Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, has long been a hub of innovation, credited with creating iconic contributions such as the Conestoga Wagon, Pennsylvania Long Rifle, and the Drumore sickle. However, one of its most unique claims to fame is that it was home to America’s first bathtub.
This pioneering piece of personal hygiene history was installed in 1839 by Jacob Demuth, grandfather of H.C. Demuth, a prominent local cigar manufacturer, at 116 East King Street. While today it may seem unremarkable to have a bathtub, in the early 19th Century, this was a revolutionary addition.
According to a Lancaster New Era article, the historic tub still existed in 1977, tucked away in the basement of the Demuth warehouse. Constructed of heavy wood in the style of a barrel, it closely resembles modern bathtubs in shape and function. The sides of this antique tub softened and worn smooth by age and years of use, bear the marks of countless baths taken with water, soap, and lotions. Iron bands encircle the wooden staves (the vertical planks making up the tub’s sides), though these bands have weakened over time due to chemical reactions with moisture and age.
It’s likely the bathtub was crafted by a cooper—a barrel maker—employed by Jacob Demuth.
The Demuth bathtub’s 1839 installation marked a significant milestone in Lancaster’s adoption of modern amenities. It coincided with the establishment of the city’s first municipal water supply, which drew water from the Conestoga River. The water was stored in a new reservoir near the county almshouse and then pumped into the city for distribution.
In those days, the bathtub was filled via a pipe that extended over its top, an innovative feature for the time. However, the luxury of hot water on demand was still decades away. Instead, water from the city main was heated the old-fashioned way: with a tea kettle. Once heated, it was poured into the tub for a warm bath. The tub also featured a drainage outlet at the lower end, a design remarkably similar to modern plumbing.
By the end of 1839, the Lancaster City Water Works reported that nine bathtubs had been installed throughout the city. The privilege of using city water for a bathtub came at a cost of $3 ($102 in 2024) annually.
Its wooden staves held water successfully for decades, a testament to its durability. In 1870, when it began to leak, a zinc lining was added to ensure it remained watertight. This adjustment extended the tub’s life another 20 years, allowing it to remain in continuous use until 1890, when it was finally retired.
The Demuth bathtub marked the beginning of a quiet yet profound social revolution, one that arguably had “a greater impact on humanity than even the French Revolution,” according to one 1929 Lancaster Sunday News article. By introducing a practical and accessible means of bathing, Jacob Demuth set in motion a cultural shift that would influence the personal habits of hundreds of millions of people.
The advent of the bathtub fundamentally transformed hygiene practices, elevating cleanliness to a priority in Western civilization. It is no exaggeration to say that society owes a considerable debt to this Lancaster pioneer, whose innovation paved the way for modern health and sanitation standards.
Far more than just a household fixture, the Demuth bathtub represents a turning point in human history, revolutionizing the way people live and interact with their environments. Its legacy lives on in every modern bathroom where hygiene and comfort intersect.
Whether Lancaster ever enacted laws governing bathing remains unclear. Local records only mention the $3 annual fee for water usage per tub. In contrast, other cities weren’t shy about regulating baths. Philadelphia, for example, prohibited taking more than one bath per week, while Boston went so far as to impose fines for the same “offense.”
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1864 Map of the City of Lancaster, PennsylvaniaPrice range: $21.99 through $25.99
It’s easy to imagine that Lancaster, like its contemporaries, may have viewed bathing with a mix of suspicion and scandal. The mere thought of someone daring to expose themselves to pure water might have provoked a moral outcry among the city’s more conservative citizens. One can almost hear the indignant whispers of townsfolk, culminating in the hasty passage of an unwritten—or perhaps conveniently forgotten—law against excessive bathing. Those who sought to wash more than their fair share might have been forced to do so in secret, away from prying eyes and nosy authorities. A burgeoning trade in “bootleg baths” seems an inevitable result of such restrictions.
Elsewhere, exceptions to these anti-bathing rules existed. Physicians could prescribe baths for health purposes, leading to speculation about whether unscrupulous doctors capitalized on the demand for “bathtub prescriptions.” Boston’s faded records from 80 years ago leave such questions tantalizingly unanswered. Similarly, had Lancaster preserved its early laws and court records, they might have revealed amusing or absurd anecdotes about bathing-related prosecutions.
One can almost picture a courtroom exchange:
Judge: “Prisoner, you are charged with taking a bath. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Defendant: “Your honor, I needed it.”
Judge: “That’s no excuse. Thirty days in jail. Next case!”
While no evidence confirms such trials ever took place in Lancaster, the parallels to other cities suggest that similar conversations might have echoed through the old courthouse in Centre Square. For the “criminal” whose only transgression was bathing, the outcome likely proved both humiliating and punitive.
Despite its early challenges, bathing eventually became a widely accepted—if not celebrated—practice. Nearly a century after the Demuth tub was installed, the progress of indoor plumbing remained slow. A New Deal report from 1936 revealed that one in three American homes still lacked plumbing.
Today, Lancasterians—and people everywhere—enjoy their baths without fear of scandal, fines, or inquisitive police, proving that some revolutions, however small, truly do make life better.
Curious about the Demuth tub’s fate, I recently reached out to see if it still exists. Unfortunately, the iconic wooden, zinc-lined tub is no longer in the basement of the Demuth Snuff Mill. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it survives, still more likely misplaced than displaced. So, I’ll end with a question. Has anyone seen a 185-year-old wooden, zinc-lined tub? If so, you might have a piece of Lancaster’s hygienic history.
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