from panics.  The decision at Pharsalia was in some measure owing to a panic occurring among the Pompeian cavalry; and at Thapsus, the panic terror that came upon the Pompeians gave to Caesar so easy a victory that it cost him only fifty men, while the other side were not only broken, but butchered.  At Munda, the last and most desperate of Caesar’s battles, and in which he came very nearly losing all that he had previously gained, a panic occurred in his army, from the effects of which it recovered through admiration of its leader’s splendid personal example.  The defeat of the Romans at Carrhae by the Parthians was followed by a panic, against the effects of which not even the discipline of the legions was a preventive.  At the first Battle of Philippi, the young Octavius came near being killed or captured, in consequence of the success of Brutus’s attack, which had the effect of throwing his men into utter confusion, so that they fled in dismay.  What a change would have taken place in the ocean-stream of history, had the future Augustus been slain or taken by the Republicans on that field on which the Roman Republic fell forever!  But the success of Antonius over Cassius more than compensated for the failure of Octavius, and prepared the way for the close of “the world’s debate” at Actium.  Actium, by the way, was one of the few sea-fights which have had their decision through the occurrence of panics, water not being so favorable to flight as land.  Whether the flight of Cleopatra was the result of terror, or followed from preconcerted action, is still a question for discussion; and one would not readily believe that the most gallant and manly of all the Roman leaders—­one of the very few of his race who were capable of generous actions—­was also capable of plotting deliberately to abandon his followers, when the chances of battle had not been tried.  Whether that memorable flight was planned or not, the imitation of it by Antonius created a panic in at least a portion of his fleet; and the victory of the hard-minded Octavius over the “soft triumvir”—­he was “soft” in every sense on that day—­was the speedy consequence of the strangest exhibition of cowardice ever made by a brave man.

In modern wars, panics have been as common as ever they were in the contests of antiquity.  No people has been exempt from them.  It has pleased the English critics on our defeat at Bull Run to speak with much bitterness of the panic that occurred to the Union army on that field, and in some instances to employ language that would leave the impression that never before did it happen to an army to suffer from panic terror.  No reflecting American ought to object to severe foreign criticism on our recent military history; for through such criticism, perhaps, our faults may be amended, and so our cause finally be vindicated.  The spectacle of soldiers running from a field of battle is a tempting one to the enemies of the country to whom such soldiers may belong, and