INTRODUCTION.
The atmospheric conditions and phenomena which constitute “The Weather” are of surpassing interest. Now, we rejoice in the genial air and warm rains of spring, which clothe the earth with verdure; in the alternating heat and showers of summer, which insure the bountiful harvest; in the milder, ripening sunshine of autumn; or the mantle of snow and the invigorating air of a moderate winter’s-day. Now, again, we suffer from drenching rains and, devastating floods, or excessive and debilitating heat and parching drought, or sudden and unseasonable frost, or extreme cold. And now, death and destruction come upon us or our property, at any season, in the gale, the hurricane, or the tornado; or a succession of sudden or peculiar changes blight our expected crops, and plant in our systems the seeds of epidemic disease and death. These, and other normal conditions, and varied changes, and violent extremes, potent for good or evil, are continually alternating above and around us. They affect our health and personal comfort, and, through those with whom we are connected, our social and domestic enjoyments. They influence our business prosperity directly, or indirectly, through our near or remote dependence upon others. They limit our pleasures and amusements—they control the realities of to-day, and the anticipations of to-morrow. None can prudently disregard them; few can withhold from them a constant attention. Scientific men, and others, devote to them daily hours of careful observation and registration. Devout Christians regard them as the special agencies of an over-ruling Providence. The prudent, fear their sudden, or silent and mysterious changes; the timid, their awful manifestations of power; and they are, to each and all of us, ever present objects of unfailing interest.
This interest finds constant expression in our intercourse with each other. A recent English writer has said: “The germ of meteorology is, as it were, innate in the mind of every Englishman—the weather is his first thought after every salutation.” In the qualified sense in which this was probably intended, it is, doubtless, equally true of us. Indeed, it is often not only a “first thought” after a salutation, but a part of the salutation itself—an offspring of the same friendly feeling, or a part of the same habit, which dictates the salutation—an expression of sympathy in a subject of common and absorbing interest—a sorrowing or rejoicing with those who sorrow or rejoice in the frowns and smiles of an ever-changing, ever-influential atmosphere.
If consistent with our purpose, it would be exceedingly interesting to trace the varied forms of expression in use among different classes and callings, and see how indicative they are of character and employment.
The sailor deals mainly with the winds of the hour, and to him all the other phases of the weather are comparatively indifferent. He speaks of airs, and breezes, and squalls, and gales, and hurricanes; or of such appearances of the sky as prognosticate them. The citizens, whose lives are a succession of days, deal in such adjectives as characterize the weather of the day, according to their class, or temperament, or business; and it is pleasant, or fine, or very pleasant or fine; beautiful, delightful, splendid, or glorious; or unpleasant, rainy, stormy, dismal, dreadful or horrible. The farmer deals with the weather of considerable periods; with forward or backward seasons, with “cold snaps” or “hot spells,” and “wet spells” or “dry spells.” And there are many intermediate varieties. The acute observer will find much in them to instruct and amuse him, and will probably be surprised to find how much they have to do with his “first impressions” of others.
But I have a more important object in view. I propose to deal with “The Philosophy of the Weather”—to examine the nature and operation of the arrangements from which the phenomena result; to strip the subject, if possible, of some of the complication and mystery in which traditionary axioms and false theories continue to envelop it; to endeavor to grasp its principles, and unfold them in a plain, concise, and systematic manner, to the comprehension of “the many,” who are equal partners with the scientific in its practical, if not in its philosophic interest; and to deduce a few general rules by which its changes may be understood, and, ultimately, to a considerable extent, foreseen.
This is not an easy, perhaps not a prudent undertaking. Nor is my position exactly that of a volunteer. A few words seem necessary, therefore, by way of apology and explanation.
In the fall of 1853, in the evening of a fair autumnal day, I started for Hartford, in the express train. Just above Meriden, an acquaintance sitting beside me, who had been felicitating himself on the prospect of fine weather for a journey to the north, called my attention to several small patches of scud—clouds he called them—to the eastward of us, between us and the full clear moon, which seemed to be enlarging and traveling south—and asked what they meant.