of his finest chapters.  He was the last of the true correspondents, and we shall not soon look upon his like again.  With all the contrivances for increasing our speed of communication, and for enabling us to cram more varied action into a single life, we have less and less time to spare for salutary human intercourse.  The post-card symbolises the tendency of the modern mind.  We have come to find out so many things which ought to be done that we make up our minds to do nothing whatever thoroughly; and the day may come when the news of a tragedy ruining a life or a triumph crowning a career will be conveyed by a sixpenny telegram.  In the bad old days, when postage was dear and the means of conveyance slow, people who could afford to correspond at all sat down to begin a letter as though they were about to engage in some solemn rite.  Every patch of the paper was covered, and every word was weighed, so that the writer screwed the utmost possible value for his money out of the post-office.  The letters written in the last century resembled the deliberate and lengthy communications of Roman gentlemen like Cicero:  and there is little wonder that the good folk made the most of their paper and their time.  We find Godwin casually mentioning the fact that he paid twenty-one shillings and eightpence for the postage of a letter from Shelley; readers of The Antiquary will remember that Lovel paid twenty-five shillings postage for one epistle, besides half a guinea for the express rider. Certes a man had good need to drive a hard bargain with the Post Office in those pinching times!  Of course the “lower orders”—­poor benighted souls—­were not supposed to have any correspondence at all, and the game was kept up by gentlemen of fortune, by merchants, by eager and moneyed lovers, and by stray persons of literary tastes, who could manage to beg franks from members of Parliament and other dignitaries.  One gentleman, not of literary tastes, once franked a cow and sent her by post; but this kind of postal communication was happily rare.  The best of the letter-writers felt themselves bound to give their friends good worth for their money, and thus we find the long chatty letters of the eighteenth century purely delightful.  I do not care much for Lord Chesterfield’s correspondence; he was eternally posing with an eye on the future—­perhaps on the very immediate future.  As Johnson sternly said, “Lord Chesterfield wrote as a dancing-master might write,” and he spoke the truth.  Fancy a man sending such stuff as this to a raw boy—­“You will observe the manners of the people of the best fashion there; not that they are—­it may be—­the best manners in the world, but because they are the best manners of the place where you are, to which a man of sense always conforms.  The nature of things is always and everywhere the same; but the modes of them vary more or less in every country, and an easy and genteel conformity to them, or rather the assuming of them at proper times and proper places,