 | Mrs. Skaggs's husbands, and other sketches |  |
FROM A BALCONY.
THE little stone balcony, which, by a popular
fallacy, is supposed to be a necessary appurtenance
of my window, has long been to me a
source of curious interest. The fact that the asperities
of our summer weather will not permit
me to use it but once or twice in six months does
not alter my concern for this incongruous ornament.
It affects me as I suppose the conscious
possession of a linen coat or a nankeen trousers
might affect a sojourner here who has not entirely
outgrown his memory of Eastern summer heat and
its glorious compensations,— a luxurious providence
against a possible but by no means probable contengency.
I do no longer wonder at the persistency
with which San Franciscans adhere to this architectural
superfluity in the face of climatical impossibilities.
The balconies in which no one sits,
the piazzas on which no one lounges, are timid advances
made to a climate whose churlishness we
are trying to temper by an ostentation of confidence.
Ridiculous as this spectacle is at all seasons,
it is never more so than in that bleak interval
between sunset and dark, when the shrill scream
all the hard, unsympathetic quality of the climate
into one vocal expression. Add to this the appearance
of one or two pedestrians, manifestly too late
for their dinners, and tasting in the shrewish air a
bitter premonition of the welcome that awaits them
at home, and you have one of those ordinary views
from my balcony which makes the balcony itself
ridiculous.
But as I lean over its balustrade to-night — a
night rare in its kindness and beauty — and watch
the fiery ashes of my cigar drop into the abysmal
darkness below, I am inclined to take back the
whole of that preceding paragraph, although it
cost me some labor to elaborate its polite malevolence.
I can even recognize some melody in the
music which comes irregularly and fitfully from
the balcony of the Museum on Market Street, although
it may be broadly stated that, as a general
thing, the music of all museums, menageries, and
circuses becomes greatly demoralized, — possibly
through associations with the beasts. So soft and
courteous is this atmosphere that I have detected
the flutter of one or two light dresses on the adjacent
balconies and piazzas, and the front parlor
windows of a certain aristocratic mansion in the
vicinity, which have always maintained a studious
reserve in regard to the interior, to-night are suddenly
thrown into the attitude of familiar disclosure.
street with a lounging step which is quite a relief
to that usual brisk, business-like pace which the
chilly nights impose upon even the most sentimental
lovers. The genial influences of the air
are not restricted to the opening of shutters and
front doors; other and more gentle disclosures
are made, no doubt, beneath this moonlight. The
bonnet and hat which passed beneath my balcony
a few moments ago were suspiciously close together.
I argued from this that my friend the
editor will probably receive any quantity of verses
for his next issue, containing allusions to “Luna,”
in which the original epithet of “silver” will be
applied to this planet, and that a “boon” will be
asked for the evident purpose of rhyming with
“moon,” and for no other. Should neither of the
parties be equal to this expression, the pent-up
feelings of the heart will probably find vent later
in the evening over the piano, in “I wandered by
the Brookside,” or “When the Moon on the Lake is
Beaming.” But it has been permitted me to hear
the fulfilment of my prophecy even as it was uttered.
From the window of number Twelve Hundred
and Seven gushes upon the slumberous misty
air the maddening ballad, “Ever of Thee,” while
at Twelve Hundred and Eleven the “Star of the
Evening” rises with a chorus. I am inclined to
think that there is something in the utter vacuity
itself to the young. The simple statement,
“Star of the evening,” is again and again repeated
with an imbecile relish; while the adjective “beautiful”
recurs with a steady persistency, too exasperating
to dwell upon here. At occasional intervals,
a base voice enunciates “Star-r! Star-r!” as a
solitary and independent effort. Sitting here in
my balcony, I picture the possessor of that voice
as a small, stout young man, standing a little apart
from the other singers, with his hands behind him,
under his coat-tail, and a severe expression of
countenance. He sometimes leans forward, with
a futile attempt to read the music over somebody
else's shoulder, but always resumes his old severity
of attitude before singing his part. Meanwhile
the celestial subjects of this choral adoration look
down upon the scene with a tranquillity and patience
which can only result from the security with
which their immeasurable remoteness invests them.
I would remark that the stars are not the only topics
subject to this “damnable iteration.” A certain
popular song, which contains the statement, “I
will not forget you, mother,” apparently reposes all
its popularity on the constant and dreary repetition
of this unimportant information, which at least
produces the desired result among the audience.
If the best operatic choruses are not above this
weakness, the unfamiliar language in which they
are sung offers less violation to common sense.
It may be parenthetically stated here that the
songs alluded to above may be found in sheet music
on the top of the piano of any young lady who
has just come from boarding-school. “The Old
Arm-Chair,” or “Woodman, spare that Tree,” will
be also found in easy juxtaposition. The latter
songs are usually brought into service at the instance
of an uncle or bachelor brother, whose
request is generally prefaced by a remark deprecatory
of the opera, and the gratuitous observation
that “we are retrograding, sir, — retrograding,”
and that “there is no music like the old songs.”
He sometimes condescends to accompany “Marie”
in a tremulous barytone, and is particularly forcible
in those passages where the word “repeat” is
written, for reasons stated above. When the song
is over, to the success of which he feels he has
materially contributed, he will inform you that
you may talk of your “arias,” and your “romanzas,”
“but for music, sir, — music —” at which
point he becomes incoherent and unintelligible.
It is this gentleman who suggests “China,” or
“Brattle Street,” as a suitable and cheerful exercise
for the social circle. There are certain amatory
songs, of an arch and coquettish character,
familiar to these localities, which the young lady,
being called upon to sing, declines with a bashful
and tantalizing hesitation. Prominent among these
may be mentioned an erotic effusion entitled “I 'm
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
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, provençals,
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
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, 't is in good case! Na'theless, 't will
serve. So! so! What! dispersed! Nay, then, I
too will retire.
| Mrs. Skaggs's husbands, and other sketches | |