i must say a good word for the postman. he occupies so large a place in most of our lives that, as a matter of common courtesy, the least we can do is to recognize his value and importance. others may not feel as i do, but i confess that i bless the postman every day of my life. not that i am so fond of receiving letters, for i bless him with equal fervency whether he calls or whether he passes. i know that in this respect i am hopelessly illogical. if i am pleased to see the postmen pass the gate, i ought, if strictly logical, to be sorry to see him enter it. and, contrariwise, if the sight of the postman coming up the path affords me gratification, the spectacle of his passing my gate ought to fill me with disappointment. but i am not logical, never was, and never shall be. the best things in the world are hopelessly illogical—motherhood for example. a mother sits in the arm-chair by the fire, even as i write. she is chattering away to her baby. she knows perfectly well that the baby doesn’t understand a word she says. knowing that she would, if she were logical, give up talking 114to the child. but, just because she is so hopelessly illogical, she prattles away as though the baby could understand every word. it is a way mothers have, and we love them all the better for it. an illogical lady is a very lovable affair; but who ever fell in love with a syllogism? robert louis stevenson is the most lovable of all our english writers, and the most illogical. here is an entry from his diary, by way of illustration. ‘a little irish girl,’ he writes, ‘is now reading my book aloud to her sister at my elbow. they chuckle, and i feel flattered; anon they yawn, and i am indifferent; such a wisely conceived thing is vanity.’ just so. and why not? there is a higher wisdom than the wisdom of logic. if stevenson had been logical, he would have felt elated by the chuckles and crushed by the yawns. but he knew better, and so do i. if the postman passes my door, i heave a sigh of relief that i have no letters to answer; it is almost as good as being granted a half-holiday. am i therefore to be angry when the postman enters the gate, and accept his letters with a grunt? not at all. in that case i throw my logic over the hedge for the edification of my next-door neighbour, and feel pleased that some of my friends are thinking of me. i greet the postman with a smile, and try to make him feel that he has rendered me an appreciable service, as indeed he has.
115i am writing on the hundredth anniversary of the birth of anthony trollope, and i fancy that it is the thought of trollope and his extraordinary work that has set me scribbling about the postman. for trollope was much more than a novelist. he was, in a sense, the prince of british postmen, and the forerunner of rowland hill and henniker heaton. to a far greater extent than we sometimes dream, we owe the efficiency of our modern postal service to anthony trollope. but before he died he became the victim of serious misgivings. he feared that we were losing the art of letter-writing. he produced a bundle of his mother’s love-letters. ‘in no novel of richardson’s or miss burney’s,’ he declared, ‘is there a correspondence so sweet, so graceful, and so well expressed. what girl now studies the words with which she shall address her lover, or seeks to charm him with grace of diction?’ and this lamentation was penned, mark you, years and years ago, before cheap telegrams and picture post cards had become the normal means of communication!
i suppose the real trouble is that we have allowed the amazing development of our commercial correspondence to corrupt the character of our private letter-writing. we indite all our letters in the phraseology of the business college. we write briefly, tersely, pointedly, and, most abominable 116of all, by return of post. i should like to write a separate chapter in vigorous denunciation of the prompt reply. private letters should never be hastily answered. if my friend replies instantly to my long, familiar letter, he gives me the painful impression that he wants to be rid of me, and is unwilling to have on his mind the thought of the letter he owes me. one of these days i shall start a new society to be called the ‘wait a week society.’ its members will be solemnly pledged to wait at least a week before replying to their private letters. there are strong and subtle reasons for taking such a vow. first of all, private letters should be easy, leisurely, chatty, and should only be written when one is in the mood, or when, for some reason, the person to whom it is addressed is specially in one’s thoughts. to this, it may be replied that one is never so much in the mood to write to a friend as when he has just received a letter from that friend. but the argument is fallacious. he is a very happy letter-writer indeed who can write me a long, free, chatty letter without saying anything that will rub me the wrong way or with which i shall disagree. during the first twenty-four hours after receiving his letter, those are the things that are most emphatically impressed upon my mind. if i reply within twenty-four hours, my letter to my friend will deal largely 117with those disputatious and controversial points, and the inevitable result will be that the whole of my letter will grate upon him just as part of his letter has grated upon me. but if, as president of my own society, i wait a week before replying to his letter, i shall see things in their true perspective, and write him a long and breezy letter in which the things that vexed me find no place at all. i am often asked, what is the unpardonable sin? the only sin that i can never pardon is the sin of writing angry letters. i can forgive a man for speaking hastily; i have a temper myself. but to deliberately commit one’s spite to paper is to become guilty of an amazing atrocity and to degrade at the same time the postman’s high and solemn office.
i bless the postman because he can do for me, and do better than i could do, so many delicate things. i regard the postman as a faithful and indispensable assistant. it often falls to a minister’s lot to approach people, and especially young people, on the most delicate and important subjects. upon their decisions much of their future happiness and usefulness will depend. i must therefore go about the business with the utmost care. but if i go to that young man and abruptly introduce the matter to him, i at once put him in a false position, and greatly imperil my chance of success. we are face to face; i have spoken to him, and he, in common 118decency, must speak to me. it would be a thousand times better if, having opened my heart to him, i could withdraw before he uttered a single word. but as it is, i have forced him into a position in which he must say something. his judgement is not ripe, his mind is not made up, the whole subject is new to him, and yet my indiscretion has placed him in such a position that he is compelled to commit himself. he must say something without due consideration; i stand there, like a highway-robber, with my pistol pointed at his brow, and he must give me words. i may not want his words immediately; and he may wish he need not give his words immediately; but we are both the victims of a situation which i have foolishly precipitated. he speaks; and however he may guard his utterance, his final decision will inevitably be compromised by those hasty and immature sentences.
the evidence must be perfectly overwhelming that will lead a man to reverse a decision once made. and here am i, his would-be friend and helper, forcing him into a position from which he will find it very difficult to extricate himself. i meant to do him good, and i have done him incalculable harm. i meant to be his friend, and i have become his enemy. so true is it that evil is wrought from want of thought as well as want of heart.
now see how much better the postman manages 119the matter. i sit down at my desk and write exactly what i want to say. i am not under any necessity to complete a sentence until i can do so to my own perfect satisfaction. i can pause to consider the exact word that i wish to employ. and if, when it is written, my letter does not please me, i can tear it up without his being any the wiser, and write it all over again. i am not driven to impromptu utterance or careless phraseology. i am free of the inevitable effect upon my expression produced by the presence of another person. i am not embarrassed by the embarrassment that he feels on being approached on so vital a theme. i am cool, collected, leisurely, and free. and the advantages that come to me in inditing the letter are shared by him in receiving it. he is alone, and therefore entirely himself. he is not disconcerted by the presence of an interviewer. he owes nothing to etiquette or ceremony. he has the advantage of having the case stated to him as forcefully and as well as i am able to state it. he can read at ease and in silence without the awkward feeling that, in one moment, he must make some sort of reply. if he is vexed at my intrusion into his private affairs, he has time to recover from his displeasure and to reflect that i am moved entirely by a desire for his welfare. if he is flattered at my attention, he has time to fling aside such superficial considerations 120and to face the issue on its merits. the matter sinks into his soul; becomes part of his normal life and thought; and, by the time we meet, he is prepared to talk it over without embarrassment, without personal feeling, and without undue reserve. in such matters—and they are among the most important matters with which a minister is called to deal—the postman is able to render me invaluable assistance.
there is something positively sacramental about the postman. for the letters that he carries have no value in themselves; they are simply paper and ink. they are precious only so far as they reveal the heart of the sender to the heart of the receiver. here, for instance, is a letter for a young lady. she is at the door before the bell has ceased its ringing. she greets the postman with a smile, and blushes as she glances at the familiar handwriting. as soon as the postman has closed the gate after him, she hurries down to the summer-house, her favourite retreat, to read her letter. but she is not alone. bruno, her big collie, goes bounding after his mistress. she reads the first pages of the letter, and allows the sheet to slip from her lap to the ground, whilst she proceeds to devour the following pages. and as the fluttering missive lies upon the floor of the summer-house, bruno examines it. a dog’s eyes are sharper than a 121girl’s eyes; yet how little the dog sees! he sees a piece of white paper covered with black marks—sees perhaps more in that respect than she does—yet he sees nothing, and less than nothing, for all that. for she sees, not the black marks on the white paper, but the very heart of one who worships her. she is gazing so intently into the soul of her lover that she does not notice whether the ‘t’s’ are crossed, or the ‘i’s’ dotted. to her the letter is a sacramental thing; its value lies not in itself, but in the revelation that it makes to her.
and it is because the postman spends his whole life among just such sacramental things that we welcome and honour him. we have an amiable way of transferring to the messenger the welcome that we accord to the message. jessie pope describes the joy of a mother on receiving a wire from her soldier-boy that he will soon be back again from the front.
‘home at six-thirty to-day.’
oh, what a tumult of joy!
growing suspense flies away,
god bless that telegraph-boy!
god bless that telegraph-boy! exactly. and that is why we honour the postman. the messenger always shares in the welcome given to the message how beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of 122him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace! we ministers often share in the postman’s benediction. we are welcomed and honoured and loved, not so much for our own sake as for the sake of the great, glad message that we bear. the heart leaps up to the message and blesses the messenger. god bless the telegraph-boy! god bless the postman!
