Saturday, 29 October 2022
The midnight collection
Returned to his room he gently whistled an old-fashioned melody; his face passed from grave thoughtfulness to a merry smile. Before going to bed he meant to write a letter, but there was no hurry; two hours had to pass before the midnight collection.
George Gissing - The Town Traveller (1898)
My aunt once had an old postcard written by one of her sisters. It had been posted in Derby to my aunt who lived in a village about six miles from Derby. Posted in the morning, it was sent to arrange a visit in the afternoon of the same day. The postcard arrived on time.
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10 comments:
I think Victorian London had something like 12 collections and deliveries per day.
Today, it is all a bit haphazard as to whether it gets delivered at all. And the cost is eye-watering. Sending cards is another reason to dread the upcoming festival of good cheer.
My mother (Born 1900) told me that, between the wars, the last delivery of Christmas Cards was at midnight on Christmas Eve.
Dickens had some characters write a letter and post it in the morning, then receive a reply by post in the afternoon, in time to respond by the later collection.
Royal Mail - pah! - Royal Snail
I remember a story of a gentleman who lived somewhere in Essex and went to work in the market town about six miles away; if his wife needed him to bring anything from the town she would write a letter, which would be delivered to his office in time for him to fetch whatever was required and bring it home with him that same day.
Also, doesn't the plot of one of Trollope's novels turn on a letter being sent, which, by the ineluctable processes of the Post Office, would certainly be delivered the next day - which was Christmas Day?
But if you suggest that things aren't as good as they used to be, you'll be met with a torrent of abuse from the usual suspects.
I remember a story of a gentleman who lived somewhere in Essex and went to work in the market town about six miles away; if his wife needed him to bring anything from the town she would write a letter, which would be delivered to his office in time for him to fetch whatever was required and bring it home with him that same day.
Also, doesn't the plot of one of Trollope's novels turn on a letter being sent, which, by the ineluctable processes of the Post Office, would certainly be delivered the next day - which was Christmas Day?
But if you suggest that things aren't as good as they used to be, you'll be met with a torrent of abuse from the usual suspects.
I remember a story of a gentleman who lived somewhere in Essex and went to work in the market town about six miles away; if his wife needed him to bring anything from the town she would write a letter, which would be delivered to his office in time for him to fetch whatever was required and bring it home with him that same day.
Also, doesn't the plot of one of Trollope's novels turn on a letter being sent, which, by the ineluctable processes of the Post Office, would certainly be delivered the next day - which was Christmas Day?
But if you suggest that things aren't as good as they used to be, you'll be met with a torrent of abuse from the usual suspects.
I heard in the post office the other day that a "first class" stamp was now 95p and, in the passing, "they're on strike tomorrow".
Sam - yes, the cost has become silly. After my mother died, my father never bothered with cards. Very sensible I thought.
DAD - Imagine the uproar if that was proposed today.
Ed - which is quicker than replies to some texts I send.
peter - for some reason that reminds me of those mail trains where bags of mail were grabbed automatically without the train having to stop. Speed mattered.
Jannie - 95p seems too much to me, as if they don't really want the business.
The joy of those days, the sense of responsibility.
James - and a sense that the job was worth doing well.
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