Some men there are who cannot bear the thought of the Uncertainty of Life; since, were they to entertain it, their worldly views would be cut short, and the prospect of fruition, or living to enjoy their gains, be considered so insecure, as to lessen, if not destroy, the inducement to extraordinary exertion. One of fortune’s favourites, on being reminded of the uncertainty of life, replied, in a confident tone, that had he suffered such a thought to possess him, he should never have got on in the world—the doubt being to him an unwelcome intruder. Every record of human character—every volume of reminiscences that we can take up—almost every day’s newspaper,—abounds with evidence of the uncertain tenure of our existence.
In Lord Cockburn’s Memorials, we read of these three remarkable deaths. At the close of 1809, Dr. Adam, of the High School, Edinburgh, died, after a few days’ illness. His ruling passion was for teaching. He was in his bedchamber: finding that he could not see, he uttered a few words, which have been variously given, but all the accounts of which mean—“It is getting dark, boys; we must put off the rest till to-morrow.” It was the darkness of death. On May 20, 1811, President Blair had been in court that day, apparently in good health, and had gone to take his usual walk from his house in George-square round by Bruntfield Links and the Grange, when he was struck with sudden illness, staggered home, and died. The day before his funeral, another unlooked-for occurrence deepened the solemnity. The first Lord Melville had retired to rest in his usual health, but was found dead in bed next morning. These two early, attached, and illustrious friends were thus lying suddenly dead, with but a wall between them; their houses, on the northeast side of George-square, Edinburgh, being next each other.
It has always been said, and never, so far as the writer knows, contradicted, and he is inclined to believe it, that a letter written by Lord Melville was found on his table or in a writing-case, giving a feeling account of his emotions at President Blair’s funeral. It was a fancy-piece, addressed to a member of the Government, with a view to obtain some public provision for Blair’s family; the writer had not reckoned on the possibility of his own demise before his friend’s funeral took place.
Dr. Granville, in his work on Sudden Death, has related a number of instances of the uncertainty of life, which came to his knowledge between the years 1849 and 1854, from which we select the following:
Mr. Horace Twiss, whose stout frame and laborious habits seemed to promise long life, while sitting in the board-room of one of the Companies of which he was a Director, and in the act of addressing the members, ceased to live, early in May, 1849.
Not long after, at Florence, Harriett Lady Pellew suddenly expired in her carriage, on the drive at the Cascine; and at Paris, the Countess of Blessington, returning home from dinner at the Duchess de Grammont’s, was seized with apoplexy, and died next morning, June 4.
In the same year, on September 9, the Grand Duke Michael, brother of Nicholas, Emperor of Russia, a prince of gigantic frame, while reviewing his troops at Warsaw, fell from his horse, and expired a few hours after.
At Rome, Richard Wyatt, the sculptor, was suddenly carried off by apoplexy, May 27, 1851; and on June 7, at Fontainebleau, Reynolds, the author of Miserrimus, died suddenly.
“I must rise instantly, or I shall be suffocated,” said the wife of a banker, on July 8, at Trent Park: she rose, rushed to a window, which she threw open to inhale fresh air: it was the last breath she took in, for she fell a corpse!
In the same year, Audin, the well-known publisher, died suddenly in his carriage, while travelling from Marseilles to Avignon; and Herr Carl Sander, the celebrated German surgeon, expired while seated at his desk, writing a treatise on anatomy.