Now Bladud (who is said to have studied at Athens, as most Britons of his time did) was a rigid disciple of Bishop Butler; and Butler’s line of argument is this:  Because a rose-bush blossoms this year, a lamppost will blossom next year.  By this ingenious logic he proves the immortality of the human soul, which is good of him; but in so doing he proves, also, the immortality of the souls of snakes, mosquitos, and everything else, which is less commendable.  Reasoning by analogy, Bladud was convinced that if these waters would cure a pig, they would cure a prince:  and without waiting to see how they had cured the bacon, he waded in.

When asked the next day by Sir William Waller if he intended trying the waters again, and if he retained his fondness for that style of bathing, he replied, “Not any, thank you; I am quite cured!” Sir William at once noised abroad the story of the wonderful healing, and when it reached the king’s ears, that potentate sent for Bladud to “come home at once and succeed to the throne, just the same as if he had a skin”—­which Bladud did.  Some time afterwards he thought to outdo Daedalus and Icarus, by flying from the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral.  He outdid them handsomely; he fell a good deal harder than they did, and broke his precious neck.

Previously to his melancholy end he built the City of Bath, to commemorate his remarkable cure.  He endowed the Corporation with ten millions sterling, every penny of the interest of which is annually devoted to the publication of guide-books to Bath, to lure the unwary invalid to his doom.  From motives of mercy the Corporation have now set up a contrivance for secretly extracting the mineral properties of the fluid before it is ladled out, but formerly a great number of strangers found a watery grave.

If King Bladud was generous to Bath, Bath has been grateful in return.  One statue of him adorns the principal street, and another graces the swimming pond, both speaking likenesses.  The one represents him as he was before he divided his leprosy with the pigs; the other shows him as he appeared after breaking his neck.

Writing in 1631, Dr. Jordan says:  “The baths are bear-gardens, where both sexes bathe promiscuously, while the passers-by pelt them with dead dogs, cats, and pigs; and even human creatures are hurled over the rails into the water.”  It is not so bad as that now, but lodgings are still held at rates which might be advantageously tempered to the shorn.

I append the result of a chemical analysis I caused to be made of these incomparable Waters, that the fame of their virtues may no longer rest upon the inadequate basis of their observed effects.

One hundred parts of the water contain: