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The Euroclydon knew just the moment to strike into the discord of the
weather in New England. From its lair about Point Desolation, from the
glaciers of the Greenland continent, sweeping round the coast, leaving
wrecks in its track, it marched right athwart the other conflicting
winds, churning them into a fury, and inaugurating chaos. It was the
Marat of the elements. It was the revolution marching into the “dreaded
wood of La Sandraie.”

Let us sum it all up in one word: it was something for which there is no
name.

Its track was destruction. On the sea it leaves wrecks. What does it
leave on land? Funerals. When it subsides, New England is prostrate. It
has left its legacy: this legacy is coughs and patent medicines. This
is an epic; this is destiny. You think Providence is expelled out of New
England? Listen!

Two days after Euroclydon, I found in the woods the hepatica–earliest
of wildwood flowers, evidently not intimidated by the wild work of the
armies trampling over New England–daring to hold up its tender blossom.
One could not but admire the quiet pertinacity of Nature. She had been
painting the grass under the snow. In spots it was vivid green. There
was a mild rain,–mild, but chilly. The clouds gathered, and broke away
in light, fleecy masses. There was a softness on the hills. The birds
suddenly were on every tree, glancing through the air, filling it with
song, sometimes shaking raindrops from their wings. The cat brings in
one in his mouth. He thinks the season has begun, and the game-laws are
off. He is fond of Nature, this cat, as we all are: he wants to possess
it. At four o’clock in the morning there is a grand dress-rehearsal of
the birds. Not all the pieces of the orchestra have arrived; but there
are enough. The grass-sparrow has come. This is certainly charming. The
gardener comes to talk about seeds: he uncovers the straw-berries and
the grape-vines, salts the asparagus-bed, and plants the peas. You ask
if he planted them with a shot-gun. In the shade there is still frost in
the ground. Nature, in fact, still hesitates; puts forth one hepatica at
a time, and waits to see the result; pushes up the grass slowly, perhaps
draws it in at night.

This indecision we call Spring.

It becomes painful. It is like being on the rack for ninety days,
expecting every day a reprieve. Men grow hardened to it, however.

This is the order with man,–hope, surprise, bewilderment, disgust,
facetiousness. The people in New England finally become facetious about
spring. This is the last stage: it is the most dangerous. When a man
has come to make a jest of misfortune, he is lost. “It bores me to die,”
said the journalist Carra to the headsman at the foot of the guillotine:
“I would like to have seen the continuation.” One is also interested to
see how spring is going to turn out.

A day of sun, of delusive bird-singing, sight of the mellow earth,–all
these begin to beget confidence. The night, even, has been warm. But
what is this in the morning journal, at breakfast?–“An area of low
pressure is moving from the Tortugas north.” You shudder.

What is this Low Pressure itself,–it? It is something frightful, low,
crouching, creeping, advancing; it is a foreboding; it is misfortune by
telegraph; it is the “’93” of the atmosphere.

This low pressure is a creation of Old Prob. What is that? Old Prob. is
the new deity of the Americans, greater than AEolus, more despotic than
Sans-Culotte. The wind is his servitor, the lightning his messenger. He
is a mystery made of six parts electricity, and one part “guess.” This
deity is worshiped by the Americans; his name is on every man’s lips
first in the morning; he is the Frankenstein of modern science. Housed
at Washington, his business is to direct the storms of the whole country
upon New England, and to give notice in advance. This he does. Sometimes
he sends the storm, and then gives notice. This is mere playfulness on
his part: it is all one to him. His great power is in the low pressure.