at which she is present, and during
which she asks Macready if he will not now bring out her tragedy. The
tragedian does not answer, but Wordsworth, sitting by, says, 'Ay, keep
him to it.'

V.

Besides the 'Life of Miss Mitford' by Messrs. Harness and Lestrange,
there is also a book of the 'Friendships of Mary Russell Mitford,'
consisting of the letters she received rather than of those which she
wrote. It certainly occurs to one, as one looks through the printed
correspondence of celebrated people, how different are written from
printed letters. Your friend's voice sounds, your friend's eyes look
out, of the written page, even its blots and erasures remind you of your
human being. But the magnetism is gone out of these printer's lines with
their even margins; in which everybody's handwriting is exactly alike;
in which everybody uses the same type, the same expressions; in which
the eye roams from page to page untouched, unconvinced. I can imagine
the pleasure each one of these letters may have given to Miss Mitford
to receive in turn. They come from well-known ladies, accustomed to be
considered. Mrs. Trollope, Mrs. Hofland, Mrs. Howitt, Mrs. S. C. Hall,
Miss Strickland, Mrs. Opie; there, too, are Miss Barrett and Mrs.
Jamieson and Miss Sedgwick who writes from America; they are all
interesting people, but it must be confessed that the correspondence is
not very enlivening. Miss Barrett's is an exception, that is almost as
good as handwriting to read. But there is no doubt that compliments
to OTHER authoresses are much less amusing, than those one writes or
receives oneself; apologies also for not writing sooner, CAN pall
upon one in print, however soothing they may be to the justly offended
recipient, or to the conscience-stricken correspondent.

'I must have seemed a thankless wretch, my dear Miss Mitford,' etc. etc.
'You, my dear friend, know too well what it is to have to finish a book,
to blame my not attempting,' etc. etc. 'This is the thirty-ninth letter
I have written since yesterday morning,' says Harriet Martineau. 'Oh,
I can scarcely hold the pen! I will not allow my shame for not having
written, to prevent me from writing now.' All these people seem to have
been just as busy as people are now, as amusing, as tiresome. They had
the additional difficulty of having to procure franks, and of having to
cover four pages instead of a post-card. OUR letters may be dull, but at
all events they are not nearly so