once restore firmness to the skin. But with this precaution taken the bath is not only an excellent remedy for colds, but also an excellent preventive against them, by reason mainly of the hardening effect which the sudden change of the temperature produces. As a cleanser, finally, the Turkish bath is quite unrivalled.
Of late years physicians and others, both here and in other countries, notably Denmark, Germany, and America, have acceptedand striven to bring within the range of practical therapeutics the incalculably health-giving and remedial power of heat and light. This subject will be touched on in another chapter in connection with the exposure of the body to the air, while part of it is too special (as, for instance, the treatment of lupus with the violet rays of the spectrum) to be more than alluded to. The principle of it all is that light is as tonic to the body of a man as it is to a plant, and that just as a plant is sickly and pale if given insufficient light, so the body if stinted in this becomes weakly and inefficient, a cellar-grown plant. Following this clue, experiment has established beyond doubt that for anæmia of certain kinds the best possible remedy is exposure to heat and light, and in Germany there is more than one sun-cure for this, the course of treatment being that patients pass hours in the sunevery day with practically no clothes on. Here in England, and especially in London, such treatment is seldom possible, the two great drawbacks being lack of sun and lack of privacy[11], and in consequence artificial light has been resorted to, not as being better than sunlight, but as the best substitute for it. Here the body is exposed to a violent illumination of electric light (the eyes and head being protected), and is given a light-bath in the same way as a Turkish bath gives a purely heat bath. Incidentally, it is true, the bath of electric light is extremely hot (a temperature far above that of the ordinary Turkish bath being reached without inconvenience or danger), but the main object is to administer the tonic of light, and of that which light becomes when it has passed through thesurface-skin. Of its extraordinary effects in cases of anæmia, for instance, it is outside our province to speak, but in a modified form,i.e., by exposure when possible of the body to sunlight, and the constant and unvarying desirability of living in light rooms, much of its beneficial effects can be enjoyed, and should be, by everyone. Indeed, to take the long continued effect of light, not on an individual but on a race, how much of the gaiety of the southern nations may perhaps be directly due to sunshine? Certainly “a gloomy house,” or “a gloomy room,” is gloomy in more senses than one, for instinctively light affects the spirits; it is tonic and invigorating to body and mind alike, and ten minutes of exposure of the whole body to the sun, fantastic as it may sound, is as great a dispeller of shadows as is the sun itself.
It is with this modified form of sun-bath (not because the sun-bath, as a treatment, is anything but admirable, but because it is in treatment of disease that it is mainly used) that we have to deal. Everyone knows how invigorating it is to have only the face and hands exposed to the sun, a twentieth part of the body, that is to say, given the sun-bath, not as a medicine, but as a sustainer of general health. Multiply this by twenty then: instead of twenty minutes in the open air, expose the whole body, if possible, when dressing, to direct sun-rays by an open window; let the fresh air and the sun “have their sweet way.” Sunlight, it is sadly true, is not always available, but light is better than no light, and instead of hastening to dress after the bath in the morning, throw the windows wide, and for as long as may be (though taking a feeling of chilliness as a dangersignal of Nature, indicating clothes) let your body drink in light and air. If you are of imperfect circulation, get warm first by a hot-bath and exercise, but remember that as long as you are warm, there is no conceivable danger of catching cold, and that on the first hint of cold you are almost certainly in time to dress. Also the endurance of exposure increases rapidly, and endurance of exposure is one of the first requisites of serene health, of the health that no more bothers itself about danger of catching cold than the enviable slumberer spoken of in the chapter on sleep bothers himself about getting to sleep.
No wonder the sun in Greek times was the god Apollo, the young god of health and beauty, of all that keeps men young and vigorous, of all that keeps them sane and efficient. No wonder, also, that from time immemorial the sun has been worshippedas the supreme god, for from what else but his light comes growth and health? There he is every day (or at any rate on some days) marching slowly for our behoof across a beneficent heaven, and we are like children who clench their teeth when the doctor comes, rather than show their tongue, if we strive by awnings and parasols, and God knows what infamous devices, to shut out that humane physician. Gentlemen, “The Sun.”
“Air and light are essential to the development of the higher forms of animal and vegetable life in full vigour and perfection. The lowest organisms—fungi and bacilli and bacteria whose office in nature appears to be to prey upon and hasten the decomposition of their superiors in the scale of life—love, like other evil things, darkness and close dwellings. Bright sunlight (the most potent and valuable of all light) and fresh air (by oxygen the portion of food used as fuel is burnt, and heat and all forms of energy evolved, and oxygen is required for the changing and removal of waste) are as inimical to them as they are beneficial to the more perfect forms above them. The action of light is known with less precision than that of oxygen. It appears, however, to be essential to the perfect formation of the red cells of the blood—its most vital constituents. Persons who are deprived of light grow pale and bloodless. Young women brought from the country as servants or shop girls, and kept in cellar kitchens or dark work-rooms, notoriously suffer in this way. Miners also are a pallid, anæmic class. The want of fresh air has something to do with the result no doubt; yet patients in a well-lighted hospital ward appear to recover more quickly, as a rule, than those in darker rooms equally well ventilated. [Compare the interesting statistics collected in St. Petersburg by Sir James Wylie.] Altogether common experience and observation confirm the conclusion which science has hardly yet formulated, that light has a powerful and favourable influence upon animal life. Human beings grow blanched just as plants do, for the want of it. And it is not a question of colour merely; vitality is seriously lowered also. This is largely felt in great towns shaded by fog and smoke-clouds. Some recent remarkable experiments have shown that the electric light exerts a favourable influence on vegetation, second only to sunlight. It is possible that it may in like manner foster animal life.” Dr. W. B. Cheadle in “The Book of Health.”In addition to the experiments on vegetation, at Cornell University in America, and by Professor Siemens in England, recent experiments have shown the value of electric light in general, and of certain colour-rays in particular, in the treatment of various diseases such as gout and its sisters and cousins, nervousness, lupus, and so on. There arealready several establishments in London where electric light cures are to be obtained. Dr. Forbes Winslow in his treatise on Light speaks even more emphatically than Dr. Cheadle does about the bad effects of the absence of light. He says:—“It is a well-established fact that, as the effect of isolation from the stimulus of light, the fibrine, albumen and red blood-cells become diminished in quantity, and the serum, or watery portion of the vital fluid, augmented in volume, thus inducing a disease known aslukaemia, in which white instead of red blood-cells are developed. This exclusion from the sun produces the sickly, flabby, pale, anæmic condition of the face, or ex-sanguined ghost-like forms so often seen amongst those not freely exposed to air and light. The absence of these essential elements of health deteriorates by materially altering the physical composition of the blood, thus seriously prostrating the vital strength, enfeebling the nervous energy, and ultimately inducing organic changes in the structure of the heart, brain and muscular tissue.”The use of water as a means of curing disease and of preserving health was revived early in this century by Priessnitz and his many followers. In 1896 the oldest of German doctors, Professor and Privy Councillor Adolf Kussmaul, of Heidelberg, refused to sign the programme of the commissioners for medical examinations, because “of hydropathy our young doctor, when he leaves the schools, knows nothing at all.” In the same year Sir Lauder Brunton, in his Summer Lectures at St. Bartholomew’s, testified to thewonderful effects of the wet-sheet-pack; and the late Dr. Carpenter, Professor of Physiology in the Royal Institution, as well as Dr. Wilson and Lord Lytton, have spoken in praise of this very cheap and simple and pleasant remedy which we heartily recommend for the reader’s trial. The late Sir John Forbes wrote most enthusiastically about this and other easy water treatments, which Dr. John Goodman contrasted with the treatments by drugs, stimulants, overfeeding, and so on. As a striking example we may quote his words about Diuretics (which have been among the various means recommended for reducing weight):—“Allopathic Diuretics.—Squills, digitalis, nitric ether, acetate of potash, broom-tops, dandelion, mercury.“Hydropathic Diuretics.—Copious water-drinking, hot-air baths, sitz-baths, wet packing, &c. No remedies act more powerfully on the kidneys without injury. Copious drinking of barley-water is good.”
“Air and light are essential to the development of the higher forms of animal and vegetable life in full vigour and perfection. The lowest organisms—fungi and bacilli and bacteria whose office in nature appears to be to prey upon and hasten the decomposition of their superiors in the scale of life—love, like other evil things, darkness and close dwellings. Bright sunlight (the most potent and valuable of all light) and fresh air (by oxygen the portion of food used as fuel is burnt, and heat and all forms of energy evolved, and oxygen is required for the changing and removal of waste) are as inimical to them as they are beneficial to the more perfect forms above them. The action of light is known with less precision than that of oxygen. It appears, however, to be essential to the perfect formation of the red cells of the blood—its most vital constituents. Persons who are deprived of light grow pale and bloodless. Young women brought from the country as servants or shop girls, and kept in cellar kitchens or dark work-rooms, notoriously suffer in this way. Miners also are a pallid, anæmic class. The want of fresh air has something to do with the result no doubt; yet patients in a well-lighted hospital ward appear to recover more quickly, as a rule, than those in darker rooms equally well ventilated. [Compare the interesting statistics collected in St. Petersburg by Sir James Wylie.] Altogether common experience and observation confirm the conclusion which science has hardly yet formulated, that light has a powerful and favourable influence upon animal life. Human beings grow blanched just as plants do, for the want of it. And it is not a question of colour merely; vitality is seriously lowered also. This is largely felt in great towns shaded by fog and smoke-clouds. Some recent remarkable experiments have shown that the electric light exerts a favourable influence on vegetation, second only to sunlight. It is possible that it may in like manner foster animal life.” Dr. W. B. Cheadle in “The Book of Health.”
In addition to the experiments on vegetation, at Cornell University in America, and by Professor Siemens in England, recent experiments have shown the value of electric light in general, and of certain colour-rays in particular, in the treatment of various diseases such as gout and its sisters and cousins, nervousness, lupus, and so on. There arealready several establishments in London where electric light cures are to be obtained. Dr. Forbes Winslow in his treatise on Light speaks even more emphatically than Dr. Cheadle does about the bad effects of the absence of light. He says:—
“It is a well-established fact that, as the effect of isolation from the stimulus of light, the fibrine, albumen and red blood-cells become diminished in quantity, and the serum, or watery portion of the vital fluid, augmented in volume, thus inducing a disease known aslukaemia, in which white instead of red blood-cells are developed. This exclusion from the sun produces the sickly, flabby, pale, anæmic condition of the face, or ex-sanguined ghost-like forms so often seen amongst those not freely exposed to air and light. The absence of these essential elements of health deteriorates by materially altering the physical composition of the blood, thus seriously prostrating the vital strength, enfeebling the nervous energy, and ultimately inducing organic changes in the structure of the heart, brain and muscular tissue.”
The use of water as a means of curing disease and of preserving health was revived early in this century by Priessnitz and his many followers. In 1896 the oldest of German doctors, Professor and Privy Councillor Adolf Kussmaul, of Heidelberg, refused to sign the programme of the commissioners for medical examinations, because “of hydropathy our young doctor, when he leaves the schools, knows nothing at all.” In the same year Sir Lauder Brunton, in his Summer Lectures at St. Bartholomew’s, testified to thewonderful effects of the wet-sheet-pack; and the late Dr. Carpenter, Professor of Physiology in the Royal Institution, as well as Dr. Wilson and Lord Lytton, have spoken in praise of this very cheap and simple and pleasant remedy which we heartily recommend for the reader’s trial. The late Sir John Forbes wrote most enthusiastically about this and other easy water treatments, which Dr. John Goodman contrasted with the treatments by drugs, stimulants, overfeeding, and so on. As a striking example we may quote his words about Diuretics (which have been among the various means recommended for reducing weight):—
“Allopathic Diuretics.—Squills, digitalis, nitric ether, acetate of potash, broom-tops, dandelion, mercury.
“Hydropathic Diuretics.—Copious water-drinking, hot-air baths, sitz-baths, wet packing, &c. No remedies act more powerfully on the kidneys without injury. Copious drinking of barley-water is good.”
Amongall the millions of outside agencies that go to build up and strengthen, or if improperly used to undermine, the health of the human body, there is none so constant in our environment as air. At intervals it is necessary to eat and to sleep. At intervals it is equally essential for us to have light; but the use of air goes on from birth to death; completely deprived of it only for a few minutes we die, and it is largely because breathing is so obviously and always essential, because except in definite ill-health it is completely automatic, thatfew people even give a thought to the question, and most would be disposed to laugh if they were told that there are different ways of breathing, some right and some wrong. Consequently, most people with the inherent perverseness of human nature use one of the wrong ways.
Observe, for instance, the way that the first hundred people you meet down any crowded thoroughfare are breathing, and you will find probably that (leaving out of the question those who are evidently out of breath) more than three quarters have their mouths open, and are breathing through them. That is the wrong way. Many of these may have a physical difficulty in getting sufficient air through the nostrils. Some have colds, perhaps, but more have over-large adenoids. Consequently if, when you have no cold at all, you find you cannot get enough air throughthe nostrils without effort, go straight to a doctor. But probably you can; therefore, breathe through the nostrils. For nature, who, take her all round, is a safe guide to follow, if she clearly indicates something, has provided three passages by which air may reach the lungs. One is the mouth, two are the nostrils. But the mouth (in addition to its sense of taste most conveniently placed there) has the duty of carrying food and drink to the stomach. The chances, therefore, are that the nostrils (in addition to their sense of smell, again most conveniently placed there, a sentinel to challenge the air, as it were, as the taste is a sentinel to challenge the food) were designed to give air to the lungs. And they are not ill-contrived. Witness, to take a horrible but convincing instance, the amount of soot and smuts that are prevented from reaching the lungs if we breathethrough the nose during a London fog. The nostrils are a sort of filter, tortuous, averting impurities. On the other hand, many advocates of a sensible idea (as in vegetarianism and total abstinence) are their own foes when they say that only the air warmed by the longer passage is good for the lungs and makes them less liable to catch cold. The reverse is probably the case, since people with delicate lungs are cured of their delicacy or disease in the coldest possible air, if it be dry.
Anyhow, the air gets to the lungs, otherwise we die; but the lungs, which are the largest single organ in the human body and in many ways the most adaptable, have this defect, and at the same time this enormous advantage in case of disease, that a very small part of them need be used in order to supply sufficient air to the stove of combustion. We can at will (most ofus do) employ the bottom part of them only, we can (with more difficulty) employ mainly the middle part, or we can with about the same difficulty employ the upper part. But since much of the health of any organ or part of the body lies in its use, for not to use an organ either passively or intentionally implies (with the only exception of those organs which are partly intended as storers of energy) its gradual atrophy, it is clearly the path of wisdom to give the lungs their proper work. For “proper work” means not exhaustion to a healthy organ but increase of strength and health. It is on the scabbarded sword that the rust grows.
In the case of men, the use of the lower part of the lungs may at once be dismissed, for it is without exception natural and habitual, whereas in many women chest-breathing, owing no doubt largely to theuse of the old and unscientific corsets, is correspondingly habitual; and for men the defect lies in hardly ever, except during violent effort, when one is out of breath, using the middle and upper breathing. Roughly speaking, lower breathing is accomplished by distention of the abdominal part of the apparatus, middle breathing by distention of the part of the body between the ribs, upper breathing by inflation of the chest. In what we call a long breath, and in a yawn, the breathing is complete throughout the whole of the lungs. It is this which is worth cultivation, not only for the sake of the lungs themselves, but for the sake of the control of breathing which is often useful.
But the main point lies in the habitual use of the whole of the lungs. Take half a dozen long slow breaths, expanding the lungs to the utmost, and again completelyexpelling the air, and you will find by experiment that you can hold your breath for very much longer than you could do without such preparation, the reason being that you have in the blood a store of oxygen, however minute, that will carry you on for an additional number of seconds. The advantages of this are obvious in the case of great bodily exertion when the lungs have difficulty in getting enough oxygen to supply the racing heart, for if they can easily, through thorough practice, come without effort into complete use, they will be able to supply without effort a greater fund of oxygen which automatically (and God knows how) they for ever extract from the air, returning the dead air, carbonic acid gas. In other words, the man who can without effort use the whole of his lungs will keep them in a better state of health than one who from continued non-use ofthe middle and upper parts of them, has not maintained them in similar vigour. Such a man, also, will be far less liable to be attacked by forms of pulmonary disease than one who has half these organs in a state which corresponds to being “below par” as applied to the whole body.
Here, as in the case of other muscles, definite exercises are good for increasing the power of the lungs.
The following will be found invariably useful:—
(1) Breathe slowly in through the nostrils till the whole of the air cavity is expanded to its fullest capacity.
(2) Hold the air there from five to ten seconds.
(3) Breathe it slowly out till the whole of the air cavity is as far as possible empty.
(4) Hold it out for from five to ten seconds.
At first this exercise will be found fatiguing to the lungs and the fatigue will be manifested, if not in giddiness, in a tendency to be out of breath. By all means be out of breath, and, when the breathing is normal again, repeat the exercise, going through it half a dozen times. After a week you will find you can repeat it a dozen times or so without intermission, or the desire for intermission. During the breathing in, it will both help the lungs and encourage a greater fulness of breath to raise the arms and shoulders. They should be held in “shrugged” position while the breath is held, be allowed to drop gradually as the breath goes out, and remain utterly relaxed during the fourth part of the exercise. This exercise will be found most beneficial in enlarging the capacity of the lungs andthe power of expansion of the chest, which, by the way, is a far more important thing than the actual size of the chest. The exercise may also be used with the following (see Chapter III.):—
Stand erect with the arms outstretched and hands together in front of the face. Bring the arms quickly and suddenly back until they are level with the shoulders, still at full stretch, at the same time letting the breath come suddenly and fully into the lungs. After a pause of a second or two, with the chest inflated to its utmost, bring the arms back to the original position, expelling all the breath with the same suddenness.
These two exercises, it must be repeated, are (especially for those who need them—i.e., those who have not been in the habit of using the whole of the lungs) rather trying, particularly at first; on no account, therefore, strain or exhaust yourself over them. Let the facility in doing them come slowly. These, like all lung exercise, should be performed by an open window or in a room with good ventilation and as free as possible from dust, since the point is to charge the lungs thoroughly with air, which had therefore better be pure air. The open mouth may be used in these exercises, since a full draught of air has to be taken in suddenly.
But apart from actual exercises for the lungs, an even more important point is that these organs should as far as possible be given, night and day alike, a proper supply of air for their normal and automatic working; and their one and constant demand is oxygen. Considering how much there is in existence, it is wonderful how rare civilised life has contrived to make it, while builders and architects seem to adopt the uncompromising attitude of saying, “We will give you air and draughts, or no air and no draughts.” Sometimes even, by an excess of diabolical humour, they manage to give one draughts and no air, and render rooms both cold and stuffy; and the continual breathing of unvivified air, of air which has been exhausted of its oxygen by the breathing of other people and not renewed by a constant fresh supply coming in, is probably responsible for as much languor and indisposition as any of the errors of diet mentioned in the previous chapter. Nor is it the least necessary that because a room is hot the air should be bad; indeed, one of the reasons why a good fire in the room is healthy is that, if there is an adequate ventilator, the fire by its burning and by the passage of the heat up the chimney induces a current of air, and though it warms a room and may make it even over-hot, yet that heated air is not nearly so enervating as the air of a cooler and ill-ventilated room. The lungs do not in the least object to be fed with even roasted air, as in a Turkish bath, any more than they dislike air of the utmost extremity of cold; what they do rebel against is being given vitiated and exhausted air. It is the quality rather than the temperature of the air we breathe which has to be considered, and many people who say they cannot stand a hot room mean not really a hot room but a stuffy one.
We have heard a good deal lately about the policy of the open door, and recommend to our readers’ serious consideration the policy of the open window as much as possible by day and always at night. Unless the head of the bed is immediately by the window (and scarcely even then), it is practically impossible to catch cold when oneis in bed and properly covered. To live under canvas, for instance, means to sleep almost invariably in a thorough draught. But those who have tried that delightful mode of life know that to catch cold under such circumstances is almost unknown; one is constantly wet and is usually in a draught, but one does not catch cold because these things in themselves do not produce a cold in a healthy person, and one’s health in such conditions is improved, because one has enough air and probably not too much food. The air itself is tonic, strengthening; it is largely because in civilised city-life we do not have enough that we are liable to colds. The passages to the lungs, with their lining of mucous membrane, and the lungs themselves, are clogged with impurities, and weak through a mild form of starvation. Feed them. Clean them.
We do not, however, advise the ordinarycity man deliberately to sit in a draught, though if that were the only plan of getting air it might be far better than his present procedure. Instead, we recommend him to look to his ventilators, and whenever he feels that the office is stuffy let him cut another or two, one low and one high; let him—and these remarks apply to all dwellers in houses—warm his offices by fires rather than hot pipes, if possible; for fires assist ventilation while they also give heat, but pipes are valueless except for heat. Furthermore, a screen of paste-board, or if light is wanted, of glass, can often be arranged so that a window may be opened without creating a draught at all; for though draughts are not, we think, so guilty in the way of cold-giving as their reputation would seem to justify, yet they are uncomfortable. But above all have windows open during sleep, that mightyfriend of recuperation, when rest ought to be brought to every organ. And the natural rest to give the lungs is to supply them with plenty of pure air, so that their work is made easy for them. Nothing is commoner than long drowsiness and heaviness on waking, even after perfectly sufficient sleep, and for this nothing is more responsible than the fact that we have been breathing all night air which has been steadily deteriorating because drained of its oxygen. Let the windows be shut by all means, if you will, while you are dressing; but while sleeping, never.
Though the lungs perform the main part of the breathing, much is done also by the skin, which has this further function of continually striving to throw off those waste products and impurities of the body which rise like scum to the surface. How vastly important these functions are isshown by the story of Pietro Riario, the boy Cardinal-Archbishop of Florence, who at a feast gilded a child all over to serve as a huge lamp bearer, with the consequence that in a few hours the unfortunate victim died. It is clearly, then, desirable to listen to the demands of the skin, which are as simple and intelligible as those of the lungs, and consist of air, warmth (though to a far less extent than is generally supposed), and cleanliness. It is by clothing and baths that we meet these demands.
Now our general method of dealing with the skin is to wrap it up and put it in the dark; in other words we cover it as much as possible, because we say it is delicate and to expose it gives us colds. It is delicate—that is quite true; but what has made it delicate is our habit of covering it up. A woman, for instance, will pass with arms, shoulders, breast, and a large part of theback bare, out of a heated ball-room into a cool sitting-room and not catch cold, because her skin is used to what—as far as the skin is concerned—is most sanitary and healthy treatment. She does not catch cold, because her skin is used to it, and one of the surest ways to guard against colds is deliberately and every day to accustom it to exposure. Reasons of decency forbid us to make this a public performance, but everyone can and should adopt some course of the following kind. Strip completely on getting up and (whether the bath, hot or cold, is taken immediately or not) go through the other incidentals of dressing, shaving, etc., without clothes on. Similarly at night undress completely at once and give the skin ten minutes’ airing before getting into bed. At the same time, it is well to avoid any feeling of chill, and if it is cold, sit before the fire a few minutes,or, better still (unless you find that they keep you awake), have a few minutes at the exercises given above, which will supply a more thorough and invigorating warmth. The effect of this simple treatment is, as we know from personal experience, quite amazing, both in its hardening virtues, whereby we are far less liable to catch cold at sudden chills or changes of temperature, in its tonic effect on the skin itself, as shewn in a vastly increased firmness and elasticity, and also in the constant and immediate feeling of freshness that it produces. We all know how vivifying is fresh air on the face only; here the whole skin is invigorated.
Not less important is the matter of clothing, which should be in the first place as natural as possible, so that it may not distort the natural shape, or cramp a natural movement. In the main, theordinary man’s clothing, though ugly enough, is in this respect sensible, except with regard to boots, which really seem to be an invention of the devil so as to thwart in every possible way what was meant to be the natural play of the foot. Toes in a bunch, like asparagus, tightness over the insteps, and the whole infernal contraption strapped on by a cruel string cramping the muscle above, the ankle! A more insanitary contrivance, or one better calculated to cramp the muscles and distort the shape of the foot, especially if a man take much exercise on his feet, could not be devised. Moreover, there is a sort of idea that boots which conform to the natural shape of the foot must necessarily be clumsy. This is not the case; but even if it were, it would be the part of sense to go clumsily but healthily shod. What is necessary is to be carefully measured forboots with the two feet separately, and with theweight resting on the foot that is being measured, since the weight naturally spreads out and flattens the foot, and it is of the first importance to have a boot that is not cramped when the muscles of the foot are being used. It is the toes that chiefly suffer in ill-fitting boots, since the boot is, as a rule, made broad enough for the foot in repose, but does not allow for the spread of the toes which takes place (or should take place) every time a step is made. At this moment it is obvious that the toes are being used as a lever to throw the body forward to its next step, the whole weight is for the moment on them, and their natural and reasonable tendency is to flatten out. Instead of allowing for this, most bootmakers make their boots for the foot in rest, with the result that the toes get crushed together at each step. This point, doubly importantin the case of children whose feet are still growing is, it is satisfactory to see, being taken into serious consideration at last, and year by year more children are allowed to wear sandals, either with or without socks—an admirable institution, for they give the foot its natural development. Many women’s feet are really altogether unfit for walking purposes owing to the persistent way in which they have been cramped from childhood upwards, following the barbaric and Chinese fashion of considering a small foot a beautiful thing. A delicately made foot of course is, but a foot naturally of moderate size and cramped of its growth is merely a shapeless lump of bent bones and packed flesh.
Secondly, clothing should be as easy as possible; there should not be pressure, except for definite medical purposes of support, on any part of a properly developedbody; for pressure not only prevents the free flow of blood to the capillary vessels of the skin, but checks the play of any muscle which is being used, forbidding its expansion at the moment of its energy, and thus cramping the freedom of its movement.
Thirdly, clothing should be as light as is possible consistently with reasonable warmth. What is wanted, therefore, next the skin (in cold weather at any rate) is some material like wool, which is porous and therefore holds in its interstices innumerable little air-chambers that when once warmed by the heat of the body form between it and the outer clothing and air a layer of protection. It is exactly this plan that nature has adopted in the covering of birds, and we find the lower part of the feather-quill clad, not in the hard plumage of its tip, but in soft down which interposes a cushion of air between the body and the atmosphere.This is especially and markedly the case in aquatic birds, part of whose body is incessantly in water; the natural oil of the stiff part of the feathers is absolutely waterproof, while the down near their base prevents, by its air and warmth-holding capacities, the chill of the water reaching the body. Wool also has this advantage, that it absorbs moisture, and thus a man clad in under-garments of wool will be less liable to take cold if he gets chilled after violent exercise, since the sweat is to a large extent drawn away from complete contact with the skin.
On the other hand, cotton or silk next the skin, while it is less warming and has not the full protective advantages of wool, gives more air to the skin, since it does not cling so closely, and thus facilitates the breathing functions of the skin, and also allows more light to pass through it. Muchmust depend on the constitutional vigour of the skin in individual cases, and on its reacting powers. For a person naturally liable to catch cold, wool is certainly the safer clothing.
Finally, all clothing worn next the skin should be very frequently washed, for it is absorbing all day and every day the waste products of the skin; it should also be well aired before use and kept if possible, not in hermetically sealed drawers, but where air can get to it.
Perhaps no change of fashion in the last fifty years is greater than the change that has come over bedrooms. Fifty years ago the ordinary healthy man (if he could afford it) slept in a deep feather-bed into which his unfortunate body sank and was smothered; his bed was probably draped at the head with large curtains so as to prevent anything like a movement of airgetting to him (not that it was very likely, for he kept his windows shut and curtained), while in case of anything so untoward happening he had an additional protection in the shape of a nightcap, while over the whole bed, as likely as not, was a heavy quilt. In fact, the bed gear of fifty years ago was all that bed gear should not be. By degrees the curtains were taken down, the feather mattress was supplanted by a thinner and harder affair which got its elasticity from springs below it, windows were opened, and the nightcap wore out and was not replaced. In fact, the proper rule—the utmost coolness consistent with comfort—came in. The head should be cool, the body not hot nor smothered airlessly beneath masses of coverlets. The feet, however, unless naturally warm, may with advantage have a rug thrown over them; for, if they are warm, proper circulation ofthe blood is ensured, and a most fruitful cause of insomnia removed.
To sum up in one sentence the general principles we have tried to lay down in this chapter, we should say, “When in doubt, open it or take it off”; the point being that you should whenever possible expose yourself to air. Think for a moment of the differentrégimeadopted now, not for people in health, but for consumptives, from what those unfortunates suffered thirty years ago, and think also of the vastly increased percentage of recoveries. Thirty years ago patients were sent to warm enervating places, draughts and cold were treated as if they themselves were the microbes of disease. Nowair,air,air, and when the damp and dulness of English winters arrives, up they go into piercing elevations of Swiss mountains. And if air will heal definite disease, we may take it completely for grantedthat so natural a remedy will be highly beneficial to those in health, for it must and does act as a preventive to disease, and is in itself health-giving. So also with clothing: when in doubt take it off, for the more the skin is either directly exposed or, though clad, allowed to get the maximum possible of air and light, the healthier and the more vigorous it will become; and instead of saying, “Put on a coat, or you will catch cold,” it will be nearer the truth to say, “Continue not to put on a coat and you will not catch cold.” Of course, there are an immense number of days when, especially if one is out in the open air without taking exercise, a coat is advisable, since the feeling of being cold is a natural danger signal, and it is then our business to get warm. But the habit of being cold is often due—and this is our point—to a relaxed and unvigorous condition of the skin, andthe coat is, as it were, only a dose to meet a special need, whereas the rational treatment is to get the skin into such a condition that the body is less liable to feel cold. And this diminished liability to feel cold is promoted, not by covering the skin up, but by accustoming it to be uncovered.
Thelate Sir Andrew Clark once said that he never knew anyone die from insomnia, though he knew of many who had died from trying to cure it. To a man who really suffers from insomnia, perhaps, this is but doubtful consolation, but in any case the latter half of this great doctor’s remark is valuable. For probably more poison is taken to remedy insomnia, and on the whole with worse results, than in the alleviation of any other disease which flesh is heir to. Drugs, especially narcotics, are the most dangerous things in the world toplay with, since so many, if taken at all continuously, almost necessitate a gradual increase in quantity. Besides, the morphia habit, or any habit of that sort, is, frankly, the clutch of the fiend, and it would be infinitely better to die of insomnia (were it possible) than be dragged down to that particular Hell.
But it is not of these martyrs, whose case is one for doctors (who will most likely be unable to help them), but of the ordinary man who may, perhaps, not be a regularly good sleeper, and of those who are habitually good sleepers, that we propose to speak. People who sleep well, and know nothing about other forms of rest, may, perhaps, find certain things here said, fantastic, but the problem of rest is just as fascinating as the problem of energy, and curious though it sounds, rest can be induced and improved even by exercises.
Broadly, then, rest and recuperation, which is equivalent to the act of gathering energy, and is necessary to the employment of it, may come in three fairly distinct ways, either by sleep, or by mere quiescence, or by intentional and definite relaxation. The two first are purely natural, being the instinctive demands of the brain and body after a period of activity; the third is, at first anyhow, an artificial rest, to be had always at command, and demanding more than mere quiescence to induce it.
To take sleep first, it should be a condition as automatic as breathing, but by its very nature, by the fact that, in order to arrive at it, both body and mind must pass into and through a quiescent state, so that the condition of unconsciousness may naturally come, it has many more foes than the mere taking and expelling of breath. A severe pain in the foot or any remote organof the body will make sleep difficult, if not impossible, until exhaustion has come, whereas such a pain would not in any way prevent breathing; or, again, any anxiety or tension of mind will hinder sleep. Continued pain, of course, results in bodily exhaustion, continued anxiety in the corresponding exhaustion of the mind, the inability tothinklonger; but these are rather special causes of sleeplessness, which are responsible for a comparatively small percentage of those patients—for they are no less—who habitually sleep badly, either finding difficulty in getting to sleep, or awaking at timeless hours, or awaking, not to sleep again, in very early hours of the morning. These, though one can class all under the general heading of bad sleepers, are divisible into at least two distinct classes, while insomnia may arise from very different causes.
Certain general rules apply to everyone in the regulation of the bedroom, and though confirmed bad sleepers may scoff at the notion of furniture and bedgear having anything to do with their own particular thorn in the flesh, it will at any rate be harmless for them to know how a bedroom can be regulated in order to give the best possible conditions.
In the first place, then, mere stuffiness of a room will be often quite sufficient to wake an ordinarily good sleeper, and if continued, to get him into the habit of sleeping badly. If the air in a room gets exhausted of its oxygen, he will during sleep breathe through his mouth as well as his nostrils, the lungs rebelling against their starvation. This continued for several hours will by the consequent dryness of mouth and throat, and the discomfort ensuing upon it, be quite sufficient to wakehim, wake him thoroughly, that is to say, with a sense of uneasiness amounting to positive discomfort. A proper bedroom, therefore, should be incapable of stuffiness, that is to say, a window should always be open, and the room be as free as possible from curtains and carpets. No doubt the absence of them (of carpet, anyhow) affects the stuffiness of a room only in a very small degree, but it has its value in this way, that the air is far freer from dust, which is an important point, if for eight hours or so out of every twenty-four you are breathing that air. But it is true that the influx of light in the early morning tends to wake some people, and the absence of curtains lets in light. For this there are two remedies, both equally simple: have blinds of the ordinary dark-blue stuff which quite effectually excludes light, or better, pass a couple of nights, three orfour perhaps, in which you are awakened by light. After that you will fail to notice it, and one of the present writers, who for years thought he must awake when light came in, found after doing so once only, that it made not the slightest difference, and he who carefully drew curtains, and had the position of a strange bed altered so as to be away from the light has now often awoke, when called, in a blaze of sunshine.
He is, therefore, you will conjecture, a naturally good sleeper. Naturally, no—that is to say, in early life he was a persistently bad one, who used to adopt all kinds of means to go to sleep, of which presently. But for the last six years his record is this: he has, as far as he remembers, through good and ill report, through such anxieties as are inseparable from life itself, through one attack of typhoid fever, and two ofinfluenza, in spite of hard work up till the time of going to bed (in fact, particularly then, since he finds he works best when the small hours begin to grow bigger), lain awake for never more than one complete hour on three occasions. Once he had coincidently a bad cold, on the other two occasions he failed then, and fails now to account for so extraordinary a proceeding. All told, then, in six years he has been awake for three solid hours when he meant to be asleep. Otherwise, he extinguishes his light—and is called.
Now the secret of this is, as far as he knows, the complete conviction that he is going to sleep, a conviction not expressed at all, but an acquired instinct. Yet he does not—he says all this at the risk of being accused of egotism, but hoping it may be useful—bother about the matter at all. Once he used to bother about it:that was in the days when he slept rather badly; now he does not. Nor does he go to bed in the hopes of going to sleep; he does not go to bed till he feels, instinctively again, that it is time. Thirdly, if he has gone to bed early, and is not going to be called till after he has had his fill of sleep (this is rare, since he is a glutton at it), he instantly reads or gets up instead of trying to go to sleep again (which in itself would do no harm), or instead of wondering why he has awoke. This would do harm, for it partakes of the nature of “bothering about it.” He avoids sleep during the day, this also he thinks is crucial, and if he feels sleepy (sleepy, not to be compared with inclined to rest) he gets up and does something.
To return for a moment to his bedroom. The windows are open, there is no carpet, he has blankets which vary according tothe time of year, but whatever the time of year he has an extra thickness over his feet. In his rare moments of semi-consciousness he sometimes (this is towards morning, always when the world is coldest) draws the extra covering over him, and without really waking sleeps again. He also invariably goes to sleep on his right side and invariably wakes lying on his left.
We have spoken about this enviable slumberer at some length, because he seems instinctively to have got hold of (no credit to him) some of the points which will be of use to the moderately bad sleeper, whose condition, we maintain, is wrong. If sleep is required, it is as pitiable not to get it as not to be able to eat without indigestion when hungry; if sleep is not required, it is as foolish to try to induce it as to eat when one is not hungry, also with indigestion. But to draw the lesson from this enviableslumberer, though much that he does would murder sleep like Macbeth (witness his odious habit of working immediately before going to bed), still much that he does is sensible. Pre-eminently sensible, for instance, is his acquired habit of not bothering about it, for the wondering whether one is going to go to sleep is in many cases quite sufficient to keep one awake. Go to bed assuming naturally, not with insistence, for that would spoil it all, that youaregoing to sleep, or to use a phrase from hypnotism, make the suggestion that you are. You will not succeed in capturing this attitude the first time you try, nor yet the second, but before long you probably will; probably, also, when you have done so, you will become a good sleeper. But if this fails, what then? You will lie awake, that is all, and you will not die of it. But if you fret about it you will lose all the benefit of the act of resting,which is very great. To lie still with twitching nerves, agonising for sleep, will not only not bring sleep, but it will deprive you of rest. You lie awake. Be it so—at any rate, rest.
Here innumerable complications enter. You may think it is a noise that is keeping you awake. Someone, who ought to be in bed, is moving about directly above you. Do not get irritated and think over the biting things you will say to-morrow. The morrow will take care of itself. Supposing there was a gale blowing, you would acquiesce in the Natural Law, and in consequence would go to sleep sooner, because you were not irritated. And irritation, it must be remembered, should be wholly within our control; in this case to get it in control is an essential preliminary to sleep. While you are cross you will not sleep. Therefore, cease to be cross. A greaterdistraction would calm your irritation; let the desire for calmness calm it.
Of great mental anxiety as a cause of insomnia, or of great physical pain, it is not our purpose to speak, for these are exceptional cases. But the ordinary person must, with an effort—until the act becomes automatic—put out of his mind when he goes to bed all interesting things, if he wishes to become a good sleeper. He must, at first anyhow, having definitely told himself that he is going to sleep, consciously let his mind dwell on monotonous affairs. Sheep going through a gap in a hedge is a recognised soporific, and no doubt an excellent one, only he must be absorbed not in each sheep but in the stupifying multitude of them. Similarly he may try to mark out a lawn-tennis court with as few possible liftings of the marking machine, without of course going over any line twice. Or hemay say over and over again some passage of poetry, or some familiar form of words, which should be short, so as to procure the benefit of the tedious effect of mere senseless repetition. But, after he has wasted time—for these things are waste of time if one wants to go to sleep—in this manner, he must take into consideration methods even more simple than these. Cold feet, the least feeling of hunger will easily, especially in a nervous person, induce sleeplessness. If such causes are present, then additional covering, and some easily digestible food—biscuits, fruit, etc., will probably relieve him. Again, washing the face in cold water, also an awakening process, tends to send the blood anywhere but to the brain, which is desirable. A hot-water bottle to the feet serves the same object. Or again, failure of digestion is a common cause of sleeplessness; if there is a chanceof this being the cause, drink hot water before going to bed, or cold water with a little bi-carbonate of potash.
Considering the incalculable benefit which a habit of sleep produces, we do not feel ashamed to write down aids, however tiny, to produce it. For that it is largely a habit is beyond question, and as a habit it is one of the entirely healthful habits—it is essentially good. But the contrary habit, that of lying awake, though largely remediable, is not fatal, and its ill-effects are immeasurably neutralized if the will is steadily exerted towards the grasp of that truth. To lie awake, fretting that one cannot go to sleep, is distinctly bad; to lie awake, if no remedy short of drug-drinking will cure it, does not appreciably matter, so long as one accepts “rest” as the best possible substitute.
A different variety of sleeplessness is thatwhich attacks the sufferer early in the morning, say three or four hours before he wishes to get up. For this a somewhat heroic remedy may be tried, since it is always possible that natural awaking may mean one thing—namely, that you have had enough sleep. Therefore, it may be worth while, just once or twice, to try the effect, if you are really broad awake, of getting up instead of encouraging yourself to wake early again by letting this early waking dwell on your mind. You will probably be very tired by the next evening, you may even (in this case the remedy is clearly futile) be too tired to sleep. But it may easily happen that you will sleep that night exceedingly well, and wake at a normal time again. But if again, and yet again you continue to wake early, it is no use persisting in this treatment. Or you may awake, as stated before, owing to theairlessness of your room, and the fact that you have been breathing with an open mouth, or, and this is probably a frequent cause of early awakings, you may be engaged for weeks or months together on some absorbing occupation. You sleep at first because tired, and sleep deeply, but as the hours go by the sleep becomes lighter, and before your body regains consciousness at all, that strange part of the brain, the subliminal self, or the sub-conscious self, is awake, and begins thinking (gradually arousing the rest of you) of the engrossing occupation. Soon the whole brain is awake, and by the sub-conscious self is reminded, as it were, of the business. Then having once begun thinking about it, it is difficult for you to regain that passivity which is invariably the prelude to sleep, though it need be scarcely more than instantaneous.
It is here that the cause of sleeplessnessand its remedy we believe largely lie, for it is within the power of all to put themselves into the control, more or less complete, of their sub-conscious self and develop the power of the sub-conscious self until it becomes a real potency. To take an example, how constantly does it happen that after wrestling with some mental difficulty, or trying to remember some name which one knows well, one by instinct dismisses the subject, to find in a few minutes that the difficulty is solved, or the name recollected. That is probably the work of the sub-conscious part of the brain. In the same way many people can wake themselves at any hour they wish, by telling their sub-conscious brain (this is what it comes to) to call them. They go to sleep, having ordered their sub-conscious self to call them, and at the appointed hour, it may be long before light, something inside them, which apparently knows the time, wakes the rest of the sleeping brain and body. And with a little training and practice the power of developing and using the sub-conscious brain increases very quickly. We believe that many early wakers could sleep comfortably on, by saying that they wouldnotawake till a certain hour. One does not need violence or internal shouting, as it were, to communicate effectually with this sub-conscious self; a quiet determination of thought for a few moments before going to sleep does the work effectually. This also is invaluable to many who have found that going to sleep when getting into bed was difficult. One has to take it for granted that one is going to sleep, and cease to think about it, emptying the brain of conscious thought as far as may be. You cannot go to sleep in a rage, until the rage has given place to exhaustion.
To sum up, then, both for those who find it difficult to go to sleep, and for those who wake early, the following hints are recommended:—
This brings us to the second division of the subject—namely Rest, which does not only largely diminish the ill-results of not sleeping at night, but is probably good for all hard workers either of mind or body, at certain times during the day, in particular after a long continued stretch of brain-work, when an interval should be taken by the mind; after a meal, when quiescence on the part of the body leaves the digestion more energy to do its work; and after physical exercise, when those limbs whichhave borne the brunt of it should be left quiescent. A flat or semi-recumbent position is the best, one in which the body is completely supported, and no muscular effort is needed to retain it in its position; and the deep breathing of sleep may be at first imitated and will soon be acquired. The reason for this is that since slow, long breath is the means naturally adopted by the lungs in sleep, it is probably the best method of resting the breathing muscles even when awake. It is a mistake to spend too long over these rests; if two a day are taken, a quarter of an hour, provided it be real rest, is likely to be sufficient to freshen one up again completely, while if the muscles are left too long relaxed, they will be disinclined to begin work again.
Now sleep and rest are widely different from relaxation, the third means of recuperation mentioned above, since the first twoare purely natural, and require merely passivity as a condition, whereas intentional relaxation is at first purely artificial, and requires, even when it has become easy with practice, certain voluntary efforts. It has therefore this initial disadvantage, and in addition this further one, that in the young it is seldom if ever required, since the natural means of recuperation, Sleep and Rest, supply all that is wanted. Unless habits are acquired in childhood or youth, however, there are few people who will ever spare the time to acquire them at all. It requires also an exercise of imagination—rest, that is to say, has to be attained self-consciously.
This all sounds confusing, and with a view to making it rather more intelligible by an easy instance of it, the following is recommended. It is of no use merely reading it, the thing has to be tried, and after two orthree trials it will be time enough to say whether the particular individual finds it of value. Thus:—