Florida Pier : writings and about / jmcvey.net
Rural Letters, Chapter Headings, Etc.
Harper’s Weekly (June 25, 1910) : 27
U Michigan copy/scan (via hathitrust) : link
archive.org : link
Letters in the city come out of nowhere. They have to force their way through a general antagonism on the part of the atmosphere. There is a mysterious power that objects to your receiving letters, and, when they do not reach you, you know to a certainty that the power has triumphed and there is any quantity of baffled letters lying on the other side of the anti-letter belt that surrounds you. Postmen are always grumpy men. If one is met on the street and questioned as to whether he has a letter for you, he says, “No.” Just curtly and unsympathetically, “No,” and generally without looking over his letters or explaining why he has not any, or regretting in the least his inability to supply you with what you want. The nicest, friendliest maids are always a little careless and late and slow in their movements when bringing a letter. One’s family very often throws letters at one. Altogether city letters reach you with difficulty and with no help or encouragement from any one, which makes a change to country letters all the more delightful and interesting.
The rural delivery boxes make such ingratiating efforts to assist you and show every sign of taking to heart, of really being interested in nothing else than the arrival or non-arrival of your mail. They fly their little red flags, making desperate, gallant efforts to attract the postman’s attention, and only permit the flag to drop when their purpose has been accomplished; and they contain in their nice, roomy interiors a mail of sorts. One’s fondness for the [rural delivery] box becomes so real that when, a half-hour before the postman can possibly come, you install yourself at the foot of the box, it is positively for the delight of being near the box, and waiting for the letters is secondary and unimportant. They stand just as near the road as they reasonably can without courting the risk of being run over, and by their position on the very edge of things exhibit such a likable impatience and willingness to meet the postman almost more than half-way. Their depressed squeak as you open them, to find nothing, is so self-condemnatory that any idea you had of blaming them goes at once, chased away by the realization that they made every possible effort, and if the thing had been humanly possible it would have been accomplished. The squeak at such a time is very different from the one announcing a perfect budget, expressing such joy, such satisfaction and interest, that thanks are not even expected, your pleasure repaying them sufficiently. One’s fondness for the box becomes so real that when, a half-hour before the postman can possibly come, you install yourself at the foot of the box, it is positively for the delight of being near the box, and waiting for the letters is secondary and unimportant.
Chapter headings are not at all what they were, which is saying the worst possible thing for present-day chapter headings, as nothing could have been nicer than what they used to be. Burton’s chapter headings make even The Anatomy of Melancholy sound rather pleasing, and induce that agreeable glow that leads to a musing on the chapter headings, a carrying on of the hints that have been thrown out, a capitulation to their enticing indefiniteness, until one is so enamoured of the book, built up out of the table of contents, that, in a lover-like fear of dispelling it, the decision is made to limit oneself just to the chapter headings and refrain altogether from reading the book itself.
Next to nothing is done with chapter headings nowadays. Their aid is discarded as being superfluous and a shade prosy. Next to nothing is done with chapter headings nowadays. Their aid is discarded as being superfluous and a shade prosy. There used to be a something gradual, rambling, and suggestive of genteel leisure in the manner of beginning a book. The chapter headings used to bewilder, charm, and entice one’s interest, to pique one into an immediate retirement into a corner with the book, to rouse an enthusiasm quite sufficient to carry one through the first few chapters, in which the author, having got you well excited by the guarded intimations of what was to come, plagued you and amused himself by drowsily describing matters and places only faintly relevant to the story, so that by the time it was finally commenced in the fourth chapter the reader and the author were on excellent terms, the latter having played his little joke and rewarded the former by the beginning of a rattling tale for the patience and good-nature which he had shown in bearing up under a pretty severe test. Now all this preamble is thrown aside, and, with the suddenness of two strangers pitched into the same lifeboat and sitting up bruised and staring, surprised to find themselves together, the reader and the author begin without warning in the middle of the book, only to be finally obliged, when they have learned each other’s ways a bit, to retrace their steps and take another look at that first chapter with eyes but recently initiated.
Think what Borrow, literal, stern Borrow, who always meant to be dull, yet could not for the life of him help being racy to the marrow, managed to do with chapter headings: “Sunday Night — Sleep, Sin, and Old Age — The Dream-Lanikin Figure — A Literary Purchase”; “The Newspaper — A New Walk — Pentré y Dwr — Oatmeal and Barley — Meal — The Man on Horseback — Heavy News”; “Preparations for Departure — Cat Provided For — A Pleasant Party — Last Night at Llangollen”; “Departure for South Wales — Tregeiriog — Pleasing Scene — Trying to Read — Garmon and Lupus — The Cracked Voice — Effect of a Compliment”; “A Low Englishman — Enquiries — The Cook — A Precious Couple.” They are intoxicating. The way in which he couples “The Freckled Maid” and “Conversions to the Church” makes one’s head reel, and the ensuing dizziness is an exaltation. Then, “Evening Gossip — The Bridge of the Minister — Legs in Danger.” It is irresistible. “Legs in Danger” leads one through theological discussions, tirades of his hardy hate, detailed facts, like will-o’-the-wisp across the bog. It is irresistible. “Legs in Danger” leads one through theological discussions, tirades of his hardy hate, detailed facts, like will-o’-the-wisp across the bog. “Legs in Danger” hypnotizes and befuddles the greatest mind. “Legs in Danger” remains after many readings a wholly seductive heading.
Thackeray was a master of chapter headings. “The Piano that Captain Dobbins Bought and Who Played On It” sticks in the head when Amelia’s name cannot be remembered, and one is put to it to recall which volume contained Captain Dobbin. In The Rose and The Ring Thackeray thought it quite worth while to put his “Contents” into verse, and starts out with : “1 — Shows How The Royal Family Sate Down To Breakfast.
Here begins the pantomime,
Royal folks at breakfast time.
Awful consequence of crime!
Ah, I fear, King Valeroso,
That your conduct is but so-so !”
It proves such prodigality of interest on the part of the author in his own story. The mystery with which he surrounds the incidents discloses him in a frenzy of delight over his tale. He lifts the curtain a mite, hurriedly pulls it down, makes it tremble with agitation, and almost faints with excitement himself, thus setting an example the reader would be churlish not to follow.
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