In 1504, the young "poor knight" Gotz von Berlichingen was struck in the right hand by the pommel of his sword, which had been struck by a cannonball fired by a Nuremberger gunner during the siege of Landshut. Gotz tells us:

A shot of a field-culverin struck the pommel of my sword and split it in half, and drove a piece into my arm, along with three splints of my armor. It drove so deep that one could not see it in my arm. It is a wonder that I was not thrown from my horse. The armor remained intact apart from the edges, which bent outward. The pommel, as mentioned, was driven between the plates. The other half of the pommel and the handguard of the sword were badly bent, but intact. These I think had taken off my hand between the gauntlet and arm-piece. My arm was shattered behind and before.

As I looked I saw that my hand hung only by a bit of skin, and there below was my spear under the horse’s hooves. I behaved as though it were nothing, turned my horse around, and came back from the enemy line to my friends without hindrance. There ran an old Landsknecht who would have thrown himself into the skirmish. I told him that he should stay with me, which he did, and once he saw how bad it was, he went for a surgeon.

Gotz was allowed to be taken into the city so he could be treated by the surgeons inside. Owing to sanitary conditions brought on by the siege, the city was in the sway of an outbreak of a virulent disease Gotz called the 'red dysentery.' Days passed and his wound was cleaned and dressed, and Gotz was visited by friends on both sides of the conflict, but then he began to hear of their deaths, taken by the red dysentery. Georg von Truchsess, the man who had escorted him into town for treatment, died first. Then Georg von Rosenberg and Christoph von Giech, both of whom had been comrades in arms in earlier adventures. While he was waiting for a visit by Lord Ruprecht, the chief instigator of the Landshut War, Gotz heard that he, too, had been taken by this plague.

Given current world events, it's not hard to put ourselves in Gotz's turnshoes here. This was a tragedy, over and above the violent conflict that exacerbated it. People were dying by the score, all around him. But making everything much more difficult was that Gotz had just lost his right hand. His sword hand. He had, at every opportunity, addressed himself in his autobiography as a "poor knight," a man who might not have much money, but was honest, sober, pious, and perhaps most importantly, willing to scrap. His wound was taken while he was riding before the defender's ditches outside Landshut, trying to get defenders to come out from the lines and tilt against him.

I wanted to be thought of as a dependable friend and comrade. That Sunday, as I mentioned above, we were skirmishing below the walls of Landshut, and the Nuremburgers turned their cannons on friend and foe alike. The enemy had taken up a position in a ditch, and as I desired to break my spear against one, I stood by and waited for an opportunity to do so. The Nuremburgers then began firing at us without warning.

He'd dropped his lance when he was struck, an image that remained fresh in his mind sixty years on. It was his own sword pommel that had given him his wound, an irony that would not have been lost on him. And so, languishing inside the besieged city, its defenders dying gruesome deaths all around him, and suffering himself from the illness, Gotz despaired.

I dressed, and cleaned myself, but as I waited for his visit I heard that His Princely Grace had been infected by the red dysentery, and that he had died from it. Christoph von Giech, and many other noble men, also died from it, as God Almighty took many from this valley of sorrow. I also did not have much fun with my own illness.

From that time onwards, I lay up in Landshut, from the Sunday after St. Jacob’s Day until about Shrovetide. It was my prayer to God that He should take me, if it was within His divine grace to do so, because as I was without my right hand, I was broken as a man of war. What pains I suffered anyone may well imagine.

"It was my prayer to God that He should take me... I was broken as a man of war."

This is an astonishingly frank portrayal of a young man's emotions, a portrayal of emotional weakness and despair. It's also quick, precise, and brief, which is a stark difference from his usual meandering manner of storytelling. He wastes no word, and it is in the very precision of his language that I think his emotion shows more than it might otherwise. This is a memory that we can see still haunts the man, even after a long a flourishing career as a man of war that continued for a long time after his wound.

What makes this example all the more remarkable is how he was able to pull himself out of his hopelessness. It is of course through God and the comfort of his faith, but also in that Gotz remembered another old warrior who had similarly lost his right hand.

But I remembered an old servant, whom I had heard of through my blessed father and old servants of the Count Palatine and the Count of Hohenlohe, called Kochle. He had been an enemy of the Duke Georg of Bavaria and also only had one hand. He had been able to fight in the field against his enemies as well as anyone else. With him in mind, I called to God, and thought that even if I had twelve hands it would do me no good if God were against me, and thought that if I had even a little makeshift affair, even an iron hand, I could nevertheless serve in the field as well as any hopeless man.

I have since ridden with Kochle’s sons, and they were honest and famous men-at-arms.

It's the example of Kochle that helps Gotz see that he might not be as broken as he imagined himself to be. That perhaps he could get some kind of device, a prosthetic, made that would help him function in the manner he most desired in the world.

I think this is striking for a couple of reasons: one, it shows us that people with prosthetics were maybe not so rare as we might imagine, and that recovery after traumatic injuries was possible and even not unlikely if one received quick and competent care. Gotz tells a humorous anecdote later in his autobiography about how he robbed a Nuremberg merchant caravan in company with another knight who was missing a leg, a fact which led to the emperor himself mocking the merchants for allowing themselves to be bested by two such.

And two, it shows us that even in 1504, among men who consider themselves men only if they are capable of giving and taking violence, that representation matters. That it's not always a logical calculation or simple will to live that allows people to cope with trauma, but the depiction of others who share and overcome some of the same difficulties.

It's a short, blink-and-you'll-miss-it passage in an extensive and meandering tale that spanned four decades of adventure, told decades after the fact, but I think this is the heart of Gotz's story, and it's something I think about quite often.

Just a quick note, all the above quotations are translations made by myself, so any errors are mine alone.

I do not have a particular historical story about how people showed emotion but I do have an archive I can introduce fellow historians to that includes a lot of that! In Houston, an LGBT activist and historian named JD Doyle created a large archive of late-20th century LGBT historical materials related to Texas and the Houston area, including many magazines that were not mainstream, but carried news for this community that wasn’t documented elsewhere. They also have an archive of obituaries from the LGBT community, information about everything from bars to political activities that served the community, and more.

As this community was for many years marginalized nationally when it came to showing emotion publicly, you can see much of it—emotions from sorrow to happiness to excitement—-all across this archive.

JD Doyle ultimately donated his archive to a university, but his non-profit has maintained its online presence here.

Enjoy this unique archive with many displays of emotion from a wide variety of historical ephemera from the late 20th century.

Here is a look into how wealthy Romans dealt with sadness. In a well known letter to Cicero, Servius Sulpicious Rufus wrote,

"When I received the news of your daughter Tullia’s death, I was indeed as much grieved and distressed as I was bound to be, and looked upon it as a calamity in which I shared. For, if I had been at home, I should not have failed to be at your side, and should have made my sorrow plain to you face to face. That kind of consolation involves much distress and pain, because the relations and friends, whose part it is to offer it, are themselves overcome by an equal sorrow. They cannot attempt it without many tears, so that they seem to require consolation themselves rather than to be able to afford it to others. Still I have decided to set down briefly for your benefit such thoughts as have occurred to my mind, not because I suppose them to be unknown to you, but because your sorrow may perhaps hinder you from being so keenly alive to them. Why is it that a private grief should agitate you so deeply? Think how fortune has hitherto dealt with us. Reflect that we have had snatched from us what ought to be no less dear to human beings than their children—country, honour, rank, every political distinction. What additional wound to your feelings could be inflicted by this particular loss? Or where is the heart that should not by this time have lost all sensibility and learned to regard everything else as of minor importance? Is it on her account, pray, that you sorrow? How many times have you recurred to the thought—and I have often been struck with the same idea—that in times like these theirs is far from being the worst fate to whom it has been granted to exchange life for a painless death? Now what was there at such an epoch that could greatly tempt her to live? What scope, what hope, what heart’s solace? That she might spend her life with some young and distinguished husband? How impossible for a man of your rank to select from the present generation of young men a son-in-law, to whose honour you might think yourself safe in trusting your child! Was it that she might bear children to cheer her with the sight of their vigorous youth? who might by their own character maintain the position handed down to them by their parent, might be expected to stand for the offices in their order, might exercise their freedom in supporting their friends? What single one of these prospects has not been taken away before it was given? But, it will be said, after all it is an evil to lose one’s children. Yes, it is: only it is a worse one to endure and submit to the present state of things.  I wish to mention to you a circumstance which gave me no common consolation, on the chance of its also proving capable of diminishing your sorrow. On my voyage from Asia, as I was sailing from Ægina towards Megara, I began to survey the localities that were on every side of me. Behind me was Ægina, in front Megara, on my right Piræus, on my left Corinth: towns which at one time were most flourishing, but now lay before my eyes in ruin and decay. I began to reflect to myself thus: “Hah! do we mannikins feel rebellious if one of us perishes or is killed—we whose life ought to be still shorter—when the corpses of so many towns lie in helpless ruin? Will you please, Servius, restrain yourself and recollect that you are born a mortal man?” Believe me, I was no little strengthened by that reflexion. Now take the trouble, if you agree with me, to put this thought before your eyes. Not long ago all those most illustrious men perished at one blow: the empire of the Roman people suffered that huge loss: all the provinces were shaken to their foundations. If you have become the poorer by the frail spirit of one poor girl, are you agitated thus violently? If she had not died now, she would yet have had to die a few years hence, for she was mortal born. You, too, withdraw soul and thought from such things, and rather remember those which become the part you have played in life: that she lived as long as life had anything to give her; that her life outlasted that of the Republic; that she lived to see you—her own father—prætor, consul, and augur; that she married young men of the highest rank; that she had enjoyed nearly every possible blessing; that, when the Republic fell, she departed from life. What fault have you or she to find with fortune on this score? In fine, do not forget that you are Cicero, and a man accustomed to instruct and advise others; and do not imitate bad physicians, who in the diseases of others profess to understand the art of healing, but are unable to prescribe for themselves. Rather suggest to yourself and bring home to your own mind the very maxims which you are accustomed to impress upon others. There is no sorrow beyond the power of time at length to diminish and soften: it is a reflexion on you that you should wait for this period, and not rather anticipate that result by the aid of your wisdom. But if there is any consciousness still existing in the world below, such was her love for you and her dutiful affection for all her family, that she certainly does not wish you to act as you are acting. Grant this to her—your lost one! Grant it to your friends and comrades who mourn with you in your sorrow! Grant it to your country, that if the need arises she may have the use of your services and advice.  Finally—since we are reduced by fortune to the necessity of taking precautions on this point also—do not allow anyone to think that you are not mourning so much for your daughter as for the state of public affairs and the victory of others. I am ashamed to say any more to you on this subject, lest I should appear to distrust your wisdom. Therefore I will only make one suggestion before bringing my letter to an end. We have seen you on many occasions bear good fortune with a noble dignity which greatly enhanced your fame: now is the time for you to convince us that you are able to bear bad fortune equally well, and that it does not appear to you to be a heavier burden than you ought to think it. I would not have this be the only one of all the virtues that you do not possess. As far as I am concerned, when I learn that your mind is more composed, I will write you an account of what is going on here, and of the condition of the province. Good-bye."

Cicero. (106 B.C.–43 B.C.).  Letters. The Harvard Classics.  1909–14.  XXVII. Servius Sulpicius to Cicero (At Astura)

I enjoyed field marshal Schwarzenberg's letters to his wife immensely during my research; some of them are amusing, others are deeply moving. It's easy to get the impression that C18-19 letters were all super reserved and eloquent, but hearing a respected soldier-diplomat venting/blubbering to his wife is very endearing.

"I go to bed now, not well to sleep, because that is only sparing to me, but the bed itself is benevolent "

mood

His deference when it comes to landscaping is too:

"I do not ask to see a completely pure meadow behind the pond, it can be well-marked; groups of particularly low bushwood here and there are to be attached to the brook as well as to the road, but not everything must be densely occupied, but meadows everywhere must be checked. That's my opinion, but only yours applies, you know that, my Nani. "

"I gladly want to renounce everything, my God knows, but a misfortune in this moment would be awkward; how deep would I sink - and yet not too deep for my Nani; with your tender arms will you lift me up to you? "

"Three days ago Metternich gave me the enclosed crucifix and told me that his wife had sent it to him and told him to persuade me to carry it, and that she must necessarily bring me luck. I do not want happiness from it; I feel like that's a robbery from you. I like the thing in itself, but it squeezes me in my writing desk, that's why, my Nani, I send it to you, do with it what you please and think that I love you so much, so with my whole being. "

"Duty is an iron bond; mercilessly it wounds the tenderest feelings, but one sells dearly the one and only reward, the consciousness of having fulfilled it. "

“When I look out of my window at the almost innumerable camp fires spread out around me, when I reflect that opposed to me stands the greatest Leader of our times, one of the greatest of all times indeed, then, my dearest, I must confess to you that my shoulders seem not strong enough to bear the load. But when I look up to the stars and remember that He who guides them in their courses has also pre-determined my career, if it is His will that the just cause, and I hold ours to be just, should conquer, then He will enlighten my conduct and give me strength. If He wills that we go under, my personal misfortune will only be the least of the sad consequences. If I survive defeat, I know I shall not on that account, my darling, seem of less account in your dear eyes. In either case, I have long since conquered my own ambition and egotism, and the judgment of the world will neither punish or reward me.”

"At your feet, my Nani, I lay the holy laurels which the Almighty granted me. God has blessed our weapons, the defeat of the enemy is unprecedented, I never saw a more gruesome battlefield."

"Your letter of the 16th, my Nani, is strange, for you probably wrote me at the very moment when the fight was most heated and the enemy bullets were furious. You say you were so scared, so scared - well, my Nani, was not that quite a hunch? It is over. God has not only protected, but blessed me a thousandfold."

The American Sign Language for "grief" is literally "heart-crushing" as seen in this video.