The very title, “Fresh Air,” conjures up visions of wide-spreading moorlands and foam-flecked seas, of sunny dales and quiet trout-streams, of breezy golf links and bracing mountain-tops; of all the things, in fact, which we are going to revel in when we go for our next holiday.

When we go for our next holiday! And what is to happen in the meantime? For fresh air is a daily, we might say an hourly, necessity, not a yearly luxury. The combustion on which the health so largely depends is always going on. The bodily engine never ceases running from the beginning to the end of life. Sometimes it is more active than at others, but even during sleep itself, though the muscles may be relaxed and motionless, the heart is acting, and the lungs must continue to do their work. The machinery of the body is never still, the furnaces are never out. Sometimes they are burning fiercely, at other times with a gentle glow.

Yet no matter whether it is one or the other, it is necessary that the processes of combustion should be complete, and the purer the air that reaches the lungs, and the more there is of it, the more effectually will this end be attained.

Send a tired, seedy-looking man into the open air for a whole day, and even if he only lies down or lounges about the whole time, you may notice the difference in his looks by the time evening has come. His eyes will be brighter and his complexion clearer, and the dragging sense of heaviness in his limbs will have disappeared. Instead of discomfort and nausea, he will have a good, healthy appetite.

As for his nervous system, there will be no comparison. There is no tonic in the whole world for jaded nerves like an abundant supply of pure, fresh air. And if sunshine can be obtained at the same time so much the better, for the effect of direct sunlight on the body is simply remarkable. Some years ago a new form of holiday was started in the shape of trips to the Sahara, for the benefit of those suffering from brain-fag. The success which attended them was due largely to the free supply of sunshine, not merely to the fact of the patients being away from their work and ordinary surroundings. Many of them had tried rest cures elsewhere without any good result. It was only when they spent weeks in some oasis, with the sunlight pouring down on them from morning till night, that their nervous systems recovered themselves.

Yet these people should never have had brain-fag if they had only carried out the rules we are about to lay down.

Most of us are not in a position to go to the Sahara, but we can get at home, if not such a flood of sunshine, at any rate enough fresh air, in conjunction with other precautions as to diet and so forth, to prevent our systems ever getting into such a state as to make a trip of this sort, with its outlay of time and money, a necessity.

Apart from sunshine, fresh air has a potent influence on health. We all pine for fine holidays, and no doubt they do us more good, in addition to being more enjoyable, than wet ones. Yet it is amazing how much better people look after even a rainy holiday at the seaside or country. The rest from the worries of business and so forth has something to do with it, but I firmly believe that half the benefit is due to the fact that when people are on a holiday they spend the greater part of their time in the open air.

A friend once remarked to me that he always began to feel nervous and worried as soon as he got back home. He wondered if the district agreed with him. I asked him what sort of life he led when he was in the country. And he replied that he pottered about outside all the time. If it was wet, he put on a mackintosh and went out just the same. Yet he owned up that he never thought of doing such a thing at home.

Two men were walking down a street in the West of London on a winter’s afternoon. The one was plodding along wearily with his eyes fixed on the pavement and lines of care on his face. The other held himself erect, walking with easy strides, and looking around with genial eyes that seemed to find an interest in everything they saw. His breezy manner and the glow of health in his cheeks were a marked contrast to the look of weariness and pallor on the face of his companion.

Yet these two were brothers, brought up in the same way and under the same conditions. The one had applied himself to the law, finally settling down in London, amazed that his brother should be content to bury himself in the heart of the country.

A few hours later they sat down to dinner together, and the lawyer looked with envy at the hearty way in which the country brother ate his food, and the relish with which he seemed able to take anything that was set before him. His own appetite was fickle to the last degree, and even when he ate any of the courses it was with a doleful presentiment as to the effect they would have upon him.

It was after midnight before the lawyer could make up his mind to go to bed, and he went with the expectation of a restless night. By that time the other brother was enjoying a deep, untroubled slumber.

Six months later you might have seen those two men again walking side by side. This time it was on an August morning amongst the fields and hedgerows. The difference between them was not so marked on this occasion. The lawyer held his head higher, his eyes were brighter, and his cheeks had lost much of their pallor. He did not look down at the ground either, but gazed all around him, and some of the careworn lines had disappeared from his face. He had had three weeks of pure, country air, and had spent most of it in the open. He was dreading the time, a few days hence, when he would have to return to town.

That was not anything out of the common. We have all seen people returning from their holidays looking like that. The surprising part—surprising even to the man himself—was to follow. For during the following winter you might have watched that lawyer stepping out of his office any afternoon, and would have been amazed to notice that he had never lost the improvement which he had gained during his weeks in the country. His dread that he would sink back into the same nervous, dyspeptic state as before had been unfounded.

For it was only a few days after he had got back to town that he had been talking to a friend and telling him how much better he had felt after his open-air holiday. And the friend had said, “Then why not keep it up now you are at home?”

That remark had set the lawyer thinking, and the force of it had impressed him deeply. So instead of driving to his office each day he had made a habit of covering the three miles on foot, and returning home in the evening in the same way. He had taken every opportunity of having a walk, either along the streets or in the park, and had felt a new man after it. And it was not only his bodily health which had benefited; his nervousness had gone, and he had ceased to worry over his work and all his other affairs. He had found not only fresh air during these walks, but a vast number of other things to interest him at the same time. And the weather did not seem of nearly the same importance as before. If it was wet, he took a coat and umbrella and trudged through it as contentedly as if he were enjoying bright sunshine. To his surprise, he did not catch cold nearly so often as he had been accustomed to do.

Now this man only did what anyone else can do, that is to secure a daily supply of fresh air. There are vast numbers of people who would be different creatures if they would have a walk morning and evening, either before breakfast or their evening meal, or on their way to and from their work.

It is of little use, however, to take walks in the fresh air if we come back to badly-ventilated houses. There are some dwellings in which the air always feels dead; there is a staleness about it which offends our nostrils the moment we cross the threshold. The doors and windows are kept closed, and the whole house reeks of the accumulated poison from the lungs of those who have lived beneath its roof.

In a north country dale there is a charming cottage, its latticed windows framed in creepers, standing back from the village street. It is the admiration of all beholders, yet its beauty is only the shell that hides a grim tragedy. There were five children in the family, and one by one they died of consumption. And if you examine the pretty latticed windows more closely, you will find the secret of their fell disorder, for not one of those windows, upstairs or down, will open. Those youngsters played in the fresh air, they went to school and returned home in it, but every minute that they spent in the house they were living in a poisoned atmosphere. If there had been no such thing as bedtime, they might have escaped; but it was no wonder that when some tubercle bacilli made their way into that house they found easy victims in the innocent, sleeping forms of those children. For even the fireplace in the bedroom was blocked up with a sack of shavings.

An atmosphere of that sort is like a two-edged sword, it cuts both ways. It not only lowers the resisting power of the human body, but also favours the growth of germs. And consumption is not the only complaint to which vitiated air may lead. There are many other forms of ailments which, if not so deadly as this disease, exercise a most pernicious influence on health.

Common colds play a far greater havoc with the health of a nation than is usually supposed. For it is not merely the loss of time spent in getting rid of them, but the infinitely more important fact that these chills and catarrhs upset digestion, lower the general health, and lay it open for deadlier enemies to enter. Sometimes colds are of the influenza nature, the result of a germ, which may fix itself in the throat in spite of all precautions. Yet the influenza bacillus itself finds the greatest ally in any catarrh of the nose or throat. We frequently hear people say that they had an ordinary cold which developed into influenza. It is a perfectly true statement, and if the ordinary cold had not been there first, it is more than probable that the influenza germ would not have had a chance of establishing itself.

Nothing causes chills more than hot, stuffy rooms. We often hear people complaining that they took cold when they came out into the night air. Yet it was not the night air which did the mischief, but the poisonous atmosphere in the room itself, due to the accumulated exhalations of many lungs, etc. Had the apartment been well ventilated the so-called chill would never have occurred.

Most cases of asthma are the result of a bad atmosphere. The catarrh has extended down from the nose and throat into the bronchial tubes, and set up a spasm which is the source of this distressing malady. No asthmatic can afford to keep his windows closed. Whether by day or night, he needs a liberal supply of fresh air.

It is not so much by day that people suffer from the effects of poor ventilating. For then most of us are compelled by the force of circumstances and the exigencies of our work to move about from one place to another, even if it is only from room to room. It is in the evenings, and winter evenings in particular, that the atmosphere of the dwelling-rooms becomes contaminated. The family sits by the fireside, with the windows and door closed, and they never notice how stuffy and close the room is becoming, until someone comes in from the outside air and beseeches them to open the window.

Yet they go on sitting in that poisoned air, and one or two of them become drowsy and sit half asleep, with the result that when bedtime comes they have to face a restless night. Others, perhaps, find their heads aching, and attribute it to the fact they are working too hard during the day.

But it is only when they go to bed in rooms with the windows closed that the chief harm comes. Considering what a large proportion of our lives we spend in our bedrooms, it is of vital importance that the air should be, if anything, purer than that of the rooms we live in by day. For at night we are not moving about, but lying still, and the air does not get a chance of renewing itself unless the ventilation is efficient. Many people complain that they can scarcely wake up in the mornings, they feel so heavy. Or that when they do rouse themselves they have a headache, which it takes hours to get rid of. All this might be avoided by the use of the open window.

The objection to it generally consists in the fact that it makes a draught. There is no necessity for this, however. There are some cranks who have much to account for in regard to this matter. They boast that they can sleep close to a window which is open top and bottom to its fullest extent, and are proud to say that they have waked up in the morning to find that the rain had been coming in and had soaked the bedclothes through and through.

There may be a few constitutions which can stand this, but they are certainly in a hopeless minority. The majority of people would find themselves in “Queer Street” if they attempted such folly, for folly it is without a doubt. In one case where a father adopted vigorous methods of this sort with his children it ended in one of them getting an inflammation of the ear, which resulted in incurable deafness.

There is reason in all things, ventilation included. And fresh air can be secured without any draught at all. A few inches top and bottom, or only at the top if the weather be very stormy, makes all the difference, either in a sitting-room or a bedroom. Better still is the plan of fixing a block of wood the width of the window frame below the lower sash. That leaves a space between the upper and lower sashes, which ensures a constant supply of fresh air. If this be adopted the atmosphere will always be pure and healthy, even if the window is never opened any farther.

It is vastly better to have this constant supply of pure air in small doses than to throw the window open wide after the atmosphere has become hot and unpleasant.

Sometimes, however, it happens that in spite of all our efforts we have to breathe air containing some deleterious matter, germs or dust or what ever else it may be. To meet this contingency, Nature has provided a filter of her own. It consists of a network inside the nostrils. That is why it is of such importance to breathe through the nose instead of the mouth. If all children were taught to do this there would be fewer colds and fevers. The nostrils would arrest the unwholesome particles before they had a chance of reaching the tonsils, which are such a suitable soil for their growth.

Needless to say, pure air is of greater value when it is inhaled as freely as possible. In order to bring this about, it is necessary to breathe deeply. There are not many people who get the best value out of their lungs. As a rule, respiration is much too light. In order to remedy this defect, breathing exercises are of great value. The way to carry them out is to stand with the hands on the hips and breathe slowly in and out, inwardly counting four each time in a deliberate manner, and expanding the chest to its fullest possible extent.

The mistake usually made is to lift the chest with each inspiration. This only raises it, it does not expand it. The proper way is to breathe from the abdomen and lower part of the chest wall. When this is done every part of the lung is filled with air, and this has the great advantage of preventing the air inside the lung spaces from stagnating in any one part, an occurrence which is always prone to lead to the onset of congestion or disease.

It does another good turn too, for it inculcates the habit of deep, full breathing. Those who practise for a few minutes each day will soon find themselves expanding their lungs habitually, even when they are not thinking about it.

Yet even if windows and doors are kept open, something more is requisite. For unless a house is scrupulously clean and the rooms regularly turned out, it cannot be healthy. If a piece of machinery is left untouched for some months it will never be as good as it was before. The grease has become foul, whilst dust and dirt have accumulated, and these insidious elements have combined to destroy the quality of the metal. That means that some time or other some bar or joint or nut will crack, and once that has happened the mischief rarely stops there, but goes on to the weakening of other parts and the deterioration of the whole machine.

And when human beings live in houses that are not fresh and wholesome they are constantly inhaling dust and fusty smells, which act as a slow, subtle poison and lower the vitality of the various tissues of the body. It is so gradual that they may not notice it, until at last something gives way, and after that the downward tendency becomes comparatively rapid. When the cataclysm occurs, they date it from the day when the first crack, if we may call it so, appeared. Rather should they look back to the long years spent in an unhealthy atmosphere within their own homes.

There is no fault, however apparently trivial it may seem, in matters of hygiene which does not add its quota towards the final breakdown of the human machinery. The faulty, leaking gaspipe which causes oft-repeated morning headaches; the choked-up scullery sink, with its abominable mixture of soap, grease and vegetable washings; the defective drain and pipes; each and all do their evil part in undermining the constitution and rendering it more prone to the onset of disease.

There is another aspect of this question to which too little prominence has been given. It is that of tidiness, and its effect on the nervous system. We all know that a tidy desk indicates a methodical, well-regulated mind, and that one which is in a litter is usually the sign of a man whose ideas are confused and jumbled up. Everyone does not realise that the sight of a disorderly room, with waste paper lying on the floor and an unswept hearth, has an irritating effect on the nerves of a man or woman who comes home jaded and tired.

We shall have occasion shortly to point out that it is this harassed state which is one of the most potent factors in causing nervous breakdowns. And it is just when the home-comer needs to have everything as smooth as possible to put him or her into a calm and equable frame of mind that their fretted nervous systems are still further irritated by signs of disorder in their homes. Tidiness is more than a mere virtue, it is an indispensable adjunct to health.

All who wish to be well, and feel well, and keep well, must seek a free and constant supply of air, and strive to obtain it in all its freshness and purity. They must secure it at all times too, at home and away, indoors and out, summer and winter, day and night. If everyone were to do this, the effect on the health and welfare of the nation would be incalculable. They will find it no irksome duty, for before long they will acquire a taste, a longing, we might say a craving for it which will make them wonder how they ever managed to live without it.

An appetite for fresh air is one of those propensities we can indulge in without any fear of going to excess. We can revel in it, gourmandise on it, smack our lips over it, and the more we get of it the better we shall be.