Termed, from its essence, Prester by the Greeks,
That oft from heaven wide hovers o’er the deep.
Like a vast column, gradual from the skies,
Prone o’er the waves, descends it; the vexed tide
Boiling amain beneath its mighty whirl,
And with destruction sure the stoutest ship
Threat’ning that dares the boist’rous scene approach.
Waterspouts exhibit various aspects, but a frequent appearance has been thus described, as it has been observed at sea. Under a dense cloud, a circular area of the ocean, in diameter from 100 to 120 yards, shows great disturbance, the water rushing toward the centre of the agitated mass, from whence it rises in a spiral manner toward the clouds, assuming a trumpet-shape, with the broad end downward. At the same time, the cloud assumes a similar form, but the position of the cone is inverted, and its lower extremity, or apex, gradually unites with the upper extremity of the ascending column of water. At the point of junction, the diameter is not more than two or three feet. There is thus a column of water and vapor formed, extending from the sea to the cloud, thin in the middle, and broad at the two extremities, the sides of which are dark, which gives it the appearance of a hollow tube. It moves with the wind, and even in calm weather, when no wind is perceptible, the position shifts. Sometimes the spout preserves the perpendicular in its motion, but frequently, from the wind not acting with equal force upon its upper and lower extremities, or the one being more susceptible of impulsion than the other, it assumes an inclined position, and the column is speedily ruptured by the unequal velocity of its parts. A few minutes suffices in general for the duration of the phenomenon, but several have been known to continue for near an hour. Instances of repeated disruption and formation have been witnessed, and in the Mediterranean, as many as sixteen waterspouts have been observed at the same time. The mariners of former days were accustomed to discharge artillery at these moving columns, to accelerate their fall, fearful of their ships being crossed by them, and sunk or damaged—a practice alluded to by Falconer in the opening of the second canto of The Shipwreck: but the principal danger arises from the wind blowing in sudden gusts in their vicinity, from all points of the compass, sufficient to capsize small vessels carrying much sail. Waterspouts on land are not uncommon, and in this case there is no ascending column of water, but only a descending inverted cone of vapor. Vivid flashes of lightning frequently issue from them, and deluges of rain attend their disruption. A remarkable spout appeared and burst on Emott Moor, near Coln in Lancashire, in the year 1718, about a mile distant from some laborers digging peat, whose attention was directed to it by hearing an unusual noise in the air. Upon leaving the spot in alarm, they found a small rippling stream converted into a roaring flood, though no rain had fallen on the moor; and at the immediate scene of action, the earth had been swept away to the depth of seven feet, the naked rock appeared, and an excavation had been made in the ground by the force of the water discharged from the spout, upward of half a mile in length.
It is a time of fear and peril to man and beast when the hurricane develops its giant strength, yet, contemplated apart from the probability of some fatal catastrophe, there is no scene more intensely sublime in the varied panorama of nature, than that exhibited to the senses of sight and hearing, by the dense black masses of clouds that roll in wild confusion through the air, the tumultuous aspect of the ocean, the agitation of the woods, and the voice of the tempest, varying from the melancholy wail, to the piercingly shrill cry and deafening roar, and occasionally combining every kind of intonation in its sound. However destructive these extraordinary agitations of the atmosphere—however terrible such a situation as that of Æneas on the stormy sea, helpless and hopeless, stretching his folded hands to the stars, and lamenting that he had not fallen with fierce Hector on the Ilian plains—it is unquestionable, that neither “breeze, or gale, or storm,” could be dispensed with in the economy of nature; for the various forms of life which the common air sustains, are preserved in vigor by that conflict of the elements which works occasional disaster. A variety of natural causes in operation upon the surface of the globe, and in its interior, concur to derange that constitution of the atmosphere which is alone salubrious, to vitiate the fluid, convert the medium of life and health into a cause of fever, pestilence, and death, thus changing every scene where the machinery of human existence is in movement into a Grotto del Cane, completely arresting all its wheels—an effect which would undoubtedly transpire without an antagonistic influence in constant action. In the process of supporting mankind and animals, the atmosphere is deprived of its oxygen, and exhaled in a morbid condition unfit for combustion and the sustenance of life; and the respiration of plants contributes also to its derangement. The exhalations from the low swampy regions of the earth are a further cause of deterioration, and hence the malarious mass to which the Pontine marshes, and similar districts, give birth. The provision against the reduction of the atmosphere to a universally disorganised and vitiated condition is the currents that prevail in it, which disperse and separate the poisonous ingredients, render them innocuous by bringing them into new combinations, and thus keep up that due proportion between the component parts of the aerial envelop, upon which its life-conserving property hinges, yet which the functions of life are perpetually destroying. The ordinary play of the winds, whispering in gentle breezes and rushing in powerful gales, has been ordained by the Author of life to subserve this purpose, and the dread tornado is also an efficient agent in the regeneration. In its alembic, it has been remarked, “the isolated poisons will be re-distilled; by the electric fires which it generates, their deleterious sublimations will be deflagrated; and thus will the great Alchymist neutralize the azotic elements which he has let loose, and shake the medicinal draught into salubrity.” The baneful effects of a stagnant condition of the atmosphere are exemplified in the feeble physical frame, and short term of years, of those who in the “city full” are cooped up in sites were there is no sufficient ventilation, and the inhabitants of many deep inclosed valleys exhibit physical and mental deterioration as a consequence of the same cause. The numerous examples of cretinism, or idiocy, with goitres, found about the villages and hamlets of the Lower Valais, and the Val d’Aosta in Switzerland—valleys, which have low marshy spots at the bottom, surrounded by high mountains, where the fresh air does not circulate freely, and where the reflected rays of the sun are very powerful in summer—Saussure attributed to the stagnation of the atmosphere; and though such instances of physical deformity and intellectual incapacity may be the combined effect of various causes, it is in harmony with the known effect of the one referred to, to suppose it materially to contribute to the result. The cagots of the deep Pyrenean valleys answer to the cretins of the Alps.
In closing this notice of atmospheric currents, we refer to observations made upon the ordinary winds of Great Britain. From an average of ten years of the register kept by order of the Royal Society, it appears that at London the wind blows annually in the following proportions:—