Popular Education. Ira Mayhew
viz., that air once respired will not further sustain animal life. That part of the experiment by which it was ascertained that respired air will not support combustion is very simple, and I here give it with the hope that it may be tried at least in every school-house, if not in every family of our wide-spread country. It was conducted as follows:
I introduced a lighted taper into an inverted receiver (glass jar) which contained seven quarts of atmospheric air, and placed the mouth of the receiver into a vessel of water. The taper burned with its wonted brilliancy about a minute, and, growing dim gradually, became extinct at the expiration of three minutes. I then filled the receiver with water, and inverting it, placed its mouth beneath the surface of the same fluid in another vessel. I next removed the water from the receiver by breathing into it. This was done by filling the lungs with air, which, after being retained a short time in the chest, was exhaled through a siphon (a bent lead tube) into the receiver. I then introduced the lighted taper into the receiver of respired air, by which it was immediately extinguished. Several persons present then received a quantity of respired air into their lungs, whereupon the premonitory symptoms of apoplexy, as already given, ensued. The experiment was conducted with great care, and several times repeated in the presence of respectable members of the medical profession, a professor of chemistry, and several literary gentlemen, to their entire satisfaction.
Before proceeding further, I will make a practical application of the principles already established. Within the last ten years I have visited half of the states of the Union for the purpose of becoming acquainted with the actual condition of our common schools. I have therefore noticed especially the condition of school-houses. Although there is a great variety in their dimensions, yet there are comparatively few school-houses less than sixteen by eighteen feet on the ground, and fewer still larger than twenty-four by thirty feet, exclusive of our principal cities and villages. From a large number of actual measurements, not only in New York and Michigan, but east of the Hudson River and west of the great lakes, I conclude that, exclusive of entry and closets, when they are furnished with these appendages, school-houses are not usually larger than twenty by twenty-four feet on the ground, and seven feet in height. They are, indeed, more frequently smaller than larger. School-houses of these dimensions have a capacity of 3360 cubic feet, and are usually occupied by at least forty-five scholars in the winter season. Not unfrequently sixty or seventy, and occasionally more than a hundred scholars occupy a room of this size.
A simple arithmetical computation will abundantly satisfy any person who is acquainted with the composition of the atmosphere, the influence of respiration upon its fitness to sustain animal life, and the quantity of air that enters the lungs at each inspiration, that a school-room of the preceding dimensions contains quite too little air to sustain the healthy respiration of even forty-five scholars three hours—the usual length of each session; and frequently the school-house is imperfectly ventilated between the sessions at noon, and sometimes for several days together.
Mark the following particulars: 1. The quantity of air breathed by forty-five persons in three hours, according to the data just given, is 3375 cubic feet. 2. Air once respired will not sustain animal life. 3. The school-room was estimated to possess a capacity of 3360 cubic feet—fifteen feet less than is necessary to sustain healthy respiration. 4. Were forty-five persons whose lungs possess the estimated capacity placed in an air-tight room of the preceding dimensions, and could they breathe pure air till it was all once respired, and then enter upon its second respiration, they would all die with the apoplexy before the expiration of a three hours' session.
From the nature of the case, these conditions can not conveniently be fulfilled. But numerous instances of fearful approximation exist. We have no air-tight houses. But in our latitude, comfort requires that rooms which are to be occupied by children in the winter season, be made very close. The dimensions of rooms are, moreover, frequently narrowed, that the warm breath may lessen the amount of fuel necessary to preserve a comfortable temperature. It is true, on the other hand, that the quantity of air which children breathe is somewhat less than I have estimated. But the derangement resulting from breathing impure air, in their case, is greater than in the case of adults whose constitutions are matured, and who are hence less susceptible of injury. It is also true in many schools that the number occupying a room of the dimensions supposed is considerably greater than I have estimated. Moreover, in many instances, a great proportion of the larger scholars will respire the estimated quantity of air.
Again, all the air in a room is not respired once before a portion of it is breathed the second, or even the third and fourth time. The atmosphere is not suddenly changed from purity to impurity—from a healthful to an infectious state. Were it so, the change, being more perceptible, would be seen and felt too, and a remedy would be sought and applied. But because the change is gradual, it is not the less fearful in its consequences. In a room occupied by forty-five persons, the first minute, thirty-two thousand four hundred cubic inches of air impart their entire vitality to sustain animal life, and, mingling with the atmosphere of the room, proportionately deteriorate the whole mass. Thus are abundantly sown in early life the fruitful seeds of disease and premature death.
This detail shows conclusively sufficient cause for that uneasy, listless state of feeling which is so prevalent in crowded school-rooms. It explains why children that are amiable at home are mischievous in school, and why those that are troublesome at home are frequently well-nigh uncontrollable in school. It discloses the true cause why so many teachers who are justly considered both pleasant and amiable in the ordinary domestic and social relations, are obnoxious in the school-room, being there habitually sour and fretful. The ever-active children are disqualified for study, and engage in mischief as their only alternative. On the other hand, the irritable teacher, who can hardly look with complaisance upon good behavior, is disposed to magnify the most trifling departure from the rules of propriety. The scholars are continually becoming more ungovernable, and the teacher more unfit to govern them. Week after week they become less and less attached to him, and he, in turn, becomes less interested in them.
This detail explains, also, why so many children are unable to attend school at all, or become unwell so soon after commencing to attend, when their health is sufficient to engage in other pursuits. The number of scholars answering this description is greater than most persons are aware of. In one district that I visited a few years ago in the State of New York, it was acknowledged by competent judges to be emphatically true in the case of not less than twenty-five scholars. Indeed, in that same district, the health of more than one hundred scholars was materially injured every year in consequence of occupying an old and partially-decayed house, of too narrow dimensions, with very limited facilities for ventilation. The evil, even after the cause was made known, was suffered to exist for years, although the district was worth more than three hundred thousand dollars. And what was true[13] of this school, is now, with a few variations, true in the case of scores, if not hundreds of schools with which I am acquainted, from far-famed New England to the Valley of the Mississippi.
This detail likewise explains why the business of teaching has acquired, and justly too, the reputation of being unhealthy. There is, however, no reason why the health of either teacher or pupils should sooner fail in a well-regulated school, taught in a house properly constructed, and suitably warmed and ventilated, than in almost any other business. If this statement were not true, an unanswerable argument might be framed against the very existence of schools; and it might clearly be shown that it is policy, nay, duty, to close at once and forever the four thousand school-houses of Michigan, and the hundred thousand of the nation, and leave the rising generation to perish for lack of knowledge. But our condition in this respect is not hopeless. The evil in question may be effectually remedied by enlarging the house, or, which is easier, cheaper, and more effectual, by frequent and thorough ventilation. It would be well, however, to unite the two methods.
In the winter of 1841–2, I visited a school in which the magnitude of the evil under consideration was clearly developed. Five of the citizens of the district attended me in my visit to the school. We arrived at the school-house about the middle of the afternoon. It was a close, new house, eighteen by twenty-four feet on the ground—two feet less in one of its dimensions than the house concerning which the preceding calculation is