Neighborhoods I Have Moved From

"Neighborhoods I Have Moved From" is a collection of stories by Bret Harte that explores the complexities of American life in the late 19th century. Through his vivid characters and richly drawn settings, Harte delves into themes of displacement, identity, and the passage of time. Each narrative reflects on the various communities and landscapes the author has encountered, capturing the essence of human experience in a changing world. With his characteristic wit and keen observations, Harte invites readers to reflect on their own connections to place and the memories that linger long after we move on.

• Essay

								
I.

A bay-window once settled the choice of my house and compensated for
many of its inconveniences. When the chimney smoked, or the doors
alternately shrunk and swelled, resisting any forcible attempt to
open them, or opening of themselves with ghostly deliberation, or when
suspicious blotches appeared on the ceiling in rainy weather, there was
always the bay-window to turn to for comfort. And the view was a fine
one. Alcatraz, Lime Point, Fort Point, and Saucelito were plainly
visible over a restless expanse of water that changed continually,
glittering in the sunlight, darkening in rocky shadow, or sweeping in
mimic waves on a miniature beach below.

Although at first the bay-window was supposed to be sacred to myself
and my writing materials, in obedience to some organic law, it by and by
became a general lounging-place. A rocking-chair and crochet basket
one day found their way there. Then the baby invaded its recesses,
fortifying himself behind intrenchments of colored worsteds and spools
of cotton, from which he was only dislodged by concerted assault, and
carried lamenting into captivity. A subtle glamour crept over all who
came within its influence. To apply one's self to serious work there was
an absurdity. An incoming ship, a gleam on the water, a cloud lingering
about Tamalpais, were enough to distract the attention. Reading or
writing, the bay-window was always showing something to be looked at.
Unfortunately, these views were not always pleasant, but the window gave
equal prominence and importance to all, without respect to quality.

The landscape in the vicinity was unimproved, but not rural. The
adjacent lots had apparently just given up bearing scrub-oaks, but had
not seriously taken to bricks and mortar. In one direction the vista was
closed by the Home of the Inebriates, not in itself a cheerful-looking
building, and, as the apparent terminus of a ramble in a certain
direction, having all the effect of a moral lesson. To a certain extent,
however, this building was an imposition. The enthusiastic members of
my family, who confidently expected to see its inmates hilariously
disporting themselves at its windows in the different stages of
inebriation portrayed by the late W. E. Burton, were much disappointed.
The Home was reticent of its secrets. The County Hospital, also in range
of the bay-window, showed much more animation. At certain hours of the
day convalescents passed in review before the window on their way to
an airing. This spectacle was the still more depressing from a singular
lack of sociability that appeared to prevail among them. Each man
was encompassed by the impenetrable atmosphere of his own peculiar
suffering. They did not talk or walk together. From the window I have
seen half a dozen sunning themselves against a wall within a few feet
of each other, to all appearance utterly oblivious of the fact. Had they
but quarrelled or fought,--anything would have been better than this
horrible apathy.

The lower end of the street on which the bay-window was situate, opened
invitingly from a popular thoroughfare; and after beckoning the unwary
stranger into its recesses, ended unexpectedly at a frightful precipice.
On Sundays, when the travel North-Beachwards was considerable, the
bay-window delighted in the spectacle afforded by unhappy pedestrians
who were seduced into taking this street as a short-cut somewhere else.
It was amusing to notice how these people invariably, on coming to the
precipice, glanced upward to the bay-window and endeavored to assume a
careless air before they retraced their steps, whistling ostentatiously,
as if they had previously known all about it. One high-spirited young
man in particular, being incited thereto by a pair of mischievous bright
eyes in an opposite window, actually descended this fearful precipice
rather than return, to the great peril of life and limb, and manifest
injury to his Sunday clothes.

Dogs, goats, and horses constituted the fauna of our neighborhood.
Possessing the lawless freedom of their normal condition, they still
evinced a tender attachment to man and his habitations. Spirited steeds
got up extempore races on the sidewalks, turning the street into a
miniature Corso; dogs wrangled in the areas; while from the hill beside
the house a goat browsed peacefully upon my wife's geraniums in the
flower-pots of the second-story window. "We had a fine hail-storm last
night," remarked a newly arrived neighbor, who had just moved into the
adjoining house. It would have been a pity to set him right, as he
was quite enthusiastic about the view and the general sanitary
qualifications of the locality. So I didn't tell him anything about the
goats who were in the habit of using his house as a stepping-stone to
the adjoining hill.

But the locality was remarkably healthy. People who fell down the
embankments found their wounds heal rapidly in the steady sea-breeze.
Ventilation was complete and thorough. The opening of the bay-window
produced a current of wholesome air which effectually removed all
noxious exhalations, together with the curtains, the hinges of the back
door, and the window-shutters. Owing to this peculiarity, some of
my writings acquired an extensive circulation and publicity in the
neighborhood, which years in another locality might not have produced.
Several articles of wearing apparel, which were mysteriously transposed
from our clothes-line to that of an humble though honest neighbor, was
undoubtedly the result of these sanitary winds. Yet in spite of these
advantages I found it convenient in a few months to move. And the result
whereof I shall communicate in other papers.

II.

"A house with a fine garden and extensive shrubbery, in a genteel
neighborhood," were, if I remember rightly, the general terms of an
advertisement which once decided my choice of a dwelling. I should add
that this occurred at an early stage of my household experience, when I
placed a trustful reliance in advertisements. I have since learned
that the most truthful people are apt to indulge a slight vein of
exaggeration in describing their own possessions, as though the mere
circumstance of going into print were an excuse for a certain kind of
mendacity. But I did not fully awaken to this fact until a much later
period, when, in answering an advertisement which described a highly
advantageous tenement, I was referred to the house I then occupied, and
from which a thousand inconveniences were impelling me to move.

The "fine garden" alluded to was not large, but contained several
peculiarly shaped flower-beds. I was at first struck with the singular
resemblance which they bore to the mutton-chops that are usually brought
on the table at hotels and restaurants,--a resemblance the more striking
from the sprigs of parsley which they produced freely. One plat in
particular reminded me, not unpleasantly, of a peculiar cake, known
to my boyhood as "a bolivar." The owner of the property, however, who

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes