Chapter III: Canto IV: v. 28

And Shakspeare makes Othello exclaim:--

“If I were now to die,
’Twere now to be most happy; for I fear
My soul hath her content so absolute,
That not another comfort like to this
Succeeds in unknown fate.”

I might bring forward many other illustrations of the same kind, but it would only be to digress. There is, in truth, in many minds a fearful presentiment that great happiness cannot be of long duration; but if the prosperous periods of life are those which seem to form the natural climax and terminating point of life, they are those in which we could least bear the loss of others. The sudden removal of one who is in the very midst of his usefulness, in whose success we had “garnered up our hearts,” creates a revulsion of feeling which poor humanity can ill support. The consolations of religion are the only consolations which deserve the name, and it is the idea alone that separation is temporary, that can stem the torrent of overpowering grief. It is the anticipation of a re-union hereafter which throws the only ray of light that can penetrate the gloom of the mourner’s mind. He is yet to have a meeting beyond the grave; and whilst this idea mitigates grief, it renders the prospect of death itself less terrible. It was in this way that Mrs. Garrick endeavoured to remove the terrors of death, after the loss of the great actor.

On the 20th of April, 1781, Boswell writes, “Mrs. Garrick had this day, for the first time since his death (her husband’s), a select party of his friends to dine with her. The company were Miss Hannah More, who lived with her, and whom she called her chaplain; Mrs. Boscawen, Mrs. Elizabeth Carter, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Dr. Burney, Dr. Johnson, and myself. We found ourselves very elegantly entertained at her house in the Adelphi, where I have passed many a pleasing hour with him ‘who gladdened life.’ She looked well, talked of her husband with complacency; and while she cast her eyes on his portrait which hung over the chimneypiece, said that ‘death was now the most agreeable object to her.’”

The uncertainty and brevity of life would furnish fit topics for medical as well as for moral reflection. How often must they present themselves to the physician’s mind!--Sometimes he meets death in early tender infancy;--sometimes in robust manhood;--sometimes in feeble old age;--sometimes in the sudden apoplexy;--sometimes in the wasting consumption.

As he looks upon the aged sufferer, he must often call to mind how transient are youth and beauty, and the boast of manly strength and of womanly elegance.

It is with something of this feeling that the following passage will be read which I extract from Andersen’s Story of My Life.

As a little boy, Andersen had formerly seen the great actress, the Donau-weibchen, at the theatre of Odense. He saw how much she was honoured, and the homage that was paid to her. “Many years afterwards,” says he, “when, as a student, I visited Odense, I saw in one of the chambers of the Hospital, where the poor widows lived, and where one bed stood by another, a female portrait, hanging over one bed in a gilt frame.

“It was Lessing’s Emelia Galotti, and represented her as pulling the rose to pieces; but the picture was a portrait. It appeared singular in contrast with the poverty by which it was surrounded.

“‘Whom does it represent?’ asked I.

“‘Oh,’ said one of the old women, ‘it is the face of the German lady who was once an actress.’ And then I saw a little delicate woman, whose face was covered with wrinkles, and in an old silk gown that once had been black. This was the once celebrated singer, who, as the Donau-weibchen, had been applauded by every one.”[14]

But if life is but brief and vain in the retrospect of age, how shall we speak of it with the uncertainties of the most promising career?

In the spring of 1781, all the talent and fashion of London had been invited to the town-house of Mr. Thrale in Grosvenor square, to partake of a sumptuous entertainment. On the dawn which followed that very night, the owner of the mansion had terminated his existence in an attack of apoplexy.--The same catastrophe, perhaps, now awaits many who are looking to the future with equal joy and with equal promise.

* * * * *

The _bodily changes_ which immediately precede, and, in some sense, may be said to constitute, death, deserve and repay consideration. It might seem, on a first attention, that the modes in which death takes place are so various, and the diseases to which the human frame is liable so numerous, that it would be impossible to reduce the subject to any simple and practical form of inquiry.

It will be found, however, on a more intimate acquaintance, that much advantage may be gained by classification and arrangement, and a sort of analysis made which requires no forced construction, and no metaphysical nicety.

Death may indeed be said to _begin_ at different parts of the body, according as they are severally the first to suffer those irreparable and grave changes which issue in the destruction of life. It will be found that the nature, symptoms, and peculiarities of the act of dying, are determined by the organ first mortally attacked; so that, by considering the subject in relation to these parts, we are assisted in arranging our ideas.

The alterations which directly occasion dissolution seem principally effective, either in the arrest of the _circulation_ or the _respiration_; and the manner in which they tell in producing these effects, will now, therefore, briefly, come under our consideration.

As the heart is the great mover of the circulation, we can easily conceive that whatever brings it to a stop must be fatal to life. Extensive losses of blood operate in this manner, and they furnish us with a good illustration of the manner in which death takes place. The sufferer becomes pale and faint, his lips white and trembling: after a while the breathing becomes distressed, and a rushing noise seems to fill the ears. The pulse is soft, feeble, and wavering; and the exhaustion and prostration are more and more alarming. Soon a curious restlessness arises, and he tosses himself from side to side. At length the pulse becomes uncertain, and the blood is feebly thrown to the brain. The surface assumes an icy coldness. The mind is yet untouched, and the sufferer knows himself to be dying. In vain the pulse is sought at the wrist--in vain efforts are made to re-excite warmth--the body is like a living corpse. Now a few convulsive gaspings arise, and the countenance sets in the stiff image of death. Such are the more striking phenomena which attend the fatal hæmorrhages.

The failure of the vital powers, from the withdrawal of blood, may be regarded as a sort of type of this mode of death, since the various symptoms which have been named, arise from the cessation of the healthy circulation.

A dread of the loss of blood may almost be considered as an instinctive feeling; at any rate its importance is early impressed on the mind, and is never forgotten. In childhood it is looked at with alarm; and the stoutest mind, cannot but view with horror those perilous gushes of blood which bring us into the very jaws of destruction.

The description which Byron gives us of Manfred’s death, may be considered as a highly poetical representation of the state we have portrayed.

“_Abbot._ Alas! how pale thou art--thy lips are white--
And thy breast heaves--and in thy gasping throat
The accents rattle--Give thy prayers to heaven--
Pray--albeit but in thought,--but die not thus.

_Manfred._ ’Tis over--my dull eyes can fix thee not;
But all things swim around me, and the earth
Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well--
Give me thy hand.”

Gradually exhausting complaints, such as interfere with the nutrition of the body, act much in the same manner as direct losses of blood, but obviously more slowly. Privations of various kinds and wasting complaints which impair the general strength, tell at last, in exhausting the heart’s power, and life terminates in the gradual failure of the circulation of the blood. In chronic ailments, the weary sufferer feels the extreme exhaustion which months and years of suffering have produced. He cannot lift himself in bed--he fears to raise his head, and can scarcely grasp the extended hand of friendship, or return the pressure of affection. The heart’s power is at last fatally depressed.

The following, which is quoted from Thackrah’s work on Digestion and Diet, is extracted from Hufeland’s Journal, and gives an interesting picture of the effects of extreme abstinence. “A German merchant, æt. 32, depressed by severe reverses of fortune and consequent slights of his relatives, formed the resolution of destroying himself by abstinence. With this view he repaired on the 15th of September, 1818, to an unfrequented wood, where he constructed a hut of boughs, and remained without food till the 3rd of October following. At this period he was found by the landlord of a neighbouring pothouse, still alive, but feeble, speechless, and insensible. Broth, with yolk of an egg, was given him. He swallowed it with difficulty, and died immediately. In the pocket of the unfortunate man was found a journal written in pencil, singular in its kind, and remarkable as a narrative of his feelings and sentiments.” It begins thus:--“The generous philanthropist who shall one day find me here after my death, is requested to inter me; and, in consideration of this service, to keep my clothes, purse, knife, and letter-case. I moreover observe that I am no suicide, but have died of hunger, because, through wicked men, I have lost the whole of my very considerable property, and am unwilling to become a burden to my friends.” The ensuing remark is dated Sept. 17th, the second day of abstinence. “I yet live; but how have I been soaked during the night, and how cold has it been! O God! when will my sufferings terminate! No human being has for three days been seen here--only some birds.” The next extract continues--“And again three days; and I have been so soaked during the night, that my clothes to-day are not yet dry. How hard is this, no one knows; and my last hour must soon arrive. Doubtless during the heavy rain a little water has got into my throat, but the thirst is not to be slaked with water; moreover, I have had none even of this for six days, since I am no longer able to move from the place. Yesterday, for the first time during the eternity which, alas! I have already passed here, a man approached me within the distance of eight or ten paces. He was certainly a shepherd; I saluted him in silence, and he returned it in the same manner. Probably he will find me after my death! Finally, I here protest before the all-wise God, that notwithstanding all the misfortunes which I have suffered from my youth, I yet die very unwillingly; although necessity has imperiously driven me to it. Nevertheless, I pray for it.--More can I not write for faintness and spasms; and this will be the last. Dated near Forest, by the side of the Goat public-house, Sept. 29th, 1818.--J. F. N.”

Stories are related of persons remaining months, and even years, without food; but they are unworthy of belief. It is not probable that life can be continued many days without food; and a week is perhaps an average period, if fluids also be withheld. In the hospitals for the insane, instances are sometimes met with of obstinate refusal of food, and in these cases of insanity it seems that the abstinence is better tolerated. In the brute creation fasting is more endurable. Müller says, referring to Tiedemann, that salamanders, tortoises, and gold fish may be kept for years without food; some birds from twenty-five to twenty-eight days; and dogs for twenty-five to thirty-six days.

Some time after I had entered into the medical profession, but whilst yet a pupil, I was invited by a fellow-student to dine with him. Whilst we were chatting together after dinner, we fell into conversation respecting a man who had recently died from an extensive burn. The gentleman’s father, who was an intelligent man, overheard our remarks, and joining in the conversation, asked me to explain to him how it happened that the burn occasioned death.

I attempted an explanation, but soon felt my incompetence to offer a satisfactory reply, and I was not a little surprised to find myself foiled in what I considered the simplest possible matter; for I had imagined, before I attempted the explanation, that the subject did not require a moment’s consideration. I remember that my fellow-student was equally unsuccessful. It seemed curious to me at the time, that I should hesitate in rendering a reason for a fact which so frequently presents itself to the medical inquirer.

The phenomena, however, which are the most familiar to us, are often the last to challenge our attention.

Now, independently of the mere loss of blood, other causes may depress the action of the heart.

The heart’s action may be arrested by what is called a _shock_. It is not easy to explain in what manner it acts, nor to define the meaning in a precise manner; but every one knows what is meant by it. A shock is a sudden impression on the nervous system. It plays an important part in many cases of violent death, and in those remarkable instances of disease in which life is extinguished with fearful rapidity.

There are many accidents in which there is little loss of blood; and yet the injury is great, and its consequences terrible. The sufferer turns pale--his countenance changes, and he feels that he is fatally wounded. Sickness and complete prostration follow, and the heart never rallies. In this manner, extensive burns and scalds, and dreadful blows, or internal lacerations produce death. In the same way the strong mineral acids, when taken internally, appear to destroy, by their depressing influence on the heart.

The internal lesion of the stomach causes a sympathetic failure of the circulation.

But the effects of _shock_ are much more numerous and interesting than might at first be imagined. At least, impressions on the nervous system, analogous in their nature, play an important part in the fatal termination of many diseases. Violent inflammations seem, when fatal, to act by their depressing influence.

We do not see, _à priori_, any actual reason why these inflammations should be productive of death; but we know it to be an ultimate fact that they operate in lowering the vital powers, and bringing the circulation to a stand.

Amongst the instances of fatal collapse there are none more striking than those which arise from perforating ulcers. Insidious disease may go on, in persons having every appearance of health, and be suddenly fatal by ulceration of the stomach or bowels, and the escape of their contents into the abdominal cavity. The apertures produced by the perforating ulcers are often singularly defined, and resemble the holes cut out by a punch or sharp circular instrument. The fatal issue of these lesions is generally so unexpected, so rapid, and so painful, as to suggest the idea of poisoning, or of _hernia_.

My late and valued friend, Dr. Howard, related to me a case, which, at the time, made great impression on his mind.

On the 10th of February, 1845, Dr. Howard was requested to visit a young woman who was taken suddenly ill at a factory in Manchester. When he got there, he found her lying on the floor with a pale, sunken countenance, a weak pulse, and a cold surface. She spoke in a feeble whisper, and was too much exhausted to reply to many questions, but by her gestures she indicated that she had pain in her stomach. It appeared that she had been taken ill about three o’clock. Dr. Howard recommended that she should be taken to the Infirmary, and she died there, in about twelve hours after her removal. It was thought at the Infirmary that she had taken poison, but on examination of the body after death, a round hole was found in the stomach, such as is produced by a perforating ulcer. The edges of the ulcer were smooth and even.

One or two such instances have fallen under my own notice, and must be met with in the course of the experience of every medical man.

Fatal fainting is not unfrequently the result of actual disease of the heart, although death from affections of the heart is not always of a sudden or uncomplicated kind. The walls of the heart are sometimes thin and dilated, and there is a soft struggling palpitation which has been aptly compared to the fluttering of a bird against the bars of its cage.

At other times the heart is overloaded with fatty deposits, so that its natural fleshy structure is proportionally defective. In very inordinately fat people the heart is often found in this state, and is unable to propel the blood with sufficient force to meet the exigencies of the system. Occasionally, bony deposits are found in the heart and great vessels, and the natural contractions of the heart are painful and irregular. From these, and other causes, which probably produce a spasm of the heart, arises the disease called _angina pectoris_.

The celebrated John Hunter died of this disease, and it is well known to be suddenly fatal. Sir Everard Home tells us that, “On the 16th of October, 1793, when in his usual state of health, he went to St. George’s Hospital, and meeting with some things which irritated his mind, and not being perfectly master of the circumstances, he withheld his sentiments; in which state of restraint he went into the next room, and turning round to Dr. Robinson, one of the physicians of the hospital, he gave a deep groan, and dropped down dead.”

The sudden death of the benevolent and highly accomplished Dr. Arnold, as represented by his biographer, may serve as a further illustration of the angina pectoris. It was between five and six o’clock on Sunday morning that he awoke with a sharp pain across his chest, which he mentioned to his wife on her asking whether he felt well, adding that he had felt it slightly on the preceding day, before and after bathing. He then again composed himself to sleep; but Mrs. Arnold watched him with extreme anxiety, and was soon led to infer that he was seriously ill. The pain seemed to increase and to pass down the left arm, which called to Mrs. Arnold’s remembrance what she had heard of this fatal disease. About a quarter to seven Dr. Bucknill (the son of their usual medical attendant) visited him. “He was then lying on his back--his countenance much as usual--his pulse, though regular, was very quick, and there was cold perspiration on the brow and cheeks.” He apologised in a cheerful manner for troubling Dr. Bucknill at so early an hour, and then proceeded to inquire as to the nature and danger of his illness. After the physician had informed him that his complaint was a spasm of the heart, and answered the questions which were proposed, he quitted the house to furnish himself with the necessary remedies. On his return, Dr. Arnold said, “If the pain is again as severe as it was before you left, I do not know how I can bear it.” He again questioned Dr. Bucknill as to the danger of his complaint, and in such a manner that it was impossible to avoid telling him the truth. He afterwards inquired as to the remedies to be adopted, and on being told, answered “Ah! very well.” The physician, who was dropping the laudanum into a glass, turned round and saw him looking quite calm, but with his eyes shut. In another minute he heard a rattle in his throat, and a convulsive struggle, flew to the bed, and called to one of the servants to fetch Mrs. Arnold. The family soon arrived; but the sobs and cries of his children were unable to affect him--“the eyes were fixed, the countenance was unmoved: there was a heaving of the chest, deep gasps escaped at prolonged intervals, and just as the usual medical attendant arrived, and as the old schoolhouse servant, in an agony of grief, rushed with the others into the room in the hope of seeing his master once more, he breathed his last.”[15] This occurred shortly before eight in the morning. His biographer continues, “What that Sunday was in Rugby, it is hard fully to represent,--the incredulity,--the bewilderment,--the agitating inquiries for every detail,--the blank, more awful than sorrow, that prevailed through the vacant services of that long and dreary day,--the feeling as if the very place had passed away with him who had so emphatically been in every sense its head,--the sympathy which hardly dared to contemplate, and which yet could not but fix the thoughts and looks of all on the desolate house, where the fatherless family were gathered round the chamber of death.”

In Dr. Arnold’s case, the heart was found soft and thin, but without any valvular disease. A great many more cases might be cited in illustration of this interesting disease, but I shall content myself with one which I take from Dr. Latham’s excellent “Clinical Lectures on Diseases of the Heart.”

“N. P. was about fifty-five years of age. He had filled a high judicial office in India, and when his stated period of service had expired, he returned home with unimpaired health. Ten years had wrought little change in his person, except that from having been thin and muscular, he was slightly tending to fat and corpulency.

“He had now been more than a twelvemonth in England, and had taken up his residence in Hampshire, and was in the enjoyment of his wonted health, when one day after a morning’s shooting, without any extraordinary fatigue or exertion, he felt at dinner an unusual pain in the region of his heart. The pain was not extreme, but enough to make him leave the table, and retire into his library. Warm applications were made to the chest, and the pain soon ceased altogether. He then begged that he might be left alone to repose until tea-time. In less than an hour his wife returned into the room, and found him lying upon the sofa, just in the position she had left him.--She believed him asleep, but found him dead. The examination of his body (continues Dr. Latham), as it was reported to me, disclosed nothing that could account for his death, but a thin fat heart; fat was deposited on it at the expense of its muscular substance.”[16]

Besides disease of the heart itself, we may have disease of the great blood-vessels,--what is called Aneurism. Sometimes these diseases of the blood-vessels are very obscure; often they originate on the great vessel, the _aorta_, which arises immediately from the heart. Dr. Farre described to Dr. Watson a case which inculcates the necessity of attending minutely to what a patient says. A man consulted Dr. Farre, having just been told by another physician that he was fanciful, and that there was nothing amiss with him.

Dr. Farre was very particular in his inquiries at every visit he paid, so much so, indeed, that the man became vexed and said pettishly, “I know, that if you split me down the middle, I am sound on my right side and diseased on my left.” This was unfortunately too true: he was found dead in bed a short time afterwards.[17] I remember a man who came regularly as an out-patient to the Manchester Infirmary, complaining of pain in the shoulder; I supposed at first that he had rheumatism, but one day I told him to strip off his coat, and then I found that he had an aneurism of the subclavian artery, of which he subsequently died. I need scarcely say that these cases of aneurism are fatal, much as disease of the heart itself. The blood-vessel at length gives way, and the patient dies from the escape of blood and the fatal fainting which ensues.

Some attention has been given by medical men to the state in which the blood is found to be distributed after death. The heart contains several cavities, through which the blood is progressively received and expelled. Where the arrest of the circulation has commenced, however, in the heart itself, it is obvious that the cavities will be pretty equally affected, and that we shall not find one side to be gorged with blood whilst the other is empty. The subject will again come before us when we treat of the next division of this subject, in which it will be seen that unequal distributions arise from another species of death.

The mode of death which has been described is not one of pain. It may have been preceded by considerable suffering, as in the case of burns and scalds. But the act of dying is one of relief; or if the sensations are uneasy and fearful, they cannot be called painful in the common sense of the term.

I now come to speak of another mode of death, which has been called, but not very correctly, _Asphyxia_. In the cases which I have previously described, the first great or palpable interference with the continuance of life, has been the failure of the heart--so that actual death may be said to have begun at the heart. I have further to consider the cases where death begins at the lungs. Important as it is that the blood should be circulated through the body, it is of equal importance that it should be in a state of purity. In order to maintain its purity, it is essential that it should be exposed to the air in the lungs.

The existence of air is so well known to be necessary for life, that the term _expire_, which signifies to breathe out, is also adopted to express the act of dying. The symptoms which attend asphyxia vary considerably from those previously described. They are, obviously, more or less protracted according as the cause operates with greater or less severity. When the breathing is largely obstructed, the complexion becomes dark, and the lips bluish--the veins turgid and prominent, and the face bloated and enlarged. After a time the brain is confused, and stupor creeps on, whilst the air is with difficulty sucked through the accumulated secretions of the air passages.

The blood becomes thus gradually more and more perverted, until at length its circulation through the lungs is rendered difficult or impossible. The heavy gurgling respiration gradually passes into a state of extreme effort;--now the breathing seems stopped, and now a deep inspiration again lights up the mechanism of the body, but life eventually fails, as the blood ceases to circulate. All causes which operate in preventing access of air to the lungs may occasion death. Thus drowning, strangling, and suffocation from gaseous exhalations, are fatal, by obstructing the purification of the blood.

In general, this mode of death is not so rapid as that which has just been described, but occasionally it is very brief. In drowning, it does not seem that life can be preserved more than three or four minutes, that is, when submersion is complete. The respiration may, no doubt, be somewhat longer suspended when fainting ensues, for then the circulation, being temporarily arrested, the necessity for air is less urgent. The accounts which are given of persons remaining alive for hours under water cannot be trusted to.

The access of air to the lungs may be immediately prevented by inflammation of the windpipe, as in the case of croup, or, still more strikingly, by spasmodic affections.

The complaint known to medical men by the name of Laryngismus stridulus, is, in this manner, suddenly fatal to infants.

Some diseases of the lungs are so gradual in their progress, that the quantity of blood in the body becomes diminished in proportion to their limited capacity for respiration. Hence the balance is so finely preserved to the last, that death takes place with great difficulty. I have sat for hours beside patients in the last stages of consumption, and watched the emaciated and dying frame alternately reviving and sinking until the patient himself became fearful that he should never die. It is erroneously imagined that death in consumption is always easy: fortunately it may be so in some cases; it is very much otherwise in most.

Mechanical obstructions are well known to occasion death by impeding the breathing. Pieces of meat or other bodies may get impacted in the windpipe, and cause death before they can be removed.

I remember an instance of this sort which occurred in the market-place in Manchester. A woman, whilst eating an oyster, fell into a fit of laughter, when she was suddenly observed to become livid in the face, and shortly afterwards died of suffocation. The oyster was found partly fixed in the upper part of the windpipe.

There is an interesting and instructive case of the same nature related in the Lancet. A man, who had just been married, got into a dispute with one of his own party, and was knocked down by a blow. Eventually he was able to rejoin his party; but it was observed that whilst engaged at his dinner he hastily got up and went out of the room. A friend followed him, but immediately returned to announce that the man was dead. On examining the body after death, a surgeon pronounced that he had died from apoplexy, and attributed the fit to the injuries he had received in the quarrel. The coroner, Mr. Wakley, asked the surgeon if he had examined the windpipe. The surgeon confessed that he had not done so; whereupon he was desired to complete the examination. He repaired presently to perform his task, and on his return stated that he found a piece of meat wedged firmly in the _glottis_. Thus death had, in reality, arisen from this source; and the congested state of the brain was the effect of impeded respiration, and not the first occasion of his death.

Whilst treating upon the subject of Asphyxia, I cannot refrain from introducing some particulars of the awful catastrophe which occurred at the Black Hole at Calcutta, as they will furnish an interesting exemplification of the effects of deprivation of air. In 1756, the viceroy of Bengal laid siege to the factory at Calcutta. Mr. Holwell and the garrison carried on the defence with great spirit and bravery, but were ultimately obliged to surrender. They consisted of about 145 men and one woman. The whole of this company, many of whom were dangerously wounded, were shut up the same night in a small prison, about eighteen feet square. The prison, which was strongly built round with walls, had only two small windows at one end, which were secured by strong bars. As the prisoners had only about eighteen square inches of space for each individual, the heat and oppression soon became insupportable.

Attempts were, at first, vainly made to force open the door. Mr. Holwell, who was near one of the windows, endeavoured to reason with the prisoners, and advised them not to exhaust their strength. This recommendation had the effect of producing some calm, but it was only temporary, for they could not long bear the frightful position, and many already were in the act of dying. Mr. Holwell then suggested that they should take off their clothes to afford more room. An effort was subsequently made to fan the air with their hats, but the exertion could not be borne. One of the company suggested that they should all kneel down, and rise up alternately. This was done several times, but many could not raise themselves when the signal was given. The situation was now frightful. The weak were trodden to death. One hour had only yet elapsed. About nine o’clock, renewed efforts were made to force the door; some became furiously delirious; others vainly sought to provoke the sentinels to fire upon them. Thirst became excessive. At last the guards gave Mr. Holwell and two of his friends some water in their hats, but it was soon spilled, and the two friends were suffocated in the general eagerness to obtain it. Mr. Holwell was, for a long while, respected as the leader of the unfortunate assembly, but in time the natural love of life prevailed over all other feelings. The crowd eagerly pressed to the window, and, seizing the iron bars, climbed on his shoulders. He begged for his life, and giving up his position near the window, got to the other end of the dungeon; but here the air was so corrupt, that his breathing was almost impossible. He again, therefore, tried to make his way to the window over the bodies of the dead, and there he resolved to wait patiently for death. He struggled through four rows of his companions, but one row still intervened between him and the window. His thirst was excessive, and he endeavoured to allay it by sucking the moisture from his shirt. As midnight approached, the despair became unbounded and terrible; they all called out aloud for air, and then the noise suddenly ceased, and the greater part laid down and died. A Dutchman got on one of Mr. Holwell’s shoulders, and a black soldier on the other: he remained thus till two in the morning, when a marine officer forced him from his place. Mr. Holwell retired to the end of the prison, where he was soon deprived of sense. About five in the morning, the viceroy inquired if Mr. Holwell was still living; and being informed that it might be possible to recover him, if the door was immediately opened, gave commands to that effect. Unfortunately, however, the door opened inwards; and, owing to the numbers of the dead, twenty minutes elapsed before it could be accomplished. Eventually Mr. Holwell was rescued alive from a heap of the dead. At a quarter past six, 23 persons were taken away alive from 146, who had been incarcerated the night previously.

When the air which is breathed, is not, by its chemical nature, calculated for the purposes of respiration, it produces effects very similar to a deficiency of air: thus, gases, which are not actually poisonous in themselves, cause fatal results, just as the exclusion of air altogether.

It is probable that the carbonic acid gas, which is commonly known as fixed air, _is_ injurious in itself[18]; but it is certain, also, that its fatal effects are greatly dependent on its preventing the access of the air. Many accidents have arisen from the use of charcoal fires and stoves. Mr. Coathupe, of Wraxall, was nearly killed in making some experiments with Joyce’s stove, which was absurdly imagined by the inventor to burn charcoal without contaminating the air. He closed every aperture in the room, kindled the stove, and waited for the results. In a few hours giddiness came on, with sickness and great prostration; afterwards agonising headache, throbbing of the arteries, and sense of suffocation. With difficulty he opened the window, and sought to remove the stove; but when his wife entered the room, seven hours after, he was unable to explain what had occurred, although conscious of what was passing.

I think the charcoal fire is a favourite means of death with the French. It is stated that, in 1834 and 1835, no fewer than 360 cases of poisoning with charcoal occurred in Paris. I have read of French people sitting down coolly to note their sensations whilst breathing the deadly atmosphere, until the pen has fallen from their hands.

There is often a love story mixed with these French deaths; and we cannot but regret that affection should be so curiously mingled with deplorable irregularities of mind.

The respiration may be prevented by mechanical pressure; but no doubt, where death is produced in this manner, it is often accompanied with injuries to the internal organs. The barbarities of former times furnish us with dreadful instances of death resulting from compression of the chest. In order to oblige a criminal to plead at the bar when he refused to do so, he was sometimes stretched on his back, whilst a large iron weight was placed on his chest, and additions gradually made until he consented to do what was required, or sank under the infliction. Even as late as the reign of George the Second, such practice has been adopted. The press yard in the Old Bailey was the site of some of these dreadful torments. From this mode of death Major Strangeways died in 1659. The story is of considerable interest. The major lived with a sister very happily in a farm, until the latter became acquainted with one Fussel, a lawyer. This gave great offence to Strangeways, who swore that he would kill him. The brother and sister, consequently, parted. Some time after, whilst Fussel was in London, he was shot whilst he sat in his lodgings. Suspicion fell on Strangeways, but difficulty was experienced in tracing the murder to him. At last the expedient suggested itself of examining all the gunsmiths in London, to discover, if possible, what guns had been lent or sold on the day of the murder. This plan only excited ridicule as an impracticable one; but, curiously enough, the matter was thus traced to Strangeways. Strangeways refusing to plead at the bar, was sentenced, by Lord Chief Justice Glynn, “‘to be put into a mean house stopped from any light, and that he be laid upon his back with his body bare, and his arms and legs stretched by cords in opposite directions; and that upon his body shall be laid as much iron and stone as he can bear, _and more_; and the first day he shall have three morsels of barley-bread; and the next shall he drink thrice of the water in the next channel to the prison door, but of no spring or fountain: and this shall be his punishment till he die.’ On the Monday following, at eleven in the forenoon, the sheriffs and other officers came to the press yard, whither the miserable prisoner was presently brought. He wore a mourning cloak, beneath which he appeared clothed in white from head to foot. By the sheriffs he was conducted to a dungeon, where, after prayers, his friends placed themselves at the corner of the press, whom he desired, when he gave the word, to lay on the weights! This they did at the signal ‘Lord Jesus receive my soul;’ but, finding the weight too light for sudden execution, many of those standing by added their burdens to disburthen him of his pain. He died in about eight or ten minutes.”[19]

The respiration is sometimes brought to a stop by causes which operate on the brain, and the peculiarities of this mode of death are so characteristic, as to deserve consideration under a separate head.

Death may be said, in this case, to begin at the head, and the respiration comes to a stand, after a period of stupor and insensibility. This is the state which is familiarly known as apoplexy. The patient lies snoring out his existence, unconscious of the weeping friends who sit around his bed.

The phenomena of apoplexy seem to be produced by causes which obstruct the circulation in the brain, or which injure the brain itself.[20] The giving way of blood-vessels is the common cause of apoplexy. The patient falls into a state of insensibility and complete helplessness. He breathes with a heavy snoring noise, and a blowing of the lips may often be remarked, which has been aptly compared to the smoking of a pipe. The blood-vessels of the neck and face are gorged, and the veins are especially prominent. The pupils of the eyes are dilated, and often unequally so. Consciousness is abolished. This state continues indefinitely, but at length the breathing becomes laborious--the mucus is heard rattling in the throat--the temperature falls--spasmodic twitchings play on the countenance, and sometimes horrible distortions flit over the face: death after a time closes the scene.

The action of poisons called _narcotics_ is well known to be fatal in this way: opium produces this species of death, when given in overdoses.

I have stated that the pupils of the eye are generally dilated in death by coma; but when the coma is produced by narcotics, this effect is not so common. Dr. Elliotson relates the case of a German gentleman, who was a friend of his, and who had remarkably large pupils. This gentleman took it into his head to destroy himself, and for this purpose took a large quantity of opium. After taking the poison, he mentioned what he had done, and, amongst other persons, Dr. Elliotson was sent for. Insensibility did not come on for a considerable time; and the gentleman resisted powerfully all attempts to relieve him, asserting, that if he chose to die, it was only barbarity to attempt to prevent him. At length his countenance became livid, the pulse slow, the breathing stertorous, and the pupil contracted to the size of a pin’s point. The jugular vein was opened, and cold water dashed on his face. In spite of all efforts he died; and Dr. Elliotson remarks, “I have never seen a case recover in which the pupil was so contracted.”[21]

Extreme cold produces death, perhaps chiefly in the way of apoplexy, by retarding the circulation, and preventing its equable diffusion on the surface of the body. That it acts, at least in a great measure, in this way would seem likely from the torpor which it occasions, and which is so commonly remarked. The effects of intense cold are well exemplified in the interesting narrative of Captain Cook, where he relates what befell Dr. Solander and Sir J. Banks on the hills of Terra del Fuego.

Sir J. Banks and Dr. Solander had been botanising, and had travelled a considerable way through swamps, when the weather, which had been fine, changed and became intensely cold and gloomy, and the wind was accompanied with snow. Finding it impossible to return to the ship before morning, they resolved to penetrate into a wood, and build a wigwam, and kindle a fire. For this purpose they passed through another swamp. Dr. Solander, aware of the effects of cold on the human body, from experience he had already had in Norway and Sweden, cautioned his friends against the torpor which it occasions, and conjured the company, under any circumstances, not to give way to it. “Whoever sits down,” said he, “will sleep; and whoever sleeps, will wake no more.” Thus admonished, they continued their journey; and they had not proceeded far, before the cold was so great as to produce the effects he had named. Dr. Solander himself was the first to experience the torpor, and entreated his companions to let him lie down. Sir J. Banks in vain remonstrated with him; and he lay down on the ground, although it was covered with snow. A black servant was affected similarly, and, in spite of remonstrance, also lay down. In a few minutes they fell into a profound sleep. Fortunately, some of the party who had been sent in advance, soon brought intelligence that a fire had been lighted about a quarter of a mile on the way. Sir J. Banks then endeavoured to awake Dr. Solander, and happily succeeded, though he had already almost lost the use of his limbs. The poor black died, as well as another black servant who had been left with him.

In the interesting account which Barry O’Meara gives, of the residence of Napoleon at St. Helena[22], he mentions that, on one occasion, Buonaparte asked him what he thought was the easiest mode of dying; and himself observed, that death by cold was the easiest of all others, because, “si muore dormiendo,” one dies sleeping. In describing the Russian campaign, Napoleon further remarked, “Parties when sent out on duty in advance, abandoned their posts, and went to seek the means of warming themselves in the houses. They separated in all directions, became helpless, and fell an easy prey to the enemy; others lay down,--fell asleep--a little blood came from their nostrils, and, sleeping, they died.”[23]

When death is produced by hanging or strangling, it may be supposed that it is brought about entirely by the exclusion of air from the lungs: in many cases, however, this mode of death is complicated by the apoplexy which arises from the pressure exercised on the blood-vessels of the neck. From these combined causes insensibility arises in a few seconds, and death follows in a few minutes afterwards.

Persons who have recovered from suspension do not commonly remember what has passed, but it may be possible to recollect some of the sensations. The celebrated poet Cowper, whose fine talents were unhappily touched with madness and melancholy, relates his own unhappy experience. It may not be uninteresting in this place to glance at the particulars which he has left us.

The death of the reader of the Journals of the House of Lords had opened a situation which Cowper was desirous to occupy, but for which, he feared that he had not sufficiently prepared himself. When the time drew near in which he was to present himself before the House of Lords, to be examined as to his competency, he became nervous and excited, and his madness came over him like a cloud. In November, 1763, he went to an apothecary’s shop, and bought some laudanum with a view to put an end to his existence. This he carried about with him, and often was on the point of taking it, but his resolution as often gave way, or he was prevented by the fear of interruption. Once he thought of taking it whilst he was travelling in a coach, and once he shut himself up in his room in the Temple, and placed the laudanum by his bedside in a basin. He then got on the bed, and stretched out his hand to put the basin to his lips; but just then the key turned in the door, and his laundress’s husband entered. He started up, hid the basin, and affected an air of composure. On the day previous to that on which he was to go before the House, he resolved once more to effect his purpose; he bolted his door, and with a piece of scarlet binding attempted to hang himself. First he fixed it to some ornamental work at the corner of the bed, drawing up his feet that they might not touch the ground. The carved work gave way and the binding with it. Then he fixed it to the tester of his bed, but the frame broke and again let him down. The third time he fastened it to the angle of the door, using a chair to reach it, which he afterwards pushed away with his feet. Whilst he hung he thought he heard a voice say three times, “’Tis over.” When he came to himself he heard his own groans, and experienced a feeling like that of a flash of lightning passing over his whole body. In a few seconds more he found himself on his face on the floor. He immediately jumped up and got into bed: he had a red mark round his neck, and a broad crimson spot showed the stagnation of the blood under one eye. Soon after he had got into bed he heard a noise in the dining room where the laundress was lighting a fire. She must have passed the door which was open whilst he was hanging, but did not perceive him. Presently, however, she came, having heard his fall, and supposing that he was in a fit. “I sent her,” says Cowper, describing the scene, “to a friend, to whom I related the whole affair, and despatched him to my kinsman at his coffee house. As soon as the latter arrived, I pointed to the broken garter which lay in the middle of the room; I apprised him also of the attempts I had been making. His words were, ‘My dear Mr. Cowper, you terrify me! To be sure you cannot hold the office at this rate--where is the deputation?’ I gave him the key of the drawer where it was deposited; and, his business requiring his immediate attendance, he took it away with him: and thus ended all my connection with the Parliament office.”[24]

When death is produced by a failure of the respiratory organs, whether commencing or not with apoplectic coma, the blood is found chiefly accumulated in the right side of the heart, the difficult transmission of the blood through the lungs preventing its due arrival at the left side. This, therefore, is a distinguishing character of the appearances presented after death by Asphyxia. The two great modes of death which have been noticed, are, however, in themselves sufficiently apparent, and cannot well escape the attention of any persons of observation. In the very work from which I have recently quoted there is an interesting illustration of this. I will give it in O’Meara’s own words.--Whilst conversing with Napoleon he had fallen into a fainting fit, and dropped on the floor:--

“When I recovered my senses,” says he, “and opened my eyes, the first object which presented itself to my view I shall never forget; it was the countenance of Napoleon bending over my face, and regarding me with an expression of great concern and anxiety. With one hand he was opening my shirt collar, and with the other holding a bottle _de vinaigre de quatre voleurs_ to my nostrils. He had taken off my cravat, and dashed the contents of a bottle of eau de Cologne over my face. ‘When I saw you fall,’ said he, ‘I at first thought that your foot had slipped; but seeing you remain without motion, I apprehended that it was a fit of apoplexy; observing, however, that your face was the colour of death, your lips white and without motion, and no evident respiration or bloated countenance, I concluded directly that it was a fit of syncope, or that your soul had departed.’”

It is obvious, however, that death may take place in more complicated ways than those which have engaged our attention. The same causes which enfeeble the action of the heart, not unfrequently destroy also the healthy changes of the blood in the lungs. Thus the patient is often equally in danger of death from syncope and asphyxia, and he sinks partly from the one, and partly from the other. Apoplexy is sometimes so suddenly fatal, that the sufferer seems to die chiefly from the shock which he has received; and many violent causes of death, which obstruct the respiration, such as hanging or strangling, are also prejudicial in impeding the circulation in the neck, and occasioning apoplectic congestion. When death is produced by starvation, it is attended with inflammation of the stomach and bowels, and a degree of febrile action, which more or less complicate the process. There can be little doubt, however, from the emaciation and great debility which ensue, that life is chiefly destroyed in the manner already considered as a failure of the action of the heart.

In addition to the influence of cold in producing coma, it also, no doubt, tends to depress the heart’s action, and destroy the nervous energy. At the same time, the very prominent manner in which the brain is affected by reduction of temperature, renders it probable that the condition of coma is a first great step in the arrest of the vital actions.

The modes of death, then, which we have considered, have close alliances with each other, but, for the sake of simplicity, they have been spoken of in their more elementary forms. Nor is the consideration of them in a separate manner devoid of practical advantages; for it is of the greatest importance, in many diseases, especially in fevers, to bear in mind the tendencies which present themselves to one or other mode of death; and frequently the safety of the patient is attributable to the perseverance with which such tendencies are obviated.

Sometimes coma has to be relieved--sometimes difficult respiration has to be alleviated--sometimes the sinking strength requires the timely and diligent administration of nutriment. The medical man has thus, not seldom, to become the nurse of his patient, and often the machinery of life is alone kept in motion by the opportune aid which he affords. But how often has the more devoted attention of woman called back to life the unconscious child! how often relieved the agonies of man when the finger of death was pressing heavily on his eyelids! The chamber of sickness is thus hallowed by affection, and the torch of life rekindled by the light of love.

We may state then, broadly, that any great and perilous arrest in the circle of actions which constitutes life, is induced principally in the way of syncope or asphyxia, though it is unquestionable that death may arise in a manner which cannot be well classed under either of those heads.

In some of the putrid fevers, for example, the depravation of the blood seems so general, that death (as evidenced by the decomposition of the solids and fluids of the body) appears actually in progress before any complete failure of the respiration or circulation.

The introduction of some poisons, also, is peculiarly inimical to the _vitality_ of the blood.

Thus the death of King John is beautifully described by Shakspeare, as commencing even in the blood itself--

“It is too late; _the life of all his blood_
Is touch’d corruptibly; and his pure brain,
Which some suppose the soul’s frail dwelling-house,
Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,
Foretell the ending of mortality.”