University of Virginia Library

THE WEATHER.

I have just parted with one of those insensible beings
who profess perfect independence of the weather,—a
class, one would think, by their manner of treating this
popular topic, differently organized from the majority of
mankind. It is really provoking to remark the complacency
with which they declare that the atmospheric vicissitudes
affect them not, that they are too busy to note
the course of the wind, and that half the time they know
not whether it rains or shines; as if it were a fit subject
for congratulation—this unnatural insusceptibility to what
human beings should, from their very constitution, consciously
feel. Much pleasure do these weather-despisers
lose. It is true, they suffer not the throe; but, be it remembered,
they enjoy not the thrill. Welcome are they
to their much vaunted indifference to the state of the elements.
Better, methinks, to suffer somewhat, and even
fancifully, from the weather, than to be wrapped up in a
mantle of unconcern—to walk forth regardless of the
temperature, and without any more interest in the existent
face of the heavens, than if they were changeless and

stony, like the mood of such spirits. This independence
`argues an insensibility.' A hopeful token, in truth, is
a just susceptibility to the weather. There is reason in
its universality, as a subject of discussion; there is a real
benefit in being alive to its influences. Dr. Johnson
indeed, with characteristic hardihood, boasted of his
immunity from `skyey influences;' but Milton confesses
that his poetical vein flowed only between the autumnal
and vernal equinox. Thomson declared his muse was
most docile in the fall; and Byron always felt most religiously
disposed on a sunny day. Hear the stout Ashyre
ploughman—

In Naples, they have a saying, when any literary production
is very bad, that it was written during a sirocco.

The air and sky are a common heritage—they greet
all the living impartially; and, while the changes of all
things else affect only certain classes and individuals,
their variations influence us all. It is well that there is
thus a theme of universal sympathy, about which men,
as such, can exchange opinions. The weather is essentially
a republican subject; and of all topics, whereby to
get over the awkwardness of a first interview, it is decidedly
the most convenient. What idea would answer
to begin a colloquy with, had we not the weather? If
the elements were as fixed, or as regular in their changes,
as the earth, what an available starting point in conversation
should we be deprived of! After being introduced

to an individual of whom we know nothing, what could
we find to talk about, were this elemental theme not
ever-present? To speak of literature or music, without
knowing the taste of our new acquaintance, might prove
a damper; to begin chatting about other people, might
betray us into scandalizing the kindred of our auditor;
but to allude enthusiastically to the beauty of the evening,
or sympathetically to its coldness, would, in all probability,
advance us at once far on the pleasant track of
sociability. Besides it is altogether so natural and human
to talk about the weather—to tell how we feel under its
prevailing influence—and to listen, with profound interest,
to the details our companion may give as to its effect
on him. In this way we glide, with transcendant
ease, into a sympathizing vein; glimpses of mutual character
are incidentally afforded, and then the way to more
familiar communion lies clear and open. Let the conceited
non-observers of the weather, who are liable to
find themselves at a non-plus in conversation, consider
the remarkable adaptativeness of the theme; and for this,
if for no better reason, hasten to excite their lukewarm
zeal as amateur meteorologists.

Weather-wisdom is a consoling acquirement. I have
often re-learned the lesson of human equality, in observing
the complacency of an honest tar, as he interpreted
the signs of the sky to some accomplished veteran in
book lore. The poor sailor, only matriculated by some
marine witchery on crossing the line for the first time—
and who only graduated, after some fierce whaling adventure,
from cabin-boy to seaman—thenceforth witless

of farther degrees—expounding to the attentive university-man,
a chapter of his knowledge in the ways of the
wind, with as much zest as his hearer ever cleared up a
puzzling passage in the Georgies to a group of wondering
striplings. Such a scene, not seldom witnessed
by the voyager, evinces what a comfortable device is
weather-wisdom. Admitting it is the illusive thing
many deem it, what a pleasant peg it affords some people
to hang a little self-sustaining pride upon. To those who
have not wit enough to comprehend the abstract sciences,
—to those who regard the beauties of literature as mysteries,
and who can make nothing of political economy—
what a ready alternative is weather-wisdom! It requires
little sense to keep a journal of the dates of snow storms,
or to talk, with seeming sagacity, of the prospects of the
season. And what a benevolent provision is this of nature's—that
such as are bereft of more recondite lore, can
yet nourish self-respect on their notable attainments in
weather-wisdom!

But these are only secondary evidences of our obligations
to the weather; insensibly do its variations gratify
our love of novelty. Every day is new—if not from
change of circumstances, from change of weather. How
tame might not be our feelings, if sameness was a law of
the elements! It is no inconsiderable pastime to note,
on every successive morning, a new condition of the
physical world; and pitiable, we repeat, is he who finds
no refreshment in the shifting scene—to whose eye all
aspects of external nature are alike; then, be assured,

some deep grief has overshadowed the soul, or some physical
infirmity palsied the sense.

There is something morbid in those who are insensible
to the weather, as well as in such as are nervously
alive to its every minute alteration. It is a beautiful indication
of humanity to habitually take cognizance of these
subtle agencies that surround us—to regard them as ministrants
intimately associated with human weal. I once
stood amid the ruins of an ancient amphitheatre with a
man of deep social sympathies; we spoke of the myriads
who once thronged the now silent spot. `We have reason
to believe,' said he, `that wherever they are, they are together;
what a happy idea, that even a dismal fate may be
meliorated by sympathy!' And we that now throng a
living temple—would it not be an anomaly if we did not
sympathize under the operation of universal laws?
There is truth to human nature in Hamlet's allusion to
the weather, even when awaiting his father's ghost.

Our interest in the weather is not altogether direct.
Not alone to our individual senses does it appeal. Human
hopes sway in every breeze. Destiny sometimes
seems dependent upon the elements. How many anxious
beings are noting the wayward winds when their
loved ones are upon the waters; how many tearful eyes
are directed to the sky when the cherished invalid is exposed
to its varying phases. Property and life, success
and love, are too often and too nearly associated with the
weather, to permit even the hardy and the stern to boast
perfect immunity from its influences. And we wonder
not that the ancients deified and invoked the agents of

such mighty revolutions. Invisibly, and with a scarcely
perceptible increase, the new wind arises; but on its unseen
wings float—how many human interests! It bears
to the worn and watching tidings of the absent, it wafts
to the unthinking breast the seeds of a fell disease; it
awakens hymns among the light foliage, and refreshes
the care-shadowed brow:—odours and music, gladness
and grief, life and death, are borne with silence and
certainty to their destined ends. And so with the sunlight
and the storm, the summer shower and the noontide
heat—they have voices many and impressive, and fulfil
a thousand noiseless and subtle missions with promptitude.

We are told that at one period in the ancient history
of medicine, but two kinds of disease were recognized,
resulting from the contracted and relaxed state of the
pores. Doubtless this system originated in the observation
of the effects of atmospheric changes upon the skin.
Some individuals feel the weather chiefly through this
medium; some are made aware of its variations by the
sensations they excite in the region of the lungs or
stomach; and to others the temples or thorax are as a perpetual
barometer. By the peculiar sensibility of some
part of their bodies, all are, in a greater or less degree,
physically susceptible to the weather; and through whatever
portal the unbidden guest enters, the nervous sense
is soon aware of iis presence. And thus, the universal
agent, the spirit of the elements, insinuates itself into a
higher domain. Our mental moods are, more or less,
affected; and when the temperament is poetical, the

weather, like all things else, abounds with under-currents
of influence and mystic echoes to its common language,
of which the multitude are scarcely conscious.

The weather is an impressive time-keeper. To many
it is the most regulating of dials. Not only does it serve
to mark the flight, but to control the appropriation of
time. The dreamy mood, induced by a warm, cloudy
day, inclines us to visit ruins. The blitheness excited
by a cold, clear morning, suggests a rapid promenade.
When the night wind sighs dismally, our fancies rove
through the world of dark romance. A winter twilight
makes us realize `how transitory are human flowers;'
and the same season in mid summer, quickens the idea
of being into a sense of immortality. All the world over,
mild and moonlight evenings are sacred to young love.
Old Walton wisely invokes a wet evening for the perusal
of his discourse; and,

The poets from first to last, in things human and
scientific, are, after all, the best philosophers. How
universally have they taken cognizance of, and chronicled
the elements; and how appropriately adapted them
to the circumstances of their heroes and heroines. How
feelingly they speak of the weather! What obesrvant,
particular, and sensitive meteorologists are they all.
How graphic is Byron's description of a London daybreak
and how sweetly does Mrs. Hemans extol the
magic of a sunbeam! What influential, ay, and metaphysical

storms, dog-days, and spring mornings, are those
immortalized in the annals of every celebrated bard.
In truth, poets seem intuitively weather-wise.

The weather is eloquently symbolical. It is a perennial
fountain of metaphors. The clouds that fly over the
star gemmed sky, typify the exhalations of earth which,
ever and anon, shade the spirit in its pilgrimage. The
wreaths of vapour circling on the gentle breeze, and
made rosy and radiant by the sun-light, present an apt
similitude of the rise, expansion, and glow of the enthusiast's
visions. An icy footpath preaches a homily on
mortal instability to the pedestrian, and a deep azure sky
is a pure symbol of peace to the gifted eye. The moonlight
reposing on snow has been fitly made to illustrate
memory; and the dew sparkling in the sun, is a bright
emblem of youth, as its vanishing is of decay. Happy
the being, whose consciousness is so lost in the blest intensity
of the elements within him, as to be unconscious
of those around him; for the glow of human enthusiasm
is more beautiful than the flush of the most magnificent
sunset. But undesirable is the sternness that disdains
to recognize the contrasts of the elements; for the aspect
of a frozen lake or the touch of a northern blast is far less
chilling, than an unsympathizing spirit to a being of worthy
sensibility.