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.
Dionysius, much astonished, consented to let Pythias go, marveling
what would be the issue of the affair. Time went on and Pythias did not
appear. The Syracusans watched Damon, but he showed no uneasiness. He
said he was secure of his friend's truth and honor, and that if any
accident had cause the delay of his return, he should rejoice in dying
to save the life of one so dear to him.
Even to the last day Damon continued serene and content, however it
might fall out; nay even when the very hour drew nigh and still no
Pythias. His trust was so perfect, that he did not even grieve at having
to die for a faithless friend who had left him to the fate to which
he had unwarily pledged himself. It was not Pythias' own will, but the
winds and waves, so he still declared, when the decree was brought
and the instruments of death made ready. The hour had come, and a few
moments more would have ended Damon's life, when Pythias duly presented
himself, embraced his friend, and stood forward himself to receive his
sentence, calm, resolute, and rejoiced that he had come in time.
Even the dim hope they owned of a future state was enough to make
these two brave men keep their word, and confront death for one another
without quailing. Dionysius looked on more struck than ever. He felt
that neither of such men must die. He reversed the sentence of Pythias,
and calling the two to his judgment seat, he entreated them to admit him
as a third in their friendship. Yet all the time he must have known it
was a mockery that he should ever be such as they were to each other--he
who had lost the very power of trusting, and constantly sacrificed
others to secure his own life, whilst they counted not their lives dear
to them in comparison with their truth to their word, and love to one
another. No wonder that Damon and Pythias have become such a byword that
they seem too well known to have their story told here, except that a
name in everyone's mouth sometimes seems to be mentioned by those who
have forgotten or never heard the tale attached to it.