From a Balcony Page #2

"From a Balcony" is a short story by Bret Harte that explores themes of observation, social dynamics, and the complexities of human relationships. Set against the backdrop of a vibrant California town, the narrative follows a narrator observing the life and interactions of people below from his balcony. As he witnesses the nuances of their behaviors and exchanges, the story reveals insights about class, identity, and the often unseen connections that bind individuals together. Harte's keen eye for detail and his ability to convey the subtleties of human emotion create a rich tapestry that captures the essence of community life.

• Essay

								

in my Sleep," which, when sung by a young person vivaciously and with
appropriate glances, can be made to drive languishing swains to the
verge of madness. Ballads of this quality afford splendid opportunities
for bold young men, who, by ejaculating "Oh!" and "Ah!" at the affecting
passages, frequently gain a fascinating reputation for wildness and
scepticism.

But the music which called up these parenthetical reflections has died
away, and with it the slight animosities it inspired. The last song has
been sung, the piano closed, the lights are withdrawn from the windows,
and the white skirts flutter away from stoops and balconies. The silence
is broken only by the rattle and rumble of carriages coming from theatre
and opera. I fancy that this sound--which, seeming to be more distinct
at this hour than at any other time, might be called one of the civic
voices of the night--has certain urbane suggestions, not unpleasant to
those born and bred in large cities. The moon, round and full, gradually
usurps the twinkling lights of the city, that one by one seem to fade
away and be absorbed in her superior lustre. The distant Mission hills
are outlined against the sky, but through one gap the outlying fog which
has stealthily invested us seems to have effected a breach, and only
waits the co-operation of the laggard sea-breezes to sweep down and
take the beleaguered city by assault. An ineffable calm sinks over the
landscape. In the magical moonlight the shot-tower loses its angular
outline and practical relations, and becomes a minaret from whose
balcony an invisible muezzin calls the Faithful to prayer. "Prayer is
better than sleep." But what is this? A shuffle of feet on the
pavement, a low hum of voices, a twang of some diabolical instrument,
a preliminary hem and cough. Heavens! it cannot be! Ah, yes--it is--it
is--SERENADERS!

Anathema Maranatha! May purgatorial pains seize you, William, Count
of Poitou, Girard de Boreuil, Arnaud de Marveil, Bertrand de Born,
mischievous progenitors of jongleurs, troubadours, provencals,
minnesingers, minstrels, and singers of cansos and love chants!
Confusion overtake and confound your modern descendants, the "metre
ballad-mongers," who carry the shamelessness of the Middle Ages into
the nineteenth century, and awake a sleeping neighborhood to the
brazen knowledge of their loves and wanton fancies! Destruction and
demoralization pursue these pitiable imitators of a barbarous age,
when ladies' names and charms were shouted through the land, and
modest maiden never lent presence to tilt or tourney without hearing a
chronicle of her virtues go round the lists, shouted by wheezy heralds
and taken up by roaring swashbucklers! Perdition overpower such
ostentatious wooers! Marry! shall I shoot the amorous feline who nightly
iterates his love songs on my roof, and yet withhold my trigger finger
from yonder pranksome gallant? Go to! Here is an orange left of last
week's repast. Decay hath overtaken it,--it possesseth neither savor nor
cleanliness. Ha! cleverly thrown! A hit--a palpable hit! Peradventure I
have still a boot that hath done me service, and, barring a looseness of
the heel, an ominous yawning at the side, 'tis in good case! Na'theless,
'twill serve. So! so! What! dispersed! Nay, then, I too will retire.
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