which the individual
leaves behind him. Imaginative persons often picture to themselves, even
in solitary musings, the presence of a distant friend, to whom they
impart their most private opinions; and in the same manner a letter is a
kind of soliloquy. For often the friend to whom, we write is rather the
occasion than the subject of the letter. Whatever rejoices or pains,
oppresses or occupies us, is poured forth from the heart. As lasting
evidences of an existence or a condition, such papers are the more
important for posterity, the more the writer lives in the moment and the
less he is concerned with the future. Winckelmann's letters sometimes
have this desirable character.

Although this excellent man, who educated himself in solitude, was
reticent in society, serious and discreet in his personal life and
conduct toward others, he was free and unconstrained in his letters, in
which he often reveals himself, without hesitation, just as he felt. We
see him worried, troubled, confused, doubting and dilatory, but also
cheerful, alert, bold, daring, and unrestrained to the degree of
cynicism; altogether, however, as a man of tempered character and
confident in himself; who, although the outer conditions offered to his
imagination so much to choose from, usually chose the best way, except
when he took the last impatient step which cost him his life.

His letters, having the general characteristics of rectitude and
directness, differ according to the persons to whom they are addressed,
which is always the case when a clever correspondent imagines those
present with whom he is speaking at a distance, and therefore no more
neglects what is proper and suitable than he would in their presence.

Thus the letters addressed to Stosch (to mention only a few of the
larger groups of Winckelmann's letters) seem to us fine testimonials of
honest cooperation with a friend for a definite purpose; a proof of his
great endurance in a difficult task, thoughtlessly undertaken without
proper preparation, but courageously and happily concluded; they sparkle
with the liveliest literary, political, and society news, and form a
charming picture of life, which would have been more interesting if they
could have been printed entire and unmutilated. Charming also is his
frankness, even in passionate disapproval of a friend for whom the
writer was never tired of testifying as much respect as love, as much
gratitude as attachment.

The consciousn