d so often that in having written them he lacked the
fortitude of a Roman. Perhaps I am more capable of appreciating natural
humanity than Roman fortitude. We remember the story of the Spartan boy
who allowed the fox to bite him beneath his frock without crying. I
think we may imagine that he refrained from tears in public, before some
herd of school-fellows, or a bench of masters, or amid the sternness of
parental authority; but that he told his sister afterward how he had
been tortured, or his mother as he lay against her bosom, or perhaps his
chosen chum. Such reticences are made dignified by the occasion, when
something has to be won by controlling the expression to which nature
uncontrolled would give utterance, but are not in themselves evidence
either of sagacity or of courage. Roman fortitude was but a suit of
armor to be worn on state occasions. If we come across a warrior with
his crested helmet and his sword and his spear, we see, no doubt, an
impressive object. If we could find him in his night-shirt, the same man
would be there, but those who do not look deeply into things would be
apt to despise him because his grand trappings were absent. Chance has
given us Cicero in his night-shirt. The linen is of such fine texture
that we are delighted with it, but we despise the man because he wore a
garment--such as we wear ourselves indeed, though when we wear it nobody
is then brought in to look at us.

There is one most touching letter written from Thessalonica to his
brother, by whom, after thoughts vacillating this way and that, he was
unwilling to be visited, thinking that a meeting would bring more of
pain than of service. "Mi frater, mi frater, mi frater!" he begins. The
words in English would hardly give all the pathos. "Did you think that I
did not write because I am angry, or that I did not wish to see you? I
angry with you! But I could not endure to be seen by you. You would not
have seen your brother; not him whom you had left; not him whom you had
known; not him whom, weeping as you went away, you had dismissed,
weeping himself as he strove to follow you."[283] Then he heaps blame on
his own head, bitterly accusing himself because he had brought his
brother to such a pass of sorrow. In this letter he throws great blame
upon Hortensius, whom together with Pompey he accuses of betraying him.
What truth there may have been in this accusation as to Hortensius we
have no means of saying. He couples Pompey in