Sea-bathing—at least in these islands—is generally believed in and largely practised, and some persons, by means of salts sold for that purpose, produce a close imitation of sea-water for their daily tubbing. A Salt-bath thus prepared, when its use conduces to the enjoyment and health of the bather, is by no means to be discouraged, and may advantageously follow the soap application in place of fresh water.
Most of us must have noticed how renovating to enfeebled constitutions is the effect of even a short course of sea-bathing, but it is equally patent that the good effects quickly wear off, the physique returning shortly to its perhaps normal condition of relaxation and lassitude. The daily use of the Soap-bath keeps the constitution permanently braced up to that delightful condition experienced by so few, that makes mere existence an absolute pleasure. A preliminary course of Sea-bathing is by no means necessary to bring about this pleasant condition of things.
Salt-water is more energetic in its action on the skin than fresh, and, after a dip in the sea, there is not the same liability to take cold from insufficient drying as after a fresh-water bath. Some bathers go so far as to habitually only half-dry themselves, the saline particles left on the skin further exciting its action, and producing a healthy and more vigorous glow. Children at the sea-side may safely be allowed, without the slightest fear of taking cold, to dabble and patter about in the little pools left by the receding tide: their constitutions will be positively invigorated and improved.
A love of cold-water bathing can perhaps be carried to excess, as in the case of those self-devoted Spartan swimmers, who, every morning, even in winter, assemble on the banks of the Serpentine, and audaciously defying their own instinct, plunge into the freezing water, even though they have first to break through the icy covering under which it is concealed by nature: the strongest constitution must suffer sooner or later from this treatment.
Boys and girls ought to be taught swimming at school as they are taught gymnastics and calisthenics—as a matter of course. We ought, as islanders, to be swimmers, and it is to be regretted that we are not: swimmers are of necessity bathers, but bathers are not always, as they should be, swimmers. The percentage of swimmers in this country is perhaps considerably less than might be expected by those who have not given any thought to the subject, and yet the art itself is a necessary one, easy to acquire, healthy, and sometimes of the greatest possible service.
When once learned the action of swimming comes as naturally as walking, and doubtless man in a state of nature, would, like a dog, swim at once if thrown into the water. Swimming is an art which seems to incorporate itself into the physique, and become part of one’s being—at any rate, it can never be forgotten, and a person finding himself unexpectedly in deep water, after a twenty years’ rest from swimming, will strike out as naturally and surely, and with little more effort, than if the practice had never been given up.
Rowing-men are usually swimmers, or they ought to be. To appreciate river life one must go to bed early and get up early; ten o’clock should be the latest hour at which to turn in, but after an extra hard day’s pull the sheets will be welcome by nine. To enjoy thorough fatigue one must do a hard day’s work in the open air. Up in the morning betimes, garments hastily donned, a sharp pull to the nearest bathing place, where one can dive in and have a few minutes delicious swim, and back to breakfast—and such a breakfast! Or possibly the way lies through the fields where the grass is knee-deep and saturated with refreshing dew: then off come shoes and socks, the trousers are well tucked-up, and one gets what a hydropath would possibly term a leg-bath—in reality a delicious, fragrant dew-bath, which, though more than cool, is mightily enjoyable and never seems to give cold.
Small-boned and fleshy persons naturally make the best swimmers, but it must not be supposed that thin people cannot learn to swim, and swim well. The writer well remembers seeing one morning at Brill’s swimming baths, Brighton, a young fellow who had just stepped from his dressing-box ready for a plunge. He was standing where the water is deepest, and judging by his appearance he literally could not have had an ounce of flesh to spare. It was absurd to suppose that so thin a man could swim, and his movements were curiously watched. After hesitating an instant, apparently measuring the size of the bath, he shot into the water head first as if propelled from a catapult, and shortly reappeared half-way across the bath, having swum the distance under water; he proved himself a thorough master of the element. It appeared that although passionately fond of the water he could only keep himself afloat by constant muscular exertion of both arms and legs; he was too thin to float naturally, and could not venture to swim out a greater distance than he felt sure of covering on his return.
Tuition in swimming has been for some time past, and is now, given gratuitously in town by the London Swimming Club, from the persevering and enthusiastic Honorary Secretary of which—Mr. J. Garrett Elliott, 14, Finsbury Square—particulars may be obtained.
