A Book of Golden Deeds

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> A Book of Golden Deeds

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'To the good old plan
That they should take who have the power
And they should keep who can.'

[Footnote: These lines of Wordsworth on Rob Roy's grave almost literally
translate the speech Plutarch gives the first Kelt of history, Brennus.]

The Fabii, on receiving this answer, were so foolish as to transgress
the rule, owned by the savage Gauls, that an ambassador should neither
fight nor be fought with; they joined the Clusians, and one brother,
named Quintus, killed a remarkably large and tall Gallic chief in single
combat. Brennus was justly enraged, and sent messengers to Rome to
demand that the brothers should be given up to him for punishment. The
priests and many of the Senate held that the rash young men had deserved
death as covenant-breakers; but their father made strong interest for
them, and prevailed not only to have them spared, but even chosen as
tribunes to lead the legions in the war that was expected. [Footnote:
These events happened during an experiment made by the Romans of having
six military tribunes instead of two consuls.] Thus he persuaded the
whole nation to take on itself the guilt of his sons, a want of true
self-devotion uncommon among the old Romans, and which was severely
punished.

The Gauls were much enraged, and hurried southwards, not waiting for
plunder by the way, but declaring that they were friends to every State
save Rome. The Romans on their side collected their troops in haste, but
with a lurking sense of having transgressed; and since they had gainsaid
the counsel of their priests, they durst not have recourse to the
sacrifices and ceremonies by which they usually sought to gain the favor
of their gods. Even among heathens, the saying has often been verified,
'a sinful heart makes failing hand', and the battle on the banks of the
River Allia, about eleven miles from Rome, was not so much a fight as a
rout. The Roman soldiers were ill drawn up, and were at once broken.
Some fled to Veii and other towns, many were drowned in crossing the
Tiber, and it was but a few who showed in Rome their shame-stricken
faces, and brought word that the Gauls were upon them.

Had the Gauls been really in pursuit, the Roman name and nation would
have perished under their swords; but they spent three day in feasting
and sharing their plunder, and thus gave the Romans time to take
measures for the safety of such as could yet escape. There seems to have
been no notion of defending the city, the soldiers had been too much
dispersed; but all who still remained and could call up something of
their ordinary courage, carried all the provisions they could collect
into the stronghold of the Capitol, and resolved to hold out there till
the last, in hopes that the scattered army might muster again, or that
the Gauls might retreat, after having revenged themselves on the city.
Everyone who could not fight, took flight, taking with them all they
could carry, and among them went the white-clad troop of vestal virgins,
carrying with them their censer of fire, which was esteemed sacred, and
never allowed to be extinguished. A man named Albinus, who saw these
sacred women footsore, weary, and weighted down with the treasures of
their temple, removed his own family and goods from his cart and seated
them in it--an act of reverence for which he was much esteemed--and thus
they reached the city of Cumae. The only persons left in Rome outside
the Capitol were eighty of the oldest senators and some of the priests.
Some were too feeble to fly, and would not come into the Capitol to
consume the food that might maintain fighting men; but most of them were
filled with a deep, solemn thought that, by offering themselves to the
weapons of the barbarians, they might atone for the sin sanctioned by
the Republic, and that their death might be the saving of the nation.
This notion that the death of a ruler would expiate a country's guilt
was one of the strange presages abroad in the heathen world of that
which alone takes away the sin of all mankind.

On came the Gauls at last. The gates stood open, the streets were
silent, the houses' low-browed doors showed no one in the paved courts.
No living man was to be seen, till at last, hurrying down the steep
empty streets, they reached the great open space of the Forum, and there
they stood still in amazement, for ranged along a gallery were a row of
ivory chairs, and in each chair sat the figure of a white-haired, white-
bearded man, with arms and legs bare, and robes either of snowy white,
white bordered with purple, or purple richly embroidered, ivory staves
in their hands, and majestic, unmoved countenances. So motionless were
they, that the Gauls stood still, not knowing whether they beheld men or
statues. A wondrous scene it must have been, as the brawny, red-haired
Gauls, with freckled visage, keen little eyes, long broad sword, and
wide plaid garment, fashioned into loose trousers, came curiously down
into the marketplace, one after another; and each stood silent and
transfixed at the spectacle of those grand figures, still unmoving, save
that their large full liquid dark eyes showed them to be living beings.
Surely these Gauls deemed themselves in the presence of that council of
kings who were sometimes supposed to govern Rome, nay, if they were not
before the gods themselves. At last, one Gaul, ruder, or more curious
than the rest, came up to one of the venerable figures, and, to make
proof whether he were flesh and blood, stroked his beard. Such an insult
from an uncouth barbarian was more than Roman blood could brook, and the
Gaul soon had his doubt satisfied by a sharp blow on the head from the
ivory staff. All reverence was dispelled by that stroke; it was at once
returned by a death thrust, and the fury of the savages wakening in
proportion to the awe that had at first struck them, they rushed on the
old senators, and slew each one in his curule chair.

Then they dispersed through the city, burning, plundering, and
destroying. To take the Capitol they soon found to be beyond their
power, but they hoped to starve the defenders out; and in the meantime
they spent their time in pulling down the outer walls, and such houses
and temples as had resisted the fire, till the defenders of the Capitol
looked down from their height on nothing but desolate black burnt
ground, with a few heaps of ruins in the midst, and the barbarians
roaming about in it, and driving in the cattle that their foraging
parties collected from the country round. There was much earnest faith
in their own religion among the Romans: they took all this ruin as the
just reward of their shelter of the Fabii, and even in their extremity
were resolved not to transgress any sacred rule. Though food daily
became more scarce and starvation was fast approaching, not one of the
sacred geese that were kept in Juno's Temple was touched; and one Fabius
Dorso, who believed that the household gods of his family required
yearly a sacrifice on their own festival day on the Quirinal Hill,
arrayed himself in the white robes of a sacrificer, took his sacred
images in his arms, and went out of the Capitol, through the midst of
the enemy, through the ruins to the accustomed alter, and there
preformed the regular rites. The Gauls, seeing that it was a religious
ceremony, let him pass through them untouched, and he returned in
safety; but Brennus was resolved on completing his conquest, and while
half his forces went out to plunder, he remained with the other half,
watching the moment to effect an entrance into the Capitol; and how were
the defenders, worn out with hunger, to resist without relief from
without? And who was there to bring relief to them, who were themselves
the Roman State and government?

Now there was a citizen, named Marcus Furius Camillus, who was, without
question, at that time, the first soldier of Rome, and had taken several
of the chief Italian cities, especially that of Veii, which had long
been a most dangerous enemy. But he was a proud, haughty man, and had
brought on himself much dislike; until, at last, a false accusation was
brought against him, that he had taken an unfair share of the plunder of
Veii. He was too proud to stand a trial; and leaving the city, was
immediately fined a considerable sum. He had taken up his abode at the
city of Ardea, and was there living when the plundering half of Brennus'
army was reported to be coming thither. Camillus immediately offered the
magistrates to undertake their defense; and getting together all the men
who could bear arms, he led them out, fell upon the Gauls as they all
lay asleep and unguarded in the dead of night, made a great slaughter of
them, and saved Ardea. All this was heard by the many Romans who had
been living dispersed since the rout of Allia; and they began to recover
heart and spirit, and to think that if Camillus would be their leader,
they might yet do something to redeem the honor of Rome, and save their
friends in the Capitol. An entreaty was sent to him to take the command
of them; but, like a proud, stern man as he was, he made answer, that he
was a mere exile, and could not take upon himself to lead Romans without
a decree from the Senate giving him authority. The Senate was--all that
remained of it--shut up in the Capitol; the Gauls were spread all round;
how was that decree to be obtained?

A young man, named Pontius Cominius, undertook the desperate mission. He
put on a peasant dress, and hid some corks under it, supposing that he
should find no passage by the bridge over the Tiber. Traveling all day
on foot, he came at night to the bank, and saw the guard at the bridge;
then, having waited for darkness, he rolled his one thin light garment,
with the corks wrapped up in it, round his head, and trusted himself to
the stream of Father Tiber, like 'good Horatius' before him; and he was
safely borne along to the foot of the Capitoline Hill. He crept along,
avoiding every place where he saw lights or heard noise, till he came to
a rugged precipice, which he suspected would not be watched by the
enemy, who would suppose it too steep to be climbed from above or below.
But the resolute man did not fear the giddy dangerous ascent, even in
the darkness; he swung himself up by the stems and boughs of the vines
and climbing plants, his naked feet clung to the rocks and tufts of
grass, and at length he stood on the top of the rampart, calling out his
name to the soldiers who came in haste around him, not knowing whether
he were friend or foe. A joyful sound must his Latin speech have been to
the long-tried, half starved garrison, who had not seen a fresh face for
six long months! The few who represented the Senate and people of Rome
were hastily awakened from their sleep, and gathered together to hear
the tidings brought them at so much risk. Pontius told them of the
victory at Ardea, and that Camillus and the Romans collected at Veii
were only waiting to march to their succor till they should give him
lawful power to take the command. There was little debate. The vote was
passed at once to make Camillus Dictator, an office to which Romans were
elected upon great emergencies, and which gave them, for the time,
absolute kingly control; and then Pontius, bearing the appointment, set
off once again upon his mission, still under shelter of night, clambered
down the rock, and crossed the Gallic camp before the barbarians were
yet awake.

There was hope in the little garrison; but danger was not over. The
sharp-eyed Gauls observed that the shrubs and creepers were broken, the
moss frayed, and fresh stones and earth rolled down at the crag of the
Capitol: they were sure that the rock had been climbed, and, therefore,
that it might be climbed again. Should they, who were used to the snowy
peaks, dark abysses, and huge glaciers of the Alps, be afraid to climb
where a soft dweller in a tame Italian town could venture a passage?
Brennus chose out the hardiest of his mountaineers, and directed them to
climb up in the dead of night, one by one, in perfect silence, and thus
to surprise the Romans, and complete the slaughter and victory, before
the forces assembling at Veii would come to their rescue.

Silently the Gauls climbed, so stilly that not even a dog heard them;
and the sentinel nearest to the post, who had fallen into a dead sleep
of exhaustion from hunger, never awoke. But the fatal stillness was
suddenly broken by loud gabbling, cackling, and flapping of heavy wings.
The sacred geese of Juno, which had been so religiously spared in the
famine, were frightened by the rustling beneath, and proclaimed their
terror in their own noisy fashion. The first to take the alarm was
Marcus Manlius, who started forward just in time to meet the foremost
climbers as they set foot on the rampart. One, who raised an axe to
strike, lost his arm by one stroke of Manlius' short Roman sword; the
next was by main strength hurled backwards over the precipice, and
Manlius stood along on the top, for a few moments, ready to strike the
next who should struggle up. The whole of the garrison were in a few
moments on the alert, and the attack was entirely repulsed; the sleeping
sentry was cast headlong down the rock; and Manlius was brought, by each
grateful soldier, that which was then most valuable to all, a little
meal and a small measure of wine. Still, the condition of the Capitol
was lamentable; there was no certainty that Pontius had ever reached
Camillus in safety; and, indeed, the discovery of his path by the enemy
would rather have led to the supposition that he had been seized and
detected. The best hope lay in wearying out the besiegers; and there
seemed to be more chance of this since the Gauls often could be seen
from the heights, burying the corpses of their dead; their tall, bony
forms looked gaunt and drooping, and, here and there, unburied carcasses
lay amongst the ruins. Nor were the flocks and herds any longer driven
in from the country. Either all must have been exhausted, or else
Camillus and his friends must be near, and preventing their raids. At
any rate, it appeared as if the enemy was quite as ill off as to
provisions as the garrison, and in worse condition as to health. In
effect, this was the first example of the famous saying, that Rome
destroys her conquerors. In this state of things one of the Romans had a
dream that Jupiter, the special god of the Capitol, appeared to him, and
gave the strange advice that all the remaining flour should be baked,
and the loaves thrown down into the enemy's camp. Telling the dream,
which may, perhaps, have been the shaping of his own thoughts, that this
apparent waste would persuade the barbarians that the garrison could not
soon be starved out, this person obtained the consent of the rest of the
besieged. Some approved the stratagem, and no one chose to act contrary
to Jupiter's supposed advice; so the bread was baked, and tossed down by
the hungry men.

After a time, there was a report from the outer guards that the Gallic
watch had been telling them that their leader would be willing to speak
with some of the Roman chiefs. Accordingly, Sulpitius, one of the
tribunes, went out, and had a conference with Brennus, who declared that
he would depart, provided the Romans would lay down a ransom, for their
Capital and their own lives, of a thousand pounds' weight of gold. To
this Sulpitius agreed, and returning to the Capitol, the gold was
collected from the treasury, and carried down to meet the Gauls, who
brought their own weights. The weights did not meet the amount of gold
ornaments that had been contributed for the purpose, and no doubt the
Gauls were resolved to have all that they beheld; for when Sulpitius was
about to try to arrange the balance, Brennus insultingly threw his sword
into his own scale, exclaiming, Voe victis! 'Woe to the conquered!' The
Roman was not yet fallen so low as not to remonstrate, and the dispute
was waxing sharp, when there was a confused outcry in the Gallic camp, a
shout from the heights of the Capitol, and into the midst of the open
space rode a band of Roman patricians and knights in armor, with the
Dictator Camillus at their head.

He no sooner saw what was passing, than he commanded the treasure to be
taken back, and, turning to Brennus, said, 'It is with iron, not gold,
that the Romans guard their country.'

Brennus declared that the treaty had been sworn to, and that it would be
a breach of faith to deprive him of the ransom; to which Camillus
replied, that he himself was Dictator, and no one had the power to make
a treaty in his absence. The dispute was so hot, that they drew their
swords against one another, and there was a skirmish among the ruins;
but the Gauls soon fell back, and retreated to their camp, when they saw
the main body of Camillus' army marching upon them. It was no less than
40,000 in number; and Brennus knew he could not withstand them with his
broken, sickly army. He drew off early the next morning: but was
followed by Camillus, and routed, with great slaughter, about eight
miles from Rome; and very few of the Gauls lived to return home, for
those who were not slain in battle were cut off in their flight by the
country people, whom they had plundered.

In reward for their conduct on this occasion, Camillus was termed
Romulus, Father of his Country, and Second Founder of Rome; Marcus
Manlius received the honorable surname of Capitolinus; and even the
geese were honored by having a golden image raised to their honor in
Juno's temple, and a live goose was yearly carried in triumph, upon a
soft litter, in a golden cage, as long as any heathen festivals lasted.
The reward of Pontius Cominius does not appear; but surely he, and the
old senators who died for their country's sake, deserved to be for ever
remembered for their brave contempt of life when a service could be done
to the State.

The truth of the whole narrative is greatly doubted, and it is suspected
that the Gallic conquest was more complete than the Romans ever chose to
avow. Their history is far from clear up to this very epoch, when it is
said that all their records were destroyed; but even when place and
period are misty, great names and the main outline of their actions loom
through the cloud, perhaps exaggerated, but still with some reality; and
if the magnificent romance of the sack of Rome be not fact, yet it is
certainly history, and well worthy of note and remembrance, as one of
the finest extant traditions of a whole chain of Golden Deeds.

THE TWO FRIENDS OF SYRACUSE

B.C. 380 (CIRCA)

Most of the best and noblest of the Greeks held what was called the
Pythagorean philosophy. This was one of the many systems framed by the
great men of heathenism, when by the feeble light of nature they were,
as St. Paul says, 'seeking after God, if haply they might feel after
Him', like men groping in the darkness. Pythagoras lived before the time
of history, and almost nothing is known about him, though his teaching
and his name were never lost. There is a belief that he had traveled in
the East, and in Egypt, and as he lived about the time of the dispersion
of the Israelites, it is possible that some of his purest and best
teaching might have been crumbs gathered from their fuller instruction
through the Law and the Prophets. One thing is plain, that even in
dealing with heathenism the Divine rule holds good, 'By their fruits ye
shall know them'. Golden Deeds are only to be found among men whose
belief is earnest and sincere, and in something really high and noble.
Where there was nothing worshiped but savage or impure power, and the
very form of adoration was cruel and unclean, as among the Canaanites
and Carthaginians, there we find no true self-devotion. The great deeds
of the heathen world were all done by early Greeks and Romans before yet
the last gleams of purer light had faded out of their belief, and while
their moral sense still nerved them to energy; or else by such later
Greeks as had embraced the deeper and more earnest yearnings of the
minds that had become a 'law unto themselves'.

The Pythagoreans were bound together in a brotherhood, the members of
which had rules that are not now understood, but which linked them so as
to form a sort of club, with common religious observances and pursuits
of science, especially mathematics and music. And they were taught to
restrain their passions, especially that of anger, and to endure with
patience all kinds of suffering; believing that such self-restraint
brought them nearer to the gods, and that death would set them free from
the prison of the body. The souls of evil-doers would, they thought,
pass into the lower and more degraded animals, while those of good men
would be gradually purified, and rise to a higher existence. This,
though lamentably deficient, and false in some points, was a real
religion, inasmuch as it gave a rule of life, with a motive for striving
for wisdom and virtue. Two friends of this Pythagorean sect lived at
Syracuse, in the end of the fourth century before the Christian era.
Syracuse was a great Greek city, built in Sicily, and full of all kinds
of Greek art and learning; but it was a place of danger in their time,
for it had fallen under the tyranny of a man of strange and capricious
temper, though of great abilities, namely Dionysius. He is said to have
been originally only a clerk in a public office, but his talents raised
him to continually higher situations, and at length, in a great war with
the Carthaginians, who had many settlements in Sicily, he became general
of the army, and then found it easy to establish his power over the
city.

This power was not according to the laws, for Syracuse, like most other
cities, ought to have been governed by a council of magistrates; but
Dionysius was an exceedingly able man, and made the city much more rich
and powerful, he defeated the Carthaginians, and rendered Syracuse by
far the chief city in the island, and he contrived to make everyone so
much afraid of him that no one durst attempt to overthrow his power. He
was a good scholar, and very fond of philosophy and poetry, and he
delighted to have learned men around him, and he had naturally a
generous spirit; but the sense that he was in a position that did not
belong to him, and that everyone hated him for assuming it, made him
very harsh and suspicious. It is of him that the story is told, that he
had a chamber hollowed in the rock near his state prison, and
constructed with galleries to conduct sounds like an ear, so that he
might overhear the conversation of his captives; and of him, too, is
told that famous anecdote which has become a proverb, that on hearing a
friend, named Damocles, express a wish to be in his situation for a
single day, he took him at his word, and Damocles found himself at a
banquet with everything that could delight his senses, delicious food,
costly wine, flowers, perfumes, music; but with a sword with the point
almost touching his head, and hanging by a single horsehair! This was to
show the condition in which a usurper lived!

Thus Dionysius was in constant dread. He had a wide trench round his
bedroom, with a drawbridge that he drew up and put down with his own
hands; and he put one barber to death for boasting that he held a razor
to the tyrant's throat every morning. After this he made his young
daughters shave him; but by and by he would not trust them with a razor,
and caused them to singe of his beard with hot nutshells! He was said to
have put a man named Antiphon to death for answering him, when he asked
what was the best kind of brass, 'That of which the statues of Harmodius
and Aristogeiton were made.' These were the two Athenians who had killed
the sons of Pisistratus the tyrant, so that the jest was most offensive,
but its boldness might have gained forgiveness for it. One philosopher,
named Philoxenus, he sent to a dungeon for finding fault with his
poetry, but he afterwards composed another piece, which he thought so
superior, that he could not be content without sending for this adverse
critic to hear it. When he had finished reading it, he looked to
Philoxenus for a compliment; but the philosopher only turned round to
the guards, and said dryly, 'Carry me back to prison.' This time
Dionysius had the sense to laugh, and forgive his honesty.

All these stories may not be true; but that they should have been
current in the ancient world shows what was the character of the man of
whom they were told, how stern and terrible was his anger, and how
easily it was incurred. Among those who came under it was a Pythagorean
called Pythias, who was sentenced to death, according to the usual fate
of those who fell under his suspicion.

Pythias had lands and relations in Greece, and he entreated as a favor
to be allowed to return thither and arrange his affairs, engaging to
return within a specified time to suffer death. The tyrant laughed his
request to scorn. Once safe out of Sicily, who would answer for his
return? Pythias made reply that he had a friend, who would become
security for his return; and while Dionysius, the miserable man who
trusted nobody, was ready to scoff at his simplicity, another
Pythagorean, by name of Damon, came forward, and offered to become
surety for his friend, engaging, if Pythias did not return according to
promise, to suffer death in his stead.

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