By Charles Waters
In August 1879 a young Robert Louis Stevenson boarded the immigrant train in New York, bound for Chicago. The middle class Scot was journeying to meet his American true love, Fanny Osborne. His parents, unamused by the union, refused to fund his journey. In love but suddenly impecunious, the young author was forced to travel in economy class. His daily life for the next few weeks is one that most nineteenth century Americans would have recognised.
This is a world, Robert chronicled, that was intimately communal. He soon became accustomed each morning to unfurling his stiff limbs from the bench next to his fellow travellers. His ears became attuned to the dawn chorus of coughing, sneezing and spitting rippling down the carriage. His educated brain tried to suppress thoughts of cholera, tuberculosis and diphtheria. An enclosed environment such as this was the perfect breeding ground for these and other potentially lethal diseases.
The 'rancid stench,' as he graphically put it, of his fellow travellers was impossible to ignore. Like everyone else, Robert wore the same clothes for days. The cowboy could blend with the smell of animal and leather, but on a train there was nowhere to hide.
He could at least cleanse the body. But these were the days before hot piping water at the twist of a tap. All water onboard had to be stored and drawn from a water filter in one corner of the carriage. A hot bath was a luxury most Americans experienced once a month and one Robert would enjoy at his journey's end. Until then a wash meant a perfunctory sluice using soap, flannel and tin wash basin bought from the newsboy onboard. Once refreshed, these utensils would be recycled by his fellow travellers. For those without much, sharing was a common currency.
No one, not even the rich and powerful in First Class, could disguise bodily odours with the deodorants we take for granted today. Ancient Egyptian women are said to have poured globules of perfumed wax over their heads, or applied porridge to the more sensitive areas of their body. These and other exotic remedies were lost to history. Robert and most Americans would have to wait until 1888 before they could dab on the first commercial deodorant.
Before returning to his seat, Robert might run a comb through his matted hair. Washing out the lice and grime could wait until he found a barber. The ladies on board would also bide their time. Brushed hair was more important; the monthly hair wash, perhaps with one of the available powder shampoo and conditioner, could wait until they arrived at their destination. No one rushed to use the available bar soap made of Sodium Hydroxide. This could be very hard on the hair and needed something equally basic, such as vinegar, to rinse it out.
Settling back into his seat, the young Scot might engage in conversation with his neighbours. This, he quickly discovered, could be hazardous. Oral hygiene was not a high priority in the nineteenth century. Fresh breath, clean gums and sparkling white teeth, much prized in Ancient Greece and Rome, were not common.
They might have washed their mouth out with baking soda, salt or even soap. If Robert was very lucky, they used a tooth powder like the one advertised in the Dodge City Times of 1879, containing, amongst other things, charcoal and bark. As would the cowboy by the campfire, running a cursory finger across his gums with cold ash from the embers. Robert, like us, might have recoiled at the thought of sharing the communal toothbrush available at public eateries and wagon stations. Everyone prayed fervently that they didn't need a tooth removed. In a world that was totally unregulated, where dentists didn't exist, that meant going in search of tradesmen with the means to extract. Your friendly barber, for example.
One bodily function Robert shared with no one was relief of his bowels. Onboard toilet facilities did not become available until the end of the nineteenth century. He, like everyone else, had to hold on until the train stopped. As they alighted from the train, they were advised to hold their nose.The stench from waste, human and otherwise, would have been appalling. The cowboy in the wilds of Texas or Montana enjoyed cleaner air. It is no accident that the Native Indians regularly moved camp. They weren't merely following the Bison. They were escaping the human detritus that accumulates in any human encampment.
A bustling city like Chicago could boast the latest mains sewerage system. But Robert and his contemporaries would have to wait until 1907 before sampling the first flush toilet. The cowboy could simply disappear into the bushes with a corn cob or clump of grass. Young Robert perhaps sampled Joseph C. Gayetty's packaged toilet paper, pre-moistened sheets medicated with aloe. More likely he recycled a few sheets torn from a Sears catalogue - perhaps a few sheets of the humorous spin-off, 'Rears and Sorbutt'.
Charles Waters is a freelance writer who writes about diverse subjects including the American Wild West. It is easy to find information about the Wild West. What is harder to find is that information delivered in a form that not only informs but stimulates the reader. To learn more about health in nineteenth century America, go to http://www.trailtoabilene.com/category/society/health/
Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/expert/Charles_Waters/2378067
http://EzineArticles.com/?Hygiene-in-Nineteenth-Century-America&id=9633852
0 comments:
Post a Comment