A "Now" Descriptive of a Damp Day

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB

“ A FRIEND,” says Leigh Hunt in beginning one of his most engaging essays,—“ a friend tells us that having written a ‘Now’ descriptive of a hot day, we ought to write another descriptive of a cold one; and we accordingly do so.” One delights to think that this friend was Keats, and the pleasant hypothesis is more than possibly correct, as may be seen by the following extract from Hunt’s Autobiography : “ The paper that was most liked by Keats, if I remember, was the one on a hot summer’s day, entitled ' A Now.’ He was with me when I was writing it and reading it to him [sic], and contributed one or two of the passages.” Ah, which ? We do not know for certain ; yet it is easy to put a finger on precisely — and only — two bits that have distinct Keatsian quality. Look — and let the mind’s ear listen : “ Now the bee, as he hums along, seems to be talking heavily of the heat.” And again : " Now a green lane . . . thick-set with hedgerow elms, and having the noise of a brook ' rumbling in pebble-stone,’ is one of the pleasantest things in the world.” Perhaps, too, it was Keats who brought the “ plate of strawberries ” that put an end to the writing.

There is no inspiring friend at my elbow ; yet it is my whim to attempt still another “ Now,” a damp-day “ Now.” I may not achieve a companion piece to Hunt’s little miracles of word-work, but I mean at any rate to put a dash of the antique and the right British into my literary manner, in memory of the classic “ Nows.”

Now then — which phrase is indeed, as Hunt hath it, “ fit only for the delicious moments of a gentleman about to crack his bottle, or to run away with a lady, or to open a dance, or to carve a turkey and chine, or to pelt snow-balls, or to commit some other piece of ultra-vivacity [like the present] such as excuses a man from the nicer proprieties of language,” — Now then —

Now, when, getting up in the morning, you thrust a bare, warm foot into a morocco-lined slipper, you wince as if you had stepped on a frog. Now sponges have not dried overnight and are odious in consequence. Now your linen laid ready when you went to bed, upon a chair by the open window, is so damp that you must get out everything again ; which takes time, for a drawer sticks, and has to be coaxed open, end by end, until, losing patience, you give it a vicious jerk and it comes out with disconcerting abruptness.

Now the morning paper requires to be aired twice as long as usual. Now the elderly gentleman, adjusting his spectacles, issues from his doorway to consult the barometer; stooping over with an outspread hand resting on the front of each leg just above the knee, he peers at the mercury sulking near the bottom of the tube. Now rims of salt-cellars, whereon salt has been spilt, are moist, and sugar refuses to be sprinkled. Now, as you attempt to rise from breakfast, your chair sticks on the rug; the sound it makes when it does move gives you spinal shivers. Now plants watered yesterday afternoon still have dark circles about their roots. Now

thinks the “ wash ” will never dry. Now — in the lyrical phrase of Mr. Browning — “ John’s corns ail; ” and neuralgia pounces upon its victims; and dear old Dr. W., merriest martyr that ever sciatica twisted, greets little Miss Lindsay, who has run in to ask after his health, with an “ Ah, my dear ! Pray excuse my not rising. The villain has me on the hip this morning.”

Now horses driven up to roadside watering - troughs merely snuff at the water ; then, lifting their heads, gaze abstractedly off into the landscape, until the driver, impatient at having wasted his time, starts them up again with a jerk. Now smoke rises lazily out of chimneys. Now odors, as of Araby the curst, emanate from antique rugs, and one small balsam-pillow makes a whole room redolent of the forest primeval.

Now shepherds, finding the wool of their flocks limp and soft, prognosticate yet thicker weather. Now the sky is all gray, having, however, to the seeing eye, a hundred exquisite, subtle tones; a luminous blur marks the position of the sun. Now, notwithstanding one’s approval of the prevailing grays, one delights in a bit of color here and there, — a child’s red frock, a bunch of nasturtiums, best of all a bonfire.

Now the city is smokier and sootier than ever; and Jones, meeting Robinson with a smudge on his nose, is mightily amused, and wonders what Robinson was grinning at, confound him ! — until he himself encounters a mirror. Now it is warm, and the atmosphere suggests the steam-room of a Turkish bath, and people say to one another, “ It’s the dampness that makes the heat so oppressive ; ” or it is chill and you feel as if you were in a cellar, and the universal opinion is that one would n’t mind the cold, were it not so detestably raw. Now artificial ringlets uncurl, and natural ones twine the tighter; and ostrich feathers look forlorn ; and starched cuffs and collars “ wilt; ” and fashionable creases vanish from trousers, and unfashionable ones appear; and wooden walks and steps are slippery ; and whistles sound asthmatic ; and the fishmonger’s looks quite as unpleasant as did a similar establishment, on Hunt’s cold day; and any person who has been taking active exercise feels almost like what Mr. Mantalini threatened to become. ("‘ I shall be ... a demd, damp, moist, unpleasant body ! ’ exclaimed Mr. Mantalini.”) Now rust doth corrupt; and cheap gilt tarnishes ; and seamstresses bless the man who invented emeries ; and we wonder what Aunt Penelope’s nerves are made of, that she can sit there knitting silk thread with steel needles. Now, likewise, the butler or housemaid regrets having burnished the silver yesterday, and deems it folly to rub the brasses to-day. Now, on the other hand, the amateur of old copper hangs enraptured over his verdigrised treasures. Now is the confectioner complacent, his week-old wares being scarce distinguishable from fresh ones. Now the print-collector thinks apprehensively of his portfolios, and the housewife of her jam pots; and biscuit grow soft, and cheese grows fuzzy; and illseasoned doors and window-sashes are too tight in their frames ; and stringed instruments get out of tune ; and woe to the tennis or ping-pong racquet left lying about! Now the ink on our pen stays wet while we are thinking what to say next, contrary to its irritating custom in dry weather. Now there seems to be an extraordinary number of cobwebs and little cottony cocoons sticking, in out-ofthe-way corners, on the outside of the house. Now Pamela, packing her box to pay a visit, laments aloud, prophesying the ruin of her finery ; whereupon the family punster remarks that she will at least be able to display several new wrinkles.

Now, as evening comes on, you want (unless the weather is very warm) a bit of a blaze on the hearth, to dry the air and to look bright. Now matches will not take fire at the first stroke ; and lighted windows across the way show as mere yellow parallelograms in the fog, the outlines of the houses to which they belong being invisible ; and my lady, dressing to dine out, decides not to wear the tulle bodice ; and drivers are continually shouting, “ Look out there ! ” and narrowly escaping collisions, and interchanging retrospective profanity with the other fellow ; and quite sober citizens go up the wrong doorsteps ; and ’t is to be hoped the housemaid will not turn down the sheets long before bedtime.