But you have never told me how far, in terms of time.

No; for I know not precisely myself. My guess is that it will not be more than twenty years; by that time I shall surely be on the summit.

Mercy upon us, you take long views!

Ay; but, as the toil, so is the reward.

That may be; but about these twenty years—have you your master’s promise that you will live so long? is he prophet as well as philosopher? or is it a soothsayer or Chaldean expert that you trust? such things are known to them, I understand. You would never, of course, if there were any uncertainty of your life’s lasting to the Virtue-point, slave and toil night and day like this; why, just as you were close to the top, your fate might come upon you, lay hold of you by the heel, and lug you down with your hopes unfulfilled.

God forbid! these are words of ill omen, Lycinus; may life be granted me, that I may grow wise, and have if it be but one day of Happiness!

For all these toils will you be content with your one day?

Content? yes, or with the briefest moment of it.

But is there indeed Happiness up there—and worth all the pains? How can you tell? You have never been up yourself.

I trust my master’s word; and he knows well; is he not on the topmost height?

Oh, do tell me what he says about it; what is Happiness like? wealth, glory, pleasures incomparable?

Hush, friend! all these have nought to do with the Virtuous life.

Well, if these will not do, what are the good things he offers to those who carry their course right through?

Wisdom, courage, true beauty, justice, full and firm knowledge of all things as they are; but wealth and glory and pleasure and all bodily things — these a man strips off and abandons before he mounts up, like Heracles burning on Mount Oeta before deification; he too cast off whatever of the human he had from his mother, and soared up to the Gods with his divine part pure and unalloyed, sifted by the fire. Even so those I speak of are purged by the philosophic fire of all that deluded men count admirable, and reaching the summit have Happiness with never a thought of wealth and glory and pleasure—except to smile at any who count them more than phantoms.

By Heracles (and his death on Oeta), they quit themselves like men, and have their reward, it seems. But there is one thing I should like to know: are they allowed to come down from their elevation sometimes, and have a taste of what they left behind them? or when they have once got up, must they stay there, conversing with Virtue, and smiling at wealth and glory and pleasure?

The latter, assuredly; more than that, a man once admitted of Virtue’s company will never be subject to wrath or fear or desire any more; no, nor can he feel pain, nor any such sensation.

Well, but—if one might dare to say what one thinks— but no—let me keep a good tongue in my head—it were irreverent to pry into what wise men do.

Nay, nay; let me know your meaning.

Dear friend, I have not the courage.

Out with it, my good fellow; we are alone.

Well, then—most of your account I followed and accepted —how they grow wise and brave and just, and the rest—indeed I was quite fascinated by it; but then you went on to say they despised wealth and glory and pleasure; well, just there (quite between ourselves, you know) I was pulled up; I thought of a scene-t’other day with—shall I tell you whom? Perhaps we can do without a name?

No, no; we must have that too.

Your own professor himself, then,—a person to whom all respect is due, surely, not to mention his years.

Well?

You know the Heracleot, quite an old pupil of his in philosophy by this time—red-haired—likes an argument?

Yes; Dion, he is called.

Well, I suppose he had not paid up punctually; anyhow the other day the old man haled him before the magistrate, with a halter made of his own coat; he was shouting and fuming, and if some friends had not come up and got the young man out of his hands, he would have bitten off his nose, he was in such a temper.

Ah, be is a bad character, always an unconscionable time paying his debts. There are plenty of others who owe the professor money, and he has never treated any of them so; they pay him his interest punctually.

Not so fast; what in the world does it matter to him, if they do not pay up? he is purified by philosophy, and has no further need of the cast clothes of Oeta.

Do you suppose his interest in such things is selfish? no, but he has little ones; his care is to save them from indigence.

Whereas he ought to have brought them up to Virtue too, and let them share his inexpensive Happiness.