The Philosophy of the Weather. And a Guide to Its Changes

by T. B. Butler

Let us take an instance or two by way of illustration of all these points; and as I have given instances of summer in the introduction, we will take those of winter. It is January of an “old fashioned winter;” the snow is about three feet deep in Canada, about one foot in Southern New York, and a few inches in Philadelphia, and so extends west to the Alleghanies at least. For several days the sky has been clear, the thermometer rising in the day-time, in the vicinity of New York to about 25° Fahrenheit, falling at night to about 6°, with light airs from the N. W. during the middle and latter part of the day; the counter-trade and the barometer both running high; cold but pleasant, steady, winter weather. There is a warm south-east rain and thaw coming, as one or more such almost invariably occur in January. How coming? The sun is far south, and shines aslant, but through a pure and windless atmosphere; he has tried for several days to melt the snow from the roof; a few icicles are pendant from the eaves; but the body of the snow is still there. How can a thaw come? not from the sun, surely. No, indeed, not from the action of the sun directly, upon our country, nor from the Atlantic or the Gulf Stream which is off our coast. But a portion of the current of counter-trade is coming, heated by his rays and the warm water in the South Atlantic, in an intense magneto-electric state, capable of inducing an electro-thermal change in the surface atmosphere which it approaches, and of being reciprocally acted upon by the north polar terrestrial magnetism. It is now over Northern Texas and Western Louisiana, it will be here day after tomorrow. The day passes as the day previous had passed; the sleigh-bells jingle merrily in the evening; the moon shines clear all night; the storm is coming steadily on, but its influence has not reached us, and the morning and midday are like those which preceded it. As nightfall approaches, however, the thermometer does not fall as rapidly as on the day previous; the sun shines dimly and through lines of whitish cirrus cloud extending from the horizon at the west, appearing darker as the sun descends and shines more horizontally through them—perhaps mainly in the N. W.—and which extend up and over toward the E. N. E. The air next the earth begins to feel raw; it is changing, not from warm to cold, but electrically from positive to negative; and dampening, from a tendency to condensation by induction, as we shall see—the same condensation which in warm weather may be seen on flagging stones, and walls, and vessels containing cold water. The advance cirrus condensation of the storm is over us and affecting us; the earth too is affecting the adjacent atmosphere by action extended from beneath the storm. Still there is no wind, although sounds seem to be heard a little more distinctly from the east, and so ends the day. Evening comes, and the moon wades in a smooth bank of cirro-stratus haze, with a very large circle around her; the cirrus bands of haze have coalesced and formed a thin stratus. The storm is coming steadily on, its condensation is seen to be thicker as it approaches, it is now raining from one hundred to one hundred and fifty miles to the west, but we do not know it.

That it is about to storm all believe, for all are conscious of a change. The candle if extinguished will not relight as readily, if at all, on being blown; there is a crackling almost too faint for snow in the fire; the sun did not set clear; the old rheumatic joints complain, and the venerable corns ache.

Morning comes, and the storm is on. The wind is blowing from the S. E., the scud are running rapidly from the same quarter to the N. W., the thermometer continues rising, and it rains. The storm has reached us and the thaw has commenced. Gradually, as the densest portion of the storm cloud reaches us, it darkens; the scud are nearer the earth, and run with more rapidity; the rain falls more heavily and continuously, and by the middle of the day a thick fog has enveloped the earth; the wind is dying away, and the trade itself, with its southern tendency to fog, has settled near us; the barometer has fallen, the thermometer is up to fifty degrees, the water is running down the hills, the snow is saturated with water and is disappearing under the influence of the fog, the rain, and the warm air. Evening comes; the south-east wind and the rain have ceased; the rain clouds have passed off to the eastward; the fog has followed on and disappeared; there is a light trade air from the S. W.; the moon shines out, and a few patches of stratus, broken up into fragments and melting away, are following on in the trade: the storm is past.

Hark! to the tones of Boreas as he bursts forth from the N. W., and rushing, whistling, howling, dashes on between the trade and the earth, following the storm. Now the barometer rises rapidly, the thermometer falls, and in an incredibly short time all is congealed, and cold and wintery as before. The cold N. W. wind has again interposed between the trade and the earth; the trade is elevated a mile or more above it and is entirely free from its influence and from condensation; the deep blue of a sky “as pure as the spirit that made it” is over us, and steady winter reigns again.

It is obvious that there was nothing in the action of the sun upon our snow-clad country, to induce the thaw or the storm. It began, continued, approached, and passed off to the N. E. in the counter-trade. The S. E. wind which existed every where within its influence: in the interior States, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Michigan, and in Canada, as well as upon the Atlantic coast, commencing in the former earlier than upon the last, was the result of its induction and attraction. Of the N. W. wind that followed we shall speak hereafter. If any one doubts whether this be a true sketch let him examine the investigation of a storm published by Professor Loomis, or observe for himself hereafter. If, however, the storm of Professor Loomis is referred to, it should be remembered that his notes show the occurrence of a slight distinct snow storm at the N. W. stations one day in advance of the principal storm. The latter appears first as rain at Fort Towson, on the nineteenth, moving north and curving to the east—its center passing near St. Louis, and south of Quebec, and the whole storm enlarging as it advanced.

Take another instance. Since the thaw it has not been quite as cold as before; but the rain-soaked snow is hard and solid, the ground, where the snow was blown or worn off, icy and slippery—the thermometer falls during the night to about 12°, and rises to about 30°; the sun makes no impression upon the snow; the firmament is of the deepest blue, the borealis at night vivid. “O, for a storm of some kind, to mitigate the still severe cold;” for the thaw has made us more sensitive, and storm winds do blow warm in their season. But patience, it will come. Another day, or two, perhaps, pass: the sun rises as usual, the thermometer has the same range still. “Long cold snap,” we exclaim; “how long will it last?”

A change is coming, but this time it will snow. About an hour or two after sunrise the cirrus threads are discoverable again in the west, but now they are most numerous in the S. W. As the day passes on they thicken and advance toward the E. N. E., the sun begins to be obscured, the thermometer rises, and it slowly “moderates.” There is a snow storm approaching from the S. W.

But the thermometer rises slowly; it must get up to 26° or 28° before it can snow much. I have known in one instance, at Norwalk, a considerable fall of snow, although much mingled with hail, when the thermometer stood at 13° above zero, and one, a moderate fall, some two inches, with it at 24°, but these were exceptions. The snow range of the thermometer on the parallel of 41° north latitude, and south of it, is from 26° to 30° above 0°; when colder or warmer it may snow to whiten the ground, or perhaps barely cover it, but usually rains or hails. We have seen that in the polar regions, according to Dr. Kane, it is about zero, but the rise of the thermometer there, previous to the snow, was about the same as here, i. e., from 15° to 25°. This fact is instructive. Since the foregoing was written, and on the 7th of February, 1855, a snow-storm of considerable length set in, with the thermometer at 5°, and continued more than twenty-four hours, the thermometer gradually rising. The snow was very fine, like that described by Arctic voyagers as falling in extreme cold weather.

As the dense and darker portions of the storm approach, and although the sun is obscured, and the ground frozen, it continues to moderate, and at evening, when the thermometer is up to 28°, and the dense portion of the storm has reached us, gently and in calmness the snow begins to fall. Perhaps a light air following the storm, or the presence of the trade near the earth, at first inclines the snow-flakes to the eastward. This is frequently so at the commencement of snow storms. Ere long, however, the wind rises from the N. E., and the snow is driven against the windows, rounded and hardened by the attrition of its flakes upon each other, in their descent through the eddying and opposite currents. The next day we rise to witness a heavy fall of snow, perhaps, and a continued driving N. E. storm, in full blast; the snow whirling and settling in drifts under the lee of every fence or building.

Can it be, you ask, that this driving wind is but an incident of the storm? the result of attraction, while the storm clouds are sailing quietly and undisturbed on in the counter-trade above, directly over the gale which is blowing below? It is even so. Nor has it “backed up,” as it is termed by those who have ascertained that it has commenced snowing first, and cleared off first, at a point west of them. You saw, or might have seen, the cirro-stratus cloud passing to the E. N. E. in the afternoon, and until the snow-flakes filled the air, and the clouds became invisible. You may still see that the wind will die away before the storm breaks, and “come out” gently from the S. W., unless it should back into the northward and westward, and in either event you may see the last of the storm clouds, as you did see, or might have seen the first of them, pass to the eastward. Toward night the wind dies away, and the storm passes off abruptly, or the sky becomes clear in the N. W. Now you may see the smooth stratus storm cloud, continuous, or breaking up into fragments and passing off to the east, even at the edge which borders the clear sky in the west or north-west, to be followed that evening or the next day, by the north-west wind and its peculiar fair-weather scud.