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.