A young Spaniard of noble family, Don Diego Osorio, being in love with a lady of the court, prevailed on her to grant him an interview by night in the royal gardens. The barking of a little dog betrayed them. The gallant was seized by the guard and conveyed to prison. It was a capital crime to be found in that place without special permission, and therefore he was condemned to die. The reading of the sentence so unmanned him that the next morning he stood in presence of his jailer with a furrowed visage and grey hair. The fact being reported to King Ferdinand as a prodigy, he was moved to compassion, and pardoned the culprit, saying, he had been sufficiently punished in exchanging the bloom of youth for the hoary aspect of age. The same happened to the father of Martin Delrio, who, lying sick in bed, heard the physicians say he would certainly die. He recovered, but the fright gave him a grey head in a few hours, and this instance of the terror he had suffered never afterward left him.
Robert Boyle, in his Philosophical Examples, relates the following incident of the same class: "Being about four or six years since," he says, "in the county of Cork, there was an Irish captain, a man of middle age and stature, who came with some of his followers to surrender himself to the Lord Broghill, who then commanded the English forces in those parts, upon a public offer of pardon to the Irish that would lay down their arms. He was casually met with in a suspicious place by a party of the English, and intercepted, the Lord Broghill being then absent. He was so apprehensive of being put to death before the return of the commander-in-chief, that his anxiety of mind quickly altered the color of his hair in a peculiar manner. It was not uniformly changed, but here and there certain peculiar tufts and locks, whose bases might be about an inch in diameter were suddenly turned white alone; the rest of his hair, whereof the Irish used to wear good store, retained its natural reddish color."
A sudden shock operates on the memory as well as on the hair. In Pliny's Natural History we read of one who, being struck violently and unexpectedly by a stone, forgot his letters, and could never write again; another, he says, through a fall from the roof of a very high house, lost his remembrance of his own mother, his nearest kinsfolks, friends, and neighbors; and a third, in a fit of sickness, ceased to recognize his own servants. Messala Corvinus, the great orator, being startled suddenly, forgot his own name, and was unable to remember it for a considerable time. The same thing happened to Sidney Smith, not from fear, but from absence of mind. He called on a friend, who was not at home, and he happened to have no card to leave. "What name, sir?" said the servant. "That's exactly what I can't tell you," was the reply.
Augustus Caesar was not a valiant man, in the popular acceptation of the word. He shrank in his tent from the onset at Philippi, skulked in the hold of the admiral's galley during the sea-fight with Sextus Pompey in the Straits of Messina, and was a safe spectator on shore at Actium. Antony, and even his own friend and lieutenant, Agrippa, taunted him with his want of courage. He was so terrified at thunder and lightning that he always carried with him the skin of a sea-calf as an antidote. If he suspected the approach of a tempest, he ran to some underground vault until the symptoms passed over. Yet Suetonius says he once, under necessity, showed a bold front to a danger he could not avoid. He was walking abroad with Diomedes, his steward, when a wild boar, which had broken loose, rushed directly toward them. [{165}] Thus steward in his terror, ran behind the emperor and interposed him as a shield betwixt the assailant and himself. Augustus stood his ground, because flight was barred, and the boar turned tail. But knowing that fear, not malice, had prompted the conduct of his servant, he had the magnanimity to confine his resentment to a perpetual just. Caligula, who affected to contemn the gods, was equally terrified with Augustus at the least indication of thunder and lightning. He covered his head, and if the explosions chanced to be loud and near, leaped from his couch and hid himself under it.
History mentions several sovereigns who loved war, but had no taste for personal participation in its perils. Charles the Fifth, and his son, Philip the second, are amongst the number, The leading characteristic of the latter was cruelty, a disposition generally associated with cowardice. Diocletian, after he became emperor, fought more by his lieutenants than in person. Lactantius said of him that he was timid and spiritless in all situations of danger. Erat in omni tumultu meticulosus et animi dejectus. [Footnote 35]
[Footnote 35: Lactant. De Mortibus Persecutorum, c. ix.]
A commander should be self-collected in a battle, calm under a shower of darts or the whistling of artillery; but to prove his courage, he is not called upon to charge windmills with the chivalric madness of Don Quixote, or to slay eight hundred enemies with his own hand, as recorded of Aurelian and Richard Coeur de Lion. Charles of Sweden and Attila loved fighting for fighting's sake; for the certaminis gaudia, as Cassiodorus writes; "the rapture of the strife," as Lord Byron translates the passage. Yet a brave general is not obliged to be a vulture snuffing blood like the truculent king of the Huns. He can maintain his reputation for personal courage without jumping alone into the midst of an army of foes, as Alexander did from the walls of Oxydrace; or resisting a host of many thousands with three hundred men, as Charles XII. did at Bender; or of placing his foot first on the scaling ladder in emulation of the extreme daring of the Constable Bourbon, under extreme circumstances, at the storming of Rome. Charles the First lacked moral courage, but he was no craven physically. His bravery in the field, and calm dignity on the scaffold, went far in atonement of his political weaknesses and shortcomings.
The mind naturally revolts from sudden or violent death. Yet it has its recommendations. It is never painful. The important consideration is lest it should be unprepared for. We mourn the loss of a friend or relative who is killed in battle more than we do that of one who dies in the course of nature, or of an incidental fever. We lament a soldier's death because it seems untimely. A sufferer who languishes of disease, ends his life with more pain but with less credit. He leaves no example to be quoted, no honor to be cherished as an heirloom by his descendants. We affect to be greatly shocked at the misfortunes or death of a friend or acquaintance, but there is something pharisaical in this exuberance of sympathy, only we are unwilling to confess the truth openly.
Foote, who was a scoffer, and in all respects an irreligious man, said, when very ill, that he was not afraid to die. David Hume, an esprit fort of a more pretentious character, declared that it gave him no more uneasiness to think he should not be after this life, than that he had not been before he began to exist. An ingenious sophistry, like his essay on miracles. We do not believe that any one ever really persuaded himself that he was not a responsible being, and not answerable for his deeds done in the flesh. Sir Henry Halford, in his essays, expresses his surprise that of the great number of patients he had attended, so few appeared reluctant to die. "We may suppose," he adds, "that this willingness to submit to the common and irresistible doom, arises from an [{166}] impatience of suffering, or from that passive indifference which is sometimes the result of debility and extreme bodily pain."
Themistocles was quite as unwilling to die, although he assigned a better reason for his love of life. Finding his mental and physical powers beginning to decay, in such a manner as to indicate his approaching end, he grieved that he must now depart, when, as he said, he was only beginning to grow wise. As an instance of superstitious terror, Plutarch tells us that Amestis, the wife of the great Xerxes, buried twelve persons alive, offering them as a sacrifice to Pluto for the prolongation of her own days. Mecaenas, the great patron of learning, and favorite of Augustus, had such a horror of death, that he had often in his mouth, "all things are to be endured so long as life is continued." The Emperor Domitian, from innate timidity, caused the walls of the galleries wherein he took daily recreation to be garnished with the stone called phangites, the brightness of which reflected all that was passing behind him. Theophrastus, the philosopher, who lived to be one hundred and seven years of age, was so attached to life that he complained of the partiality of nature in granting longevity to the crow and the stag beyond that accorded to man. Plutarch, in his life of Pericles, names a skilful engineer called Artemon, who was withal so timorous that he was frightened at his own shadow, and seldom stirred out of his house for fear some accident should betide him. Two of his servants always held a brazen target over his head lest anything might fall upon it; and if necessity compelled him to go abroad, he never walked, but was carried in a litter which hung within an inch or two of the ground.