By Bret Harte
I remember that long ago， as a sanguine and trustful child， Ibecame possessed of a highly colored lithograph， representinga fair Circassian sitting by a window. The price I paid forthis work of art may have been extravagant）， even in youth’sfluctuating slate-pencil currency； but the secret joy I feltin its possession knew no pecuniary equivalent. It was notalone that Nature in Circassia lavished alike upon the cheekof beauty and the vegetable kingdom that most expensive ofcolors， Lake； nor was it that the rose which bloomed besidethe fair Circassian’s window had no visible stem， and wasdirectly grafted upon a marble balcony； but it was because itembodied an idea. That idea was a hinting of my fate. I feltthat somewhere a young and fair Circassian was sitting by awindow looking out for me. The idea of resisting such an arrayof charms and color never occurred to me， and to my honorbe it recorded， that during the feverish period of adoles-cenceI never thought of averting my destiny. But as vacation andholiday came and went， and as my picture at first grew blurred，and then faded quite away between the Eastern and Westerncontinents in my atlas， so its charm seemed mysteriously topass away. When I became convinced that few females， ofCircassian or other origin， sat pensively resting their chins ontheir hennatinged nails， at their parlor windows， I turned myattention to back windows. Although the fair Circassian hasnot yet burst upon me with open shutters， some peculiaritiesnot unworthy of note have fallen under my observation. Thisknowledge has not been gained without sacrifice. I have mademyself familiar with back windows and their prospects， in theweak disguise of seeking lodgings， heedless of the suspiciousglances of landladies and their evident reluctance to showthem. I have caught cold by long exposure to draughts. I havebecome estranged from friends by unconsciously walking totheir back windows during a visit， when the weekly linen hungupon the line， or where Miss Fanny （ostensibly indisposed）actually assisted in the laundry， and Master Bobby， in scantattire， disported himself on the area railings. But I havethought of Galileo， and the invariable experience of all seekersand discoverers of truth has sustained me.
Show me the back windows of a man’s dwelling， and I willtell you his character. The rear of a house only is sincere. Theattitude of deception kept up at the front windows leaves theback area defenceless. The world enters at the front door，but nature comes out at the back passage. That glossy， wellbrushedindividual， who lets himself in with a latchkey at thefront door at night， is a very different being from the slipshodwretch who growls of mornings for hot water at the door ofthe kitchen. The same with Madame， whose contour of figuregrows angular， whose face grows pallid， whose hair comesdown， and who looks some ten years older through the sinceremedium of a back window. No wonder that intimate friendsfail to recognize each other in this dos a dos position. You mayimagine yourself familiar with the silver door-plate and bowwindowsof the mansion where dwells your Saccharissa ； youmay even fancy you recognize her graceful figure between thelace curtains of the upper chamber which you fondly imagineto be hers； but you shall dwell for months in the rear of herdwelling and within whispering distance of her bower， andnever know it. You shall see her with a handkerchief tied roundher head in confidential discussion with the butcher， and knowher not. You shall hear her voice in shrill expostulation withher younger brother， and it shall awaken no familiar response.
I am writing at a back window. As I prefer the warmth ofmy coal-fire to the foggy freshness of the afternoon breezethat rattles the leafless shrubs in the garden below me， I havemy window-sash， closed ； consequently， I miss much of theshrilly altercation that has been going on in the kitchen of No.
7 just opposite. I have heard fragments of an entertaining styleof dialogue usually known as “chaffing，” which has just takenplace between Biddy in No. 9 and the butcher who brings thedinner. I have been pitying the chilled aspect of a poor canary，put out to taste the fresh air， from the window of No. 5. I havebeen watching and envying， I fear the real enjoyment of twochildren raking over an old dustheap in the alley， containingthe waste and debris of all the back yards in the neighborhood.
What a wealth of soda-water bottles and old iron they haveacquired！ But I am waiting for an even more familiar prospectfrom my back window. I know that later in the afternoon，when the evening paper comes， a thickset， gray-haired manwill appear in his shirt-sleeves at the back door of No. 9， and，seating himself on the door-step， begin to read. He lives in apretentious house， and I hear he is a rich man. But there is suchhumility in his attitude， and such evidence of gratitude at beingallowed to sit outside of his own house and read his paper inhis shirt-sleeves， that I can picture his domestic history prettyclearly. Perhaps he is following some old habit of humblerdays. Perhaps he has entered into an agreement with his wifenot to indulge his disgraceful habit in-doors. He does not looklike a man who could be coaxed into a dressing-gown. In frontof his own palatial residence， I know him to be a quiet andrespectable middle-aged business-man， but it is from my backwindow that my heart warms toward him in his shirt-sleevedsimplicity. So I sit and watch him in the twilight as he readsgravely， and wonder sometimes， when he looks up， squares hischest， and folds his paper thoughtfully over his knee， whetherhe doesn’t fancy he hears the letting down of bars， or thetinkling of bells， as the cows come home and stand lowing forhim at the gate.