The atmosphere this morning in New Haven is eerily
portentous. The birds are simply beside themselves, and four large hawks are wheeling high above me now, evidently taking advantage of eccentric rodent movements over the wooded hillside opposite. The sky
has a weird pallor, a lowering carpet sullenness that I do not
recall ever having seen before. The streets are almost empty. Were it not
for a sense of overriding natural indifference, one might think of certain
atmospherics in Guy Mannering or, come to think of it, Ivanhoe: “‘A murrain take thee,’ rejoined the
swineherd; ‘wilt thou talk of such things, while a terrible storm of thunder
and lightning is raging within a few miles of us? Hark, how the thunder
rumbles! and for summer rain, I never saw such broad downright flat drops fall
out of the clouds; the oaks too, notwithstanding the calm weather, sob and creak
with their great boughs as if announcing a tempest. Thou can’st play the
rational if thou wilt; credit me for once, and let us home ere the storm begins
to rage, for the night will be fearful.’” On the other hand, Hurricane Sandy might fizzle
but I rather doubt it. My money is with the swineherd.
A murrain, incidentally, is an archaic term for various infectious diseases affecting cattle and sheep, hence its use here as a curse.
