When Solon Met Croesus

by Will Ogilvie Vega de Seoane

The story I’m about to tell has been passed down for two and a half millennia. It used to be a cornerstone of classical education—back when learning was about shaping your soul, not just padding your résumé or training for administrative efficiency. Today, I’m not sure the state would approve of educators teaching it. Why? Because it suggests something subversive: that power, wealth, and recognition may not actually be signs of a well-lived life. That official praise doesn’t always come with moral substance. And when it comes to happiness? That it’s a marathon, not a moment. In fact, this story might make some bureaucrats a little uncomfortable. Which is precisely why we should bring it back. Because at its heart is a reminder we desperately need: freedom isn’t a blank slate for self-indulgence—instead, it’s a sacred stage on which all human achievements are performed.

But let’s not start with abstractions. Let’s start with a question.

Before you scroll past this without thinking, as many people of today’s age often do, stop for a second: Who do you think is the happiest person alive today? Beyoncé? LeBron James? A senator? A billionaire tech guru?

Well, this exact question was posed over 2,600 years ago by Croesus, king of Lydia—a man so absurdly rich that we still use the phrase “as rich as Croesus.” When he heard that Solon, the famous Athenian sage, was traveling the world for commerce and trade, learning laws and customs, he invited him over to bask in his glory. Gold everywhere, palaces gleaming, servants tending to his every whim and dangling grapes over his mouth. (Okay, maybe not grapes, but you get the vibe.) It was excess on full display.

After a few days of this luxurious tour, Croesus couldn’t help himself. Flashing a smug smile, he leaned in—still chewing, bits of food threatening to escape—and asked what he thought was a rhetorical question: “So, Solon… have you ever come across anyone who is happier than everyone else?”

He wasn’t really asking. He was fishing for compliments—fully expecting to hear his own name crowned as the happiest man alive. But Solon wouldn’t play along. Herodotus says he “preferred truth to flattery,” and he answered like any free man should in any era. Free men, you see, carry themselves with a certain dignity—one that wealth can’t buy and power can’t command. They never let rank or riches diminish what makes us truly human.

He named Tellus, a modest Athenian who had died fighting for his city, surrounded by a family who honored him. Ouch.

Croesus, a bit irritated, doubled down. “Fine, and who’s second?”

Again, expecting to hear “You, O radiant and most glorious king.”

Nope.

Solon chose Cleobis and Biton, two brothers who carried their mother in a cart to a religious festival when her oxen died. After arriving and receiving her blessing, the boys died peacefully in their sleep—at the peak of strength and virtue.

Now Croesus lost his temper. Didn’t Solon see the wealth? The power? The silk robes and ivory thrones? Some of the king’s attendants may have smiled nervously—others pretended not to hear. One may have even reached for the grapes again, as if distraction could shield their pampered ruler from blasphemy. And yet, there he was: a traveling hippie, speaking bluntly to their king. Was he fearless, or just foolish? Either way, Croesus wasn’t used to being challenged. That’s when Solon dropped the hammer.

“Croesus, you ask me to judge happiness—but I know how jealous the gods can be. Fortune changes. No two days are the same. Until a man is dead—and died well—you cannot know if he was truly happy.” In other words: Don’t count your blessings before the credits roll.

This is usually summed up as: “Call no man happy until his end is known.” Not the most marketable slogan, perhaps—but a devastatingly wise one. Because real happiness isn’t about a snapshot. It’s the arc of a life. And that arc can twist.

Croesus didn’t want to hear any of that. So he sent Solon away.

Sometime later, he lost his empire, his son died in a tragic hunting accident, and the Persians captured him. Legend says that, as he stood atop the pyre—moments from death—he cried out: “Solon, Solon, Solon!” A final epiphany, though perhaps not entirely too late. The Persian king, it turns out, was wiser than Croesus. He understood how fickle fortune could be, and spared his life. But the lesson still stands: Croesus lost everything he once thought gave life its meaning. Wealth, power, glory—none of it could shield him from the capricious will of fate.

A Reflection for Our Times

We live in an age obsessed with likes, clicks, and headlines. “Success” is defined by visibility and speed. Five minutes on LinkedIn will prove my point.

But Solon reminds us that happiness isn’t what glitters—it’s what endures. It’s not about how you start, or even how high you climb. It’s about how you live, how you lose, and how you finish.

Croesus wasn’t wrong to enjoy his wealth. And while we may not wear crowns, most of us enjoy the comforts of the deliciously prosperous bourgeoisie—especially compared to the hardships of every other age. His real mistake was assuming that prosperity was permanent, that it proved his virtue, and that it guaranteed a happy ending. It didn’t.

Solon’s lesson still matters. Not just because misfortune is inevitable—but because meaning requires perspective and perspective takes time. We all stumble. We all face suffering. But if we aim for integrity and act with courage even when the crowd isn’t watching, we just might find ourselves—quietly, steadily—becoming the kind of people Solon would call happy.

But there’s something else.

Solon didn’t just challenge a king. He challenged an entire worldview—the idea that fortune equals favor, that fame equals fulfillment, that success equals virtue. Solon’s heroes were anonymous—and that especially infuriated the king. His words cut deeper because they point to a political truth we often ignore: that societies too can be rich and yet undignified, celebrated and yet lost.

When we forget that freedom is more than indulgence—and happiness more than achievement—we risk becoming Croesus with a crown: admired, envied… and ultimately hollow. True happiness, Solon suggests, is never an algorithmic outcome. It is earned in the long arc of a life lived with meaning, forged in adversity, remembered with honor. It is found not in the dominance of a social hierarchy, but in dignity.

We all like to think we’re freer than ever. No kings, no crowns—just democracy, meritocracy, and free expression. But watch closely. In the conference room, in the comments section, at the gala dinner: How many speak the truth, and how many speak to please? We say we’ve stopped bowing to monarchs, yet we bend daily to trending narratives, corporate slogans, and the nearest powerful voice. The robes are gone, but the rituals remain. The grapes are gone—but the theater still stands. That’s why Solon’s teaching is immortal. Because a free man doesn’t flatter. A free man doesn’t perform. A free man speaks with clarity and bows only to what is just and divine.

Will holds a PhD in Philosophy from Universidad Francisco Marroquín, where he taught for over six years and served as Coordinator of Global Affairs. He is currently a professor at Universidad de las Hespérides and directs the Great Books Conversations program.