If they are singularly transparent as to the man--opening, especially to Atticus, the doors of his soul more completely than would even any girl of the nineteenth century when writing to her bosom friend--they must be taken as being more honestly true.

To regard the aspirations as hypocritical, and only the meaner effusions of his mind as emblematic of the true man, is both unreasonable and uncharitable.

Nor, I think, will that reader grasp the way to see the truth who cannot teach himself what has in Cicero's case, been the effect of daring to tell to his friend an unvarnished tale.
When with us some poor thought does make its way across our minds, we do not sit down and write it to another, nor, if we did, would an immortality be awarded to the letter.

If one of us were to lose his all--as Cicero lost his all when he was sent into exile--I think it might well be that he should for a time be unmanned; but he would either not write, or, in writing, would hide much of his feelings.

On losing his Tullia, some father of to-day would keep it all in his heart, would not maunder out his sorrows.