F. B.
DR. MILLINGEN’S ACCOUNT
Mr. Finlay and myself called upon him in the evening, when we found him lying on a sofa, complaining of a slight fever and of pains in the articulations. He was at first more gay than usual; but on a sudden he became pensive, and, after remaining some few minutes in silence, he said that during the whole day he had reflected a great deal on a prediction which had been made to him, when a boy, by a famed fortune-teller in Scotland. His mother, who firmly believed in cheiromancy and astrology, had sent for this person, and desired him to inform her what would be the future destiny of her son. Having examined attentively the palm of his hand, the man looked at him for a while steadfastly, and then with a solemn voice exclaimed: ‘Beware of your thirty-seventh year, my young lord—beware!’
He had entered on his thirty-seventh year on the 22nd of January; and it was evident, from the emotion with which he related this circumstance, that the caution of the palmist had produced a deep impression on his mind, which in many respects was so superstitious that we thought proper to accuse him of superstition. ‘To say the truth,’ answered his lordship, ‘I find it equally difficult to know what to believe in this world and what not to believe. There are as many plausible reasons for inducing me to die a bigot as there have been to make me hitherto live a freethinker. You will, I know, ridicule my belief in lucky and unlucky days; but no consideration can now induce me to undertake anything either on a Friday or a Sunday. I am positive it would terminate unfortunately. Every one of my misfortunes—and God knows I have had my share—have happened to me on one of those days.’
Considering myself on this occasion, not a medical man, but a visitor, and being questioned neither by his physician nor himself, I did not even feel Lord Byron’s pulse. I was informed next morning that during the night he had taken diaphoretic infusions, and that he felt himself better. The next day Dr. Bruno administered a purgative, and kept up its effects by a solution of cream of tartar, which the Italians call ‘imperial lemonade.’ In the evening the fever augmented, and as on the 14th, although the pains in the articulations had diminished, the feverish symptoms were equally strong, Dr. Bruno strongly recommended him to be blooded; but as the patient entertained a deep-rooted prejudice against bleeding, his physician could obtain no influence whatever over him, and his lordship obstinately persevered in refusing to submit to the operation.
On the 15th, towards noon, Fletcher called upon me and informed me that his master desired to see me, in order to consult with Dr. Bruno on the state of his health. Dr. Bruno informed me that his patient laboured under a rheumatic fever—that, as at first the symptoms had been of a mild character, he had trusted chiefly to sudorifics; but during the last two days the fever had so much increased that he had repeatedly proposed bleeding, but that he could not overcome his lordship’s antipathy to that mode of treatment. Convinced, by an examination of the patient, that bleeding was absolutely necessary, I endeavoured, as mildly and as gently as possible, to persuade him; but, in spite of all my caution, his temper was so morbidly irritable that he refused in a manner excessively peevish. He observed that, of all his prejudices, the strongest was against phlebotomy. ‘Besides,’ said his lordship, ‘does not Dr. Reid observe in his Essays that less slaughter has been effected by the warrior’s lance than by the physician’s lancet? It is, in fact, a minute instrument of mighty mischief.’ On my observing that this remark related to the treatment of nervous disorders, not of inflammatory ones, he angrily replied: ‘Who is nervous, if I am not? Do not these words, besides, apply to my case? Drawing blood from a nervous patient is like loosening the chords of a musical instrument, the tones of which are already defective for want of sufficient tension. Before I became ill, you know yourself how weak and irritable I had become. Bleeding, by increasing this state, will inevitably kill me. Do with me whatever else you please, but bleed me you shall not. I have had several inflammatory fevers during my life, and at an age when I was much more robust and plethoric than I am now; yet I got through them without bleeding. This time also I will take my chance.’
After much reasoning and entreaty, however, I at length succeeded in obtaining a promise that, should his fever increase at night, he would allow Bruno to bleed him. Happy to inform the doctor of this partial victory, I left the room, and, with a view of lowering the impetus of the circulatory system, and determining to the skin, I recommended the administration of an ounce of a solution of half a grain of tartarized antimony and two drachms of nitre in twelve ounces of water.
Early the next morning I called on the patient, who told me that, having passed a better night than he had expected, he had not requested Dr. Bruno to bleed him. Chagrined at this, I laid aside all consideration for his feelings, and solemnly assured him how deeply I lamented to see him trifle with his life in this manner. I told him that his pertinacious refusal to be bled had caused a precious opportunity to be lost; that a few hours of hope yet remained; but that, unless he would submit immediately to be bled, neither Dr. Bruno nor myself could answer for the consequences. He might not care for life, it was true; but who could assure him, unless he changed his resolution, the disease might not operate such disorganization in his cerebral and nervous system as entirely to deprive him of his reason? I had now touched the sensible chord, for, partly annoyed by our unceasing importunities, and partly convinced, casting at us both the fiercest glance of vexation, he threw out his arm, and said in the most angry tone: ‘Come; you are, I see, a d——d set of butchers. Take away as much blood as you will, but have done with it.’
We seized the moment, and drew about twenty ounces. On coagulating, the blood presented a strong buffy coat. Yet the relief obtained did not correspond to the hopes we had anticipated, and during the night the fever became stronger than it had been hitherto. The restlessness and agitation increased, and the patient spoke several times in an incoherent manner. The next morning (17th) the bleeding was repeated; for, although the rheumatic symptoms had completely disappeared, the cerebral ones were hourly increasing, and this continuing all day, we opened the vein for the third time in the afternoon. Cold applications were from the beginning constantly kept on the head; blisters were also proposed. When on the point of applying them, Lord Byron asked me whether it would answer the same purpose to apply both on the same leg. Guessing the motive that led him to ask this question, I told him I would place them above the knees, on the inside of the thighs. ‘Do so,’ said he; ‘for as long as I live I will not allow anyone to see my lame foot.’
In spite of our endeavours, the danger hourly increased; the different signs of strong nervous affection succeeded each other with surprising rapidity; twitchings and involuntary motions of the tendons began to manifest themselves in the night; and, more frequently than before, the patient muttered to himself and talked incoherently.