But here the secret murmurings of the man's soul were sent forth to his choicest friend, with no idea that from them would he be judged by the "historians to come in 600 years,"[269] of whose good word he thought so much.

"Quid vero historiae de nobis ad annos DC.

praedicarint!" he says, to Atticus.

How is it that from them, after 2000 years, the Merivales, Mommsens, and Froudes condemn their great brother in letters whose lightest utterances have been found worthy of so long a life! Is there not an injustice in falling upon a man's private words, words when written intended only for privacy, and making them the basis of an accusation in which an illustrious man shall be arraigned forever as a coward?
It is said that he was unjust even to Atticus, accusing even Atticus of lukewarmness.

What if he did so--for an hour?
Is that an affair of ours?
Did Atticus quarrel with him?
Let any reader of these words who has lived long enough to have an old friend, ask himself whether there has never been a moment of anger in his heart--of anger of which he has soon learned to recognize the injustice?
He may not have written his anger, but then, perhaps, he has not had the pen of a Cicero.