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 that the older one grows, the fonder one becomes of conversation."

"And what think you of old age itself?" asks Socrates. "Is the road to the grave rough or smooth?"

"Smooth and peaceful enough," answers Cephalus—"that is, to one of easy temper like myself; though some old men, I know, complain bitterly of the miseries of age, and mourn over the faded pleasures of their youth."

"Yes," says Socrates; "but the world would say that your riches make old age an easy burden."

"There is something in that; but I should say myself that a good man could not be happy in poverty and old age, nor again would all the wealth of Crœsus make a bad man happy."

"What do you think, then, to be the chief advantage of riches?" asks Socrates.

"If I mention it," he replied, "I shall perhaps get few persons to agree with me. Be assured, Socrates, that when a man is nearly persuaded that he is going to die, he feels alarmed and concerned about things which never affected him before. Till then, he has laughed at those stories about the departed, which tell us that he who has done wrong here must suffer for it in the other world; but now his mind is tormented with a fear that these stories may possibly be true. And either owing to the infirmity of old age, or because he is now nearer to the confines of the future state, he has a clearer insight into those mysteries. However that may be, he becomes full of misgiving and apprehension, and sets himself to the task of calculating and reflecting whether he has done any wrong to any one. Hereupon, if he finds his life full of unjust deeds, he is apt to start out of sleep in terror, as children do, and be lives haunted by