“I have in mind,” said Solon, “two young men whom I knew in Greece. Their father died when they were mere children, and they were very poor. But they worked manfully to keep the house together and to support their mother, who was in feeble health. Year after year they toiled, nor thought of anything but their mother’s comfort. When at length she died, they gave all their love to Athens, their native city, and nobly served her as long as they lived.”
Then Crœsus was angry. “Why is it,” he asked, “that you make me of no account and think that my wealth and power are nothing? Why is it that you place these poor working people above the richest king in the world?”
“O king,” said Solon, “no man can say whether you are happy or not until you die. For no man knows what misfortunes may overtake you, or what misery may be yours in place of all this splendor.”
Many years after this there arose in Asia a powerful king whose name was Cyrus. At the head of a great army he marched from one country to another, overthrowing many a kingdom and attaching it to his great empire of Babylon. King Crœsus with all his wealth was not able to stand against this mighty warrior. He resisted as long as he could. Then his city was taken, his beautiful palace was burned, his orchards and gardens were destroyed, his treasures were carried away, and he himself was made prisoner.
“The stubbornness of this man Crœsus,” said King Cyrus, “has caused us much trouble and the loss of many good soldiers. Take him and make an example of him for other petty kings who may dare to stand in our way.”
Thereupon the soldiers seized Crœsus and dragged him to the market-place, handling him roughly all the time. Then they built up a great pile of dry sticks and timber taken from the ruins of his once beautiful palace. When this was finished, they tied the unhappy king in the midst of it, and one ran for a torch to set it on fire.
“Now we shall have a merry blaze,” said the savage fellows. “What good can all his wealth do him now?”
As poor Crœsus, bruised and bleeding, lay upon the pyre without a friend to soothe his misery, he thought of the words which Solon had spoken to him years before: “No man can say whether you are happy or not until you die,” and he moaned, “O Solon! O Solon! Solon!”
It so happened that Cyrus was riding by at that very moment and heard his moans. “What does he say?” he asked of the soldiers.
“He says, ‘Solon, Solon, Solon!’” answered one.