It may be a valuable scientific fact, that the water in these vats, in which people of all sexes, all diseases, and all nations spend so many hours of the twenty-four, is changed once a day.  The temperature at which the bath is given is ninety-eight.  The water is let in at night, and allowed to cool.  At five in the morning, the bathers enter it, and remain until ten o’clock,—­five hours, having breakfast served to them on the floating tables, “as they sail, as they sail.”  They then have a respite till two, and go in till five.  Eight hours in hot water!  Nothing can be more disgusting than the sight of these baths.  Gustave Dore must have learned here how to make those ghostly pictures of the lost floating about in the Stygian pools, in his illustrations of the Inferno; and the rocks and cavernous precipices may have enabled him to complete the picture.  On what principle cures are effected in these filthy vats, I could not learn.  I have a theory, that, where so many diseases meet and mingle in one swashing fluid, they neutralize each other.  It may be that the action is that happily explained by one of the Hibernian bathmen in an American water-cure establishment.  “You see, sir,” said he, “that the shock of the water unites with the electricity of the system, and explodes the disease.”  I should think that the shock to one’s feeling of decency and cleanliness, at these baths, would explode any disease in Europe.  But, whatever the result may be, I am not sorry to see so many French and Italians soak themselves once a year.

Out of the bath these people seem to enjoy life.  There is a long promenade, shaded and picturesque, which they take at evening, sometimes as far as the Ladders, eight of which are fastened, in a shackling manner, to the perpendicular rocks,—­a high and somewhat dangerous ascent to the village of Albinen, but undertaken constantly by peasants with baskets on their backs.  It is in winter the only mode Leukerbad has of communicating with the world; and in summer it is the only way of reaching Albinen, except by a long journey down the Dala and up another valley and height.  The bathers were certainly very lively and social at table-d’hote, where we had the pleasure of meeting some hundred of them, dressed.  It was presumed that the baths were the subject of the entertaining conversation; for I read in a charming little work which sets forth the delights of Leuk, that La poussee forms the staple of most of the talk.  La poussee, or, as this book poetically calls it, “that daughter of the waters of Loeche,” “that eruption of which we have already spoken, and which proves the action of the baths upon the skin,”—­becomes the object, and often the end, of all conversation.  And it gives specimens of this pleasant converse, as: 

“Comment va votre poussee?”

“Avez-vous la poussee?”

“Je suis en pleine poussee”

“Ma poussee s’est fort bien passee!”