Deadly Doses: Regency Poisons

Ah, the Regency era — a time of empire waistlines, country balls, and, apparently, a rather alarming familiarity with poisons. By 1828, the fascination with substances that could render you anywhere from gently sleepy to dramatically deceased was so strong that entire manuals were published detailing them. Naturally. Because when you’re not gossiping over syllabub, why not read about narcotics?

According to one such delightful volume, Class III poisons — dubbed “Sedative or Narcotic Poisons” — were all the rage (or rather, the root of rage, stupor, and in some cases, fatal convulsions). These little biochemical disasters could be eaten, drunk, or rubbed on the body, with results ranging from “ooh, I feel faint” to “oh dear, he’s quite expired.”

Let’s take a genteel promenade through the poisons of the vegetable kingdom (no, not kale), and their lone mineral cousin, all of which might make you drop your fan and your pulse.

Camphor

Good for: Clearing up chest congestion.

Bad for: Accidentally thrilling your nervous system into oblivion.

Take too much and you’ll be experiencing what the Regency era set called “violent excitement of the brain,” which sounds rather fun until the convulsions start. The remedy? Laudanum and wine. Because clearly, nothing says “let’s calm things down” like more opiates and a cheeky glass of claret.

Hemlock

Ah yes, Socrates' poison of choice. If your client shows signs of “high delirium,” enormous pupils, and death knocking at the drawing-room door, get the stomach pump (if you happen to have one lying about). Otherwise, induce vomiting and administer some delightfully acidulous fluids. Lemonade, perhaps?

Henbane

Same symptoms as hemlock, same treatment. Different plant. Clearly, variety was not the spice of life in Regency poisoning — just a different label on the apothecary jar.

Laurel water

Smells like bitter almonds. Kills like a charming but ruthless social climber. Unlike opium, laurel water is a straight sedative — it won’t bother with theatrics like convulsions. The cure? Brandy laced with ammonia. Yes, that’s right. Regency medicine: simultaneously terrifying and effective.

Opium

The poison most favoured by those who wanted to exit the dance floor permanently. Look out for drowsiness, laboured breathing, and a snore that sounds like doom. Treatment includes stomach pumps, blue vitriol, finger-in-throat (very fashionable), and cold baths. And lots of coffee. In fact, just keep the poor soul walking and talking. No napping allowed!

Prussic Acid (aka Hydrogen Cyanide)

Takes you out quicker than a scandal. If taken in a large dose, you won’t even have time to regret it. If smaller, treat it like laurel water. But let’s be honest — if someone’s using this, they probably didn’t want help.

Stramonium (Thorn Apple)

A hallucinogenic with a flair for the dramatic — expect delirium and unconsciousness. Treatment is identical to opium, so stock up on those feathers and vitriol.

Strong Scented Lettuce

(I know - this one got me too.)

Apparently, not a salad ingredient. More like a way to involuntarily meet your ancestors. Again, see: opium.

Tobacco

More than just a post-dinner vice. Swallow too much and you’ll vomit like a first-year debutante at her first ball. Follow up with brandy and camphor — assuming you survive long enough to enjoy it.

Carbonic Acid Gas

Silent but deadly. Often found lurking in cellars or produced by burning charcoal in closed rooms. Tip: always bring a lit candle. If it goes out, you should get out. If someone passes out, pump their lungs like bellows and rub their chest — vigorously, and hopefully with consent.

So there you have it — a delightful Regency buffet of things not to ingest, inhale, or rub onto your skin unless you're hoping to become a tragic subplot in a Bronte spin-off. Whether you’re playing physician, poisoner, or simply paranoid dinner guest, remember: always have wine, vitriol, and strong coffee on hand. It’s what the real Regency survival kits were made of.