Graham's Magazine, Vol. XLI, No. 4, October 1852
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Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XLI, No. 4, October 1852
Author: Various
Editor: George R. Graham
Release date: December 23, 2014 [eBook #47752]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, VOL. XLI, NO. 4, OCTOBER 1852 ***
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XLI. October, 1852. No. 4.
Table of Contents
Derwentwater
Sonnet:—To the Redbreast
Fanny Leigh
The Atmosphere and Its Currents
Influence of Place on Race
Song
Sonnet.—The Comet.
Fancies from a Garret
The Minister’s Wife
Fragment.—A Picture.
Glimpses of Western Travel
A Midnight Fantasy
Sporting Adventures in India
Sonnet.—Peace.
Something New About Byron
Zulma
The Autobiography of a Boarding-House
Ariadne: Or the Love Watch
The Game of the Month.
Wreck and Ruin
Le Petit Savoyard
Mabel Dacre
The Lucky Penny
Meditations on the Last Judgment
The Trial by Battle
“I Know Where the Fairies Are.”
Canadian Life
The Last Hour of Sappho
Nine O’clock
Virginia Dare
Review of New Books
Sips of Punch
Fashion Plate
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
[Illustration: =THE PRIDE OF THE PARTERRE.=]
* * * * *
[Illustration: =THE FORGOTTEN WORD.=
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by Humphrys.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: =THE FLOWER-GIRL.=]
* * * * *
[Illustration: =DERWENTWATER.=]
=DERWENTWATER.=
[The sad story of the Earl of Derwentwater, executed in 1716 for
participation in the rebellion of the previous year, is well known. The
beautiful lake from which he derives his title is surrounded by some of
the grandest scenery in England. Few persons will need to be reminded of
the beauty of the small cataract of Ladore. The memory of the
misfortunes of Lord Derwentwater, and of the beauty of his disconsolate
countess, is is still preserved in the traditions of the neighbourhood.]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Sweet lake of the moun-tains how happy was I,
When life’s sunny morn had no cloud on its sky,
And I roam’d with my love on thy beautiful shore,
To hear the deep music that gush’d from Ladore!
We sail’d on thy waters rejoicing, alone,
Or trod thy green islands, and call’d them our own,
And built, ’mid the hills that encircle thy breast
A bower and a home in the wilds of the West.
But sorrow has darken’d the noon of our day,
And peril and doubt have encompass’d our way;
My heart’s only love in captivity lies,
And thy glory, O Derwent, is dimm’d in mine eyes.
Sad lake of the mountains, through dangers I roam,
With a pang in my heart and a blight on my home,
To dream of the joys that shall bless me no more,
And mingle my sighs with the moan of Ladore.
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
* * * * *
Vol. XLI. PHILADELPHIA, October, 1852. No. 4.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
=SONNET:—TO THE REDBREAST.=
When that the fields put on their gay attire,
Thou silent sitt’st near brake or river’s brim,
Whilst the gay thrush sings loud from covert dim;
But when pale Winter lights the social fire,
And meads with slime are spent, and ways with mire,
Thou charm’st us with thy soft and solemn hymn,
From battlement or barn, or hay-stack trim;
And now not seldom tun’st, as if for hire.
Thy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to catch
The pittance due to thy well-warbled song:
Sweet bird, sing on! for oft near lonely hatch,
Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic throng,
And oft for entrance ’neath the peaceful thatch,
Paid the cheap tribute of a simple song.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
=FANNY LEIGH.=
=BY MRS. TOOGOOD.=
Unskilled in lore was Fanny Leigh,
But learned in wisdom mild,
That glowed all soft and tenderly
In that meek, blue-eyed child.
And why the sigh? why sad the brow?
She conned it o’er and o’er,
And found out anxious thoughts, and how
They prey upon the poor.
Her soft young hands, she did not fear,
Could aid the feeble old:
How blest for her to wipe their tear,
And clothe them from the cold!
And she hath left the rose-clad cot,
From youth’s one home to part,
Armed with resolve—revealing not
What tempest at her heart.
None saw the drops that dimmed her eye,
When a sad breeze and keen
Came answering with a long-lorn sigh
From that still village scene.
Forth hath she gone—a summer boat
Skims o’er the glassy bay
With slender strength—nor dreads to float
Where the stern waters lay.
Forth hath she gone, from dewy field,
And used to fondest care,
To try the desert—will it yield
One shelter from the glare?
Where Innocence is shamed to quail
Before the worldling’s mirth;
And beautiful will learn to veil
Its scorned, yet heavenly birth.
Forth so she went, yet ’mid the pest,
The blast of noxious night;
A lamp burned stedfast at her breast,
And cast its certain light.
And oft she heard a mellowed tone
Streaming above the din;
A Voice that loves the pure and lone,
And strengthens them within.
O! there was joy, even unto pain,
When, passed those days so drear,
As music, Fanny’s steps again
Fell on each aged one’s ear.
And who, the gladdest of the glad,
Stands at the gate? I pray.
Is’t he who then a very lad
So wept her going away?
’Tis he, who, while he fed his flowers,
(Stronger her bright chain grew,)
Saw constantly through haunted hours
Those eyes of gentlest blue.
* * * * *
=THE ATMOSPHERE AND ITS CURRENTS.=
[Illustration]
It has been mentioned as a part of the planetary constitution of our
globe, that a gaseous envelope environs its mass, the atmosphere, which
requires the attention of the astronomer, on account of its influence in
displacing the celestial bodies, and contributing to their visibility,
by refracting and reflecting the rays of light. This elastic fluid is
the scene of interesting phenomena, and performs important functions in
the economy of nature. Besides being essential to the life of man, and
the animal races, whose existence would terminate in a few minutes
without the respiration of it; the exhalation of moisture from the
surface of the earth is mainly owing to the common air we breathe, which
receives and sustains the vapors formed into clouds, distributes them
over different regions by its incessant motions, and tempers by its
currents those extremes of heat and cold to which various localities are
subject. It is in these last-named offices that the atmosphere demands
the notice of the physical geographer. The consideration of its actual
constitution does not belong to his province, but a general view of the
fluid may be appropriate before we proceed to those agitations and
changes which are in constant action, and upon which the welfare of
organized beings so materially depends.
The atmosphere is, then, an integral portion of the earth, a body of air
revolving with the solid mass upon its axis, the higher strata, of
course, increasing in velocity with the distance from the axis of
revolution. From hence a conclusion may be drawn respecting its height,
for an absolute limit is put to its elevation by this feature of its
physical condition. There is a point where the centrifugal force, or the
tendency to fly off from the centre, will counterbalance the
centripetal, or the gravitation toward the centre, and beyond that point
the latter will be vanquished. It is obvious that no portion of the
atmosphere can extend beyond the point where the two influences balance,
or are in equilibrium, and the projectile force becomes greater than
that of gravitation, or its projection into space would follow. At the
distance of 6.6 radii from the centre of the earth, or at an elevation
of 22,200 miles, about the eleventh part the distance of the moon, this
point is fixed, beyond which it is impossible for the atmosphere in the
smallest quantity to extend. This consideration is only of importance to
show that physical laws rigidly restrict it within finite bounds, for
any portion of air at that distance must have a tenuity which is utterly
inconceivable. The indications of the height of the atmosphere drawn
from its weight, as shown by the barometer, reduce its elevation within
a vastly circumscribed limit. A column of the whole circumambient air is
nearly equal in weight to a similar column of mercury of thirty inches,
or of water of thirty-four feet, which would give it an elevation of but
27,000 feet, or rather under five miles, if its density were uniform.
But the elasticity of the air causes it to expand with the diminution of
its own pressure, which becomes less at every step from the surface of
the earth; and owing to this expansion we must place the limit to its
height at a far greater distance than that suggested by the simple
barometrical measurement of its weight. A pretty common opinion prevails
that its extreme boundary does not exceed forty or fifty miles, and we
have sensible evidence on the high lands of the globe, that for all the
purposes serviceable to vegetable and animal life, the atmospheric zone
is of very contracted elevation. It is a well-known property of the air
that the temperature diminishes with its height, a circumstance
referable to the general physical law, that as the density of gases
decreases they acquire an increased capacity for heat. The higher,
therefore, a body ascends in the atmosphere, the greater is the quantity
of heat abstracted from it, the surrounding fluid becoming more rare.
Hence the perpetual snow, and the piles of glaciers, that crown the
summits of mountains, at whose base the orange and the citron bloom, and
man pants in the fierce sultriness of a torrid climate.
But while the atmosphere may be considered generally as an aerial zone
of the earth, the companion of the massy spheroid in its annual
revolution round the sun, and rotating with it upon its axis, it has
independent movements which present very complex phenomena, however
clear the causes which put them in operation. The particles of air are
constantly suffering displacement, and it is easy to conceive of various
circumstances disturbing the dilatable and elastic fluid in which we
live. A body in movement will communicate its motion to the adjoining
particles, which may be sensibly propagated by them to a considerable
distance; but this cause operates so slightly in the production of
atmospheric currents that it might be entirely overlooked. It will be
sufficient to state that some of the vast oceanic streams are supposed
to produce a corresponding flow in the air. The varying attractions of
the sun, moon, and planets on the atmosphere, will occasion tides in it
analogous to those of the ocean, or an alteration in the heights of
vertical columns of air, winds and currents arising from the resulting
inequalities of horizontal pressure; but La Place has proved the action
of this cause to be scarcely appreciable. The atmospheric agitations of
which we are sensible, both the more violent and gentle, appear to
proceed either from a change in the temperature of a portion of the air,
or from a change in the quantity of water which it holds in a state of
vapor. In both these cases a temporary destruction of the equilibrium
subsisting between different parts of the atmosphere is produced, and
its particles are set in motion to restore the balance. The effect of
heat upon a volume of air is to rarefy and expand, to increase its bulk
and diminish its density. When any portion, therefore, of the earth’s
surface is more heated than the surrounding districts, the air there
ascends and flows over the adjoining cooler and denser strata, causing
an upper outward current, while the colder and denser fluid rushes
toward the spot where the balance has been lost by expansion, and a
lower inward current is produced. An easy experiment will illustrate
this interchange. In a room warmed by a good fire, if a candle be held
at the crevice between the door and the floor, an inward current will be
observed from the exterior colder air, but near the ceiling, by the same
means, an outward flow will be detected. In the other condition an
addition of vapor to the atmosphere gives rise to a wind blowing on all
sides away from the district of evaporation, while an abstraction of it
by showers creates a partial vacuum, toward which the air rushes from
all points of the compass. The diversity of the winds in power is
principally owing to the different degrees of vigor with which these
causes act.
The currents of the atmosphere display an endless variety in their
velocity and force, from the zephyr, which scarcely stirs the leaves of
the forest, to the gale under which its mightiest branches bend, and the
hurricane which tears up its trees by the roots, and destroys the
habitations of mankind. It has been observed that in the temperate zone
the most violent winds occur, when neither the heat nor the cold common
to such localities are at its maximum—that they generally extend over a
considerable tract of country—and are accompanied by sudden and great
falls in the mercury of the barometer. The latter circumstance attends
the storms of the tropics, but they are often confined within narrower
limits than the extra-tropical hurricanes. It was noticed by the
superstitious as a coincidence, not without meaning, that at the time of
Cromwell’s death the enchained winds were liberated, and went forth
raving and howling through the land, uprooting the largest trees, and
whirling them about like straws, and toppling down chimneys and turrets;
but the same tempest, at the self-same hour, dashed the vessels of the
Baltic sea even upon the strand, and buried Venetian argosies in the
Adriatic, shivered the pines of Norway, and swept before it the
cypresses of the Bosphorus—a similar war of the elements attending the
termination of the earthly career of Cardinal Wolsey, Bonaparte, and
George IV. Sometimes the upper regions of the atmosphere have been
remarkably agitated, while the lower stratum of the air has been quite
calm. Lunardi, on one occasion, traveled at the rate of seventy miles an
hour in his balloon, while at Edinburgh; when he ascended, the air was
quite tranquil, and continued so throughout his expedition. To ascertain
the velocity and force of winds, a variety of experiments have been made
with instruments constructed for the purpose. The following table
contains some results obtained by Smeaton, inserted in a volume of the
Philosophical Transactions:—
VELOCITY OF THE WIND.
──────┬───────┬─────────────────────────┬─────────────────────────
Miles │ Feet │ Perpendicular Force on │Characteristics.
per │ per │ one Square Foot, in │
Hour. │Second.│ Avoirdupois Pounds and │
│ │ Parts. │
──────┼───────┼─────────────────────────┼─────────────────────────
1 │ 1·47 │ .005 │Hardly perceptible.
──────┼───────┼─────────────────────────┼─────────────────────────
2 │ 2·93 │ ·020 } │Just perceptible.
3 │ 4·4 │ ·044 } │
──────┼───────┼─────────────────────────┼─────────────────────────
4 │ 5·87 │ ·079 } │Gentle, pleasant wind.
5 │ 7·33 │ ·123 } │
──────┼───────┼─────────────────────────┼─────────────────────────
10 │ 14·67 │ ·492 } │Brisk wind.
15 │ 22 │ 1·107 } │
──────┼───────┼─────────────────────────┼─────────────────────────
20 │ 29·34 │ 1·968 } │Very brisk wind.
25 │ 36·37 │ 3·075 } │
──────┼───────┼─────────────────────────┼─────────────────────────
30 │ 44·01 │ 4·429 } │High wind.
35 │ 51·34 │ 6·027 } │
──────┼───────┼─────────────────────────┼─────────────────────────
40 │ 58·68 │ 7·873 } │Very high wind.
45 │ 66·01 │ 9·963 } │
──────┼───────┼─────────────────────────┼─────────────────────────
50 │ 73·35 │ 12·300 │Storm.
──────┼───────┼─────────────────────────┼─────────────────────────
60 │ 88·02 │ 17·715 │Great storm.
──────┼───────┼─────────────────────────┼─────────────────────────
80 │117·36 │ 31·490 │Hurricane.
──────┼───────┼─────────────────────────┼─────────────────────────
100 │ 147·7 │ 49·200 │Hurricane carrying trees
│ │ │and buildings before it.
──────┴───────┴─────────────────────────┴─────────────────────────
The currents of the atmosphere far surpass in velocity those of the
rivers and the ocean, a gentle pleasant wind blowing at a rate equal to
that of the mighty Father of Waters when in flood, but a hurricane will
outstrip the swiftest locomotive in its speed. In speaking of the
direction of currents of air and water, the indicating terms are
employed in an inverse sense, an easterly wind signifying a breeze
coming from that quarter, an easterly stream a flow of water toward it.
Winds may be divided into three classes or genera, the Permanent, the
Periodical, and the Variable; of which, the first excepted, there are
many different species. We shall prefer, however, to consider them under
their local recognized titles.
[Illustration: =A Calm at Sea.=]
1. _Trade winds._ These are permanent, following the same direction
throughout the year. They are met with between the tropics, and a few
degrees to the north and south of those limits. The well-known name
applied to them is a phrase of doubtful origin, but probably derived
from the facilities afforded to trade and commerce by their constant
prevalence and generally uniform course, though Hakluyt speaks of the
“wind blowing trade,” meaning a regular tread or track. The parallels of
28° north and south latitude mark the medium external limits of the
trade winds, between which, with some variations, their direction is
from the north-east, north of the equator, and from the south-east, on
the other side of the line, hence called the north-east and south-east
trades. They are separated from each other by the region of calms, in
which a thick foggy air prevails, with frequent sudden and transient
rains attended by thunder and lightning. This region, in the Atlantic,
extends across the whole ocean from the coasts of Africa to those of
America, but its position shifts, being sometimes entirely north of the
equator, and but rarely reaching one or two degrees south; and hence it
may be considered as belonging to the northern hemisphere. The region
also varies in breadth from two and a half to ten degrees, but usually
occupies a width of four or five. These variations are dependent upon
the position of the sun, which has an influence likewise upon the
strength, direction, and situation of the trade winds themselves. When
the sun has a northern declination, and approaches the tropic of Cancer,
the boundary line of the north-east trade wind extends to 32° north
latitude, and the wind has a more easterly direction, but the parallel
of 25° is its northern boundary, and the wind inclines more north when
the sun is south of the equator, and approaches the tropic of Capricorn.
At that season, the southern boundary of the south-east trade wind
extends to 30° S. lat., and the whole ocean is swept by it between that
line and about 1° N. lat. The general width of the south-east trade is
about 9° greater than that of the north-east, the region of calms, as
before stated, being almost wholly in the northern hemisphere. In the
basin of the Atlantic, the zone of the trade winds becomes broader, and
their direction more easterly, as the coast of America is approached,
the breezes blowing to the very shore. This is not the case on the
African side of the Atlantic, where, through a tract of sea extending
from fifty to eighty miles off shore, these winds are not found at all,
but contrary westerly breezes prevail. The irregularity is easily
explained. Owing to the rarefaction which the air undergoes over the
great hot desert of the Sahara, the colder air from the contiguous sea
rushes in to supply the partial vacuum created, and keep up the
equilibrium of the atmosphere, producing winds blowing toward the shore.
In the Pacific Ocean, a similar zone is occupied by permanent north and
south-easterly breezes, or trade winds, though subject to a variety of
interruptions. An instance of irregularity occurs along the coasts of
Peru and Chili, where the general direction of the wind is south, and a
steady south-easterly wind is only experienced at the distance of five
or six hundred miles from the shore. The numerous shoals and islands
which are found in the Pacific, prevent uniformity in the tropical
movements of the atmosphere. That intelligent hydrographer Captain
Horsburgh has observed, that where shoal coral banks shoot up out of the
deep water in many places between the tropics, a decrease of the
prevailing wind is frequently experienced; for when a steady wind is
blowing over the surface of the deep water, no sooner does a ship get
upon the verge of a shoal coral bank, than a sudden decrease of the wind
is often perceived. This he supposes to be occasioned by the atmosphere
over these banks being less rarefied by the increased evaporation than
that over the deep water, and consequently not requiring so great a
supply of air to restore the equilibrium as the circumjacent parts,
which are more rarefied and heated. It would undoubtedly be the case, if
the earth were entirely covered with a mantle of water of uniform depth,
that the trade-winds would everywhere prevail, throughout a zone,
bounded by the parallels of from 25° to 32° on each side of the equator.
But the large masses of land, of uneven surface, which occur between the
tropics, and the consequent inequalities of temperature, check the
tendency of the intertropical atmosphere to a regular course, introduce
derangement in its movements, so that it is only in the great open seas
that the trade-winds are experienced. Still, it has been observed that,
in some countries under and near the equator, constant easterly winds
are found, which are no doubt identical in their cause with those that
distinguish the equatorial regions of the ocean. They are met with on
lands which exhibit extensive level plains, where nothing occurs to
obstruct their passage and alter their direction. Thus, along the
immense low tract drained by the Amazon an easterly wind prevails, by
the assistance of which, the voyager is enabled to ascend rapidly
against the strong current of the river. This wind blows from the
estuary of the Amazon, where it is moderate, to its sources at the foot
of the Andes, where it has gathered such strength, that Humboldt found
it difficult to make head against it. The plain traversed by the lower
course of the Orinoco has a similar easterly breeze, but of less force.
We owe the discovery of the trade winds to Columbus, and this would have
been prominently connected with his name, had it not been supplanted by
the glory of a greater achievement, the revelation of a new world to the
knowledge of mankind. The ancients were entirely unacquainted with these
permanent breezes, and though maritime adventure had been largely
prosecuted by the Portuguese at the instigation of Prince Henry, they
had not penetrated into the region of the trades. Proceeding cautiously
along the shores of Barbary, they had explored the coasts of Africa to
Cape de Verde, rescued the Azore Islands from the “oblivious empire of
the ocean,” and afterward, under Vasco di Gama, doubled the Cape of Good
Hope; but these voyages carried them clear of the district of the north
and south-east trade winds. But soon after leaving the Canaries in the
Santa Maria, Columbus fell in with the former, which in the summer
extend to the latitude of those islands, and—for the first time—a sail
from the Old World swelled before the steady breath of the northern
tropic. This circumstance, favorable to the success of his expedition,
speedily excited the apprehensions of his crew, who found themselves
borne, day after day, by a permanent breeze, farther from their native
shores, and inferred the impossibility of returning, as they observed no
change in its direction. Fortunately for his fame, and for the world,
the great navigator firmly held on his course, reached the bounds of the
before-supposed illimitable ocean, and re-crossed it in the region of
the variables, to the north of the northern trade wind. Now, in passing
from the Canaries to Cumana, on the north coast of South America, it is
scarcely ever necessary to touch the sails of a ship; and with equal
facility the passage is made across the Pacific, from Acapulco, on the
west coast of Mexico, to the Philippine Islands. If a channel were cut
through the Isthmus of Panama, the voyage to China would be remarkably
facilitated by the trade winds of the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans; be
more speedy, agreeable, and safe than the usual route by the Cape, the
chief interruption to its uniformity occurring in the Caribbean Sea and
the Gulf of Mexico, where the trade wind blows impetuously, the sea is
stormy, and the sky gray and cloudy.
The theory respecting the origin of the trade winds, adopted by Doctor
Dalton, Professor Daniell, and Sir John Herschel, was first proposed by
George Hadley, the brother of the inventor of the quadrant, and embodies
features of the previous theories of Halley and Galileo, who both
grappled with this great geographical phenomenon. It is founded upon the
rarefaction of the atmosphere of the torrid zone by the powerful heat to
which that region is subject, in connection with the different
velocities of the earth’s surface, in different degrees of latitude, in
the diurnal rotation. Heat rarefies and expands a volume of air in a
ratio equivalent to an addition of about seventy feet to the ordinary
height of the atmosphere for every degree of thermometrical measurement.
As the sun is always vertical at some place within the tropics, the
average temperature of the earth’s surface in that region, bounded by
the parallels of 23½° on each side of the equator, is much higher than
in latitudes to the north and south; and the incumbent air acquiring
this higher temperature, is thereby rarefied and expanded. The
consequence is, that in obedience to hydrostatical laws, masses of air
are continually buoyed up from the surface, or swelled round the torrid
zone in the form of a protuberant belt, the upper strata flowing over,
and running off in streams north and south toward the poles,
where—having been cooled and condensed—they descend, and flow over the
surface toward the equator, pouring in a perpetual current of air to
supply the place of that buoyed up by the heat of the tropics. Thus,
there is a constant current in the higher regions of the atmosphere,
proceeding from the equator northward and southward to the poles; and,
if the earth were at rest, there would be a constant wind in the lower
regions of the atmosphere blowing directly from the poles to the
equator, while in equatorial regions the two streamlets would meet, and
neutralize each other’s influence. But the earth is not at rest! It is
incessantly whirling upon its axis, the surface moving at a rate which
varies according to the extent of the circumference. The velocity at the
equator, where the circumference is the greatest, is about sixteen miles
a minute; at 30° of latitude, which is below the most southerly point of
Europe, it is about fourteen miles in the same time; and at 45°, or
about the centre of France, it is about eleven miles. As the distance
from the equator increases, north and south, the rate of the rotation
thus becomes less, because the circle of the earth’s circumference
diminishes in extent. Now a current of air flowing from the north or
south polar regions, and setting toward the equator, will encounter as
it proceeds an increased rotatory motion eastward, the direction of the
earth’s axical revolution; and, not acquiring the new velocity at once,
it will be left behind, and seem to deflect toward the west just in
proportion as it does not keep up with the earth to the east. Hence,
what would simply be a north or south wind but for the earth’s rotatory
motion, becomes a north-east and south-east wind as it approaches those
regions where, the velocity of the globe being so much greater than
where it originated, it lags behind it in its easterly course. This is
the exact path of the trade winds—breezes, with few exceptions, uniform
in their direction, perpetual in their motion, and steady in their
force—which wafted Columbus across the Atlantic, impelled the
Portuguese from their southerly course, and bore them to the Brazils,
and have since been important auxiliaries to the communication of the
eastern with the western continent.
The existence of a current in the upper regions of the atmosphere
counter to that below, assumed by the preceding theory, is not mere
hypothesis. Clouds, though of rare occurrence in the district of the
trade winds, have been observed to take a direction contrary to that
which the surface-breezes would have given them. A circumstance
remarkably in favor of the counter-current inferred from theory,
occurred in the year 1812. There was then an eruption of the volcano of
St. Vincent, one of the West India Islands, which covered the island of
Barbadoes with a quantity of the ashes and volcanic matter ejected. The
trade wind here blows with great power, and it is certain that the
volcanic ashes would have been conveyed in a direction from Barbadoes,
instead of toward it, by its action. To account for their transportation
thither, it is necessary to suppose that the volcano ejected them to an
elevation within reach of a superior stratum of air, blowing contrary to
the course of the inferior current. When Humboldt was upon the Peak of
Teneriffe the west wind blew with such violence that he could scarcely
stand, though the island below was under the influence of the ordinary
north-east trade wind; and the remark has often been made, that in the
elevated parts of the Canary Islands, a contrary wind has been
experienced to that which has been prevailing over the general surface.
All mariners and passengers have spoken with delight of the region of
the trade winds, not only on account of the favoring gale, but its
genial influence, the transparent atmosphere, the splendid sunsets, and
the brilliancy of the unclouded heavens, day and night. Columbus, in
recording his first voyage into their territory, compares the air, soft
and refreshing without being cool, to that of the pure and balmy April
mornings he had experienced in Andalusia, wanting but the song of the
nightingale and the sight of the groves, to complete the fancy that he
was sailing along the Guadalquivir, “It is marvelous,” observes Las
Casas, “the suavity which we experience when half way toward these
Indies; and the more the ships approach the lands so much more do they
perceive the temperance and softness of the air, the clearness of the
sky, and the amenity and fragrance sent forth from the groves and
forests; much more certainly than in April in Andalusia.” Humboldt
lingers with pleasure, upon his first acquaintance with the tropical
regions at sea, upon the mildness of the climate and the beauty of the
southern sky, gradually opening new constellations to the view, stars
contemplated from infancy progressively sinking and finally disappearing
below the horizon, an unknown firmament unfolding its aspect, and
scattered nebulæ rivaling in splendor the milky way. “A traveler,” he
states, “has no need of being a botanist, to recognize the torrid zone,
on the mere aspect of its vegetation; and without having acquired any
notions of astronomy, without any acquaintance with the celestial charts
of Flamstead and De la Caille, he feels he is not in Europe, when he
sees the immense constellation of the Ship, or the phosphorescent clouds
of Magellan, arise on the horizon. We pass those latitudes, as if we
were descending a river, and we might deem it no hazardous undertaking,
if we made the voyage in an open boat.” Mr. Bailey, in his Four Years in
the West Indies, relates an adventure, nearly answering to that here
referred to. The master of one of the small fishing smacks that ply
along the coast of Scotland, who had no other knowledge of navigation
than that which enabled him to keep his dead reckoning, and to take the
sun with his quadrant at noon-day, having heard that sugar was a very
profitable cargo, determined, by way of speculation, upon a trip to St.
Vincent, to bring a few hogsheads of the commodity on his own account
into the Scottish market. Accordingly, he freighted his vessel; made
sail; crossed the Bay of Biscay in a gale; got into the trade winds, and
scudded before them, at the rate of seven knots an hour, trusting to his
dead reckoning all the way. He spoke no vessel during the whole
voyage; and never once saw land until on the morning of the thirty-fifth
day, when he descried St. Vincent’s right ahead, and running down, under
a light breeze, along the windward coast of the island, came to anchor.
The private signal of the little vessel was unknown to any of the
merchants, and it immediately attracted notice. The natives were
perfectly astonished—they had never heard of such a feat before; and
deemed it quite impossible that a mere fishing smack, worked only by
four men, and commanded by an ignorant master, should plow the billows
of the Atlantic, and reach the West Indies in safety—yet so it was.
This relation justifies the title given by the Spaniards to the zone
where the trade winds are constant, _el Golpo de las Damas_, the Sea of
the Ladies, on account of the ease with which it may be navigated, the
uniform temperature prevalent night and day, and its pacific aspect.
[Illustration: =Commencement of the Monsoon.=]
2. _Monsoons._ These are periodical winds, which sweep the northern part
of the Indian Ocean, changing their direction after an interval of about
six months, and hence the term Monsoon, the Anglicised form of the
Persic _mousum_, or the Malay _moossin_, signifying a _season_,
referring to their periodicity. Avoiding all minute detail, we shall
merely give the range, direction, and duration of these singular, yet
highly useful currents, and that in a very general way. From 3° south of
the equator to the northern shores of the Indian Ocean, including the
Arabian Sea, the Bay of Bengal, and the Chinese Sea, a south-west wind
blows from April to October, and then a north-east wind sets in, and
prevails through the next half year, from October to April. From 3° to
10° south of the equator a south-east wind blows from April to October,
and a north-west during the succeeding six months. Without attending to
local variations, these are the general phenomena. There is a
_south-west_ wind prevailing north of the equator from April to October,
and southward of this, through a certain space, at the same season, a
_south-east_ wind. There is a _north-east_ wind north of the equator
from October to April, and coincidently, a _north-west_ wind between 3°
and 10° south of the line. The western boundary of the region of the
monsoons is the African shore; its eastern limit is supposed to be about
the meridian of 136° east longitude, which cuts the island of New
Guinea; its northern confine is near the parallel of 27° north latitude,
which intersects the Loo Choo islands; its southern extremity has been
already stated. The monsoons are much stronger than the trade winds, and
may be called gales, but they are by no means of uniform force, either
as it respects themselves or each other, the same monsoon occasionally
blowing with such violence that ships are obliged to reef their sails.
It must not be imagined that these winds are confined to the ocean. They
extend over the whole of Hindûstan to the Himalaya, the north-east
monsoon bringing copious rains to its eastern shores, and the south-west
monsoon performing the same office for its western coast.
The change of the monsoon—the periodical shifting of the wind—the most
singular feature of the case, is a gradual process, usually occupying
about a month, which reduces the reign of the two annual monsoons, north
and south of the equator, to five months each, the remaining two months
being spent in the transitions. In each interval of change, calms, light
variable breezes, alternate with storms of tremendous violence. Mr.
Caunter thus describes the scene at Madras, in the interim between the
cessation of one monsoon and the setting in of another: “On the 15th of
October, the flag-staff was struck, as a signal for all vessels to leave
the roads, lest they should be overtaken by the monsoon. On that very
morning some premonitory symptoms of the approaching “war of elements”
had appeared. As the house we occupied overlooked the beach, we could
behold the setting in of the monsoon in all its grand and terrific
sublimity. The wind, with a force which nothing could resist, bent the
tufted heads of the tall, slim cocoa-nut trees almost to the earth,
flinging the light sand into the air in eddying vortices, until the rain
had either so increased its gravity, or beaten it into a mass, as to
prevent the wind from raising it. The pale lightning streamed from the
clouds in broad sheets of flame, which appeared to encircle the heavens
as if every element had been converted into fire, and the world was on
the eve of a general conflagration, whilst the peal, which instantly
followed, was like the explosion of a gunpowder magazine. The heavens
seemed to be one vast reservoir of flame, which was propelled from its
voluminous bed by some invisible but omnipotent agency, and threatened
to fling its fiery ruin upon every thing around. In some parts, however,
of the pitchy vapor by which the skies were by this time completely
overspread, the lightning was seen only occasionally to glimmer in faint
streaks of light, as if struggling, but unable, to escape from its
prison, igniting, but too weak to burst, the impervious bosoms of those
capacious magazines in which it was at once engendered and pent up. So
heavy and continuous was the rain, that scarcely any thing, save those
vivid bursts of light which nothing could arrest or resist, was
perceptible through it. The thunder was so painfully loud, that it
frequently caused the ear to throb; it seemed as if mines were
momentarily springing in the heavens, and I could almost fancy that one
of the sublimest fictions of heathen fable was realized at this moment
before me, and that I was hearing an assault of the Titans. The surf was
raised by the wind and scattered in thin billows of foam over the
esplanade, which was completely powdered with the white, feathery spray.
It extended several hundred yards from the beach; fish, upward of three
inches long, were found upon the flat roofs of houses in the town,
during the prevalence of the monsoon, either blown from the sea by the
violence of the gales, or taken up in the water-spouts, which are very
prevalent in this tempestuous season. When these burst, whatever they
contain is frequently borne by the sweeping blast to a considerable
distance over-land, and deposited in the most uncongenial situations; so
that now, during the violence of these tropical storms, fish are found
alive on the tops of houses; nor is this any longer a matter of surprise
to the established resident in India, who sees every year a repetition
of this singular phenomenon. During the extreme violence of the storm,
the heat was occasionally almost beyond endurance, particularly after
the first day or two, when the wind would at intervals entirely subside,
so that not a breath of air could be felt, and the punka afforded but a
partial relief to that distressing sensation which is caused by the
oppressive stillness of the air so well known in India.” It is an
extraordinary but well-ascertained fact, that as soon as one monsoon
ceases, though a month may elapse before the succeeding one appears, the
clouds take the direction of the approaching monsoon, and thus from the
regions of the atmosphere herald its advent to the dwellers below.
We naturally inquire concerning the origin of these peculiar movements,
but must be content with a very scanty measure of information upon the
subject. The laws which nature obeys in these periodical changes are
undoubtedly identical with those which give rise to atmospheric currents
in general, but their mode of operation is in this case obscure. The
north-east and south-east monsoons, the former on the north and the
latter on the south side of the equator, may be considered as trade
winds, explicable upon the same principles, but counteracted for a
certain time by causes which produce winds from a different quarter, the
south-west and north-west monsoons. It has been observed that the
south-west monsoon, which prevails to the north of the equator, is
coincident with the sun being vertical to that region, when Hindûstan,
Siam, and the adjacent countries receive their maximum of heat.
Consequently, the incumbent air, being rarefied, ascends, and a rush of
colder air to supply its place, is produced from the southward, which is
then receiving the oblique rays of the sun, and which presenting a
surface of water is immensely less heated than the lands to which the
luminary is perpendicular. In like manner, the north-west monsoon, which
prevails south of the equator, is coincident with the sun being south of
it likewise, and vertical to the region, when the sandy plains of New
Holland become powerfully heated, and the air over them rarefied,
creating a wind by the rush of the colder northern air toward the point
of rarefaction. These are the explanations commonly given, and though in
several respects they do not account for all the phenomena, yet the
probability is, that they present the correct theory, anomalous
circumstances arising from the influence of causes which are local and
as yet unknown. The monsoons are more valuable as auxiliaries to
commerce than the trade winds, owing to the change in their direction,
for a ship may proceed to a distant port with one monsoon and be aided
on its return by its successor.
3. _Land and sea breezes._ A line in one of our popular songs,
“How sweetly the breeze blows off the shore,”
refers to the wind which begins at evening to blow from the coasts
situated between and near the tropics: and an equally grateful breeze
blows by day from the sea to the shore in those warm climates. The
inequality of the solar action on the land and water, together with the
tendency of the atmosphere to preserve an uniform density, is the cause
of these periodically shifting currents. During the day the land
acquires a temperature higher than that of the ocean, and the air over
it is therefore rarefied and ascends, and the cooler air from the sea
glides in to fill the partial vacuum produced. At night, the land
rapidly cools with the atmosphere over it, but the sea and the air in
connection with it retain a nearly equal temperature, in consequence of
which, the colder and heavier land-air displaces the less dense or
lighter air over the water, and a wind from the shore is created. The
smoke of Vesuvius beautifully exemplifies this diurnal change in the
direction of the atmospheric currents along the shore, its long tail
stretching landward for a few hours, and then veering round to seaward.
In the Mediterranean and the West Indies, the land breeze usually begins
at six or seven o’clock in the evening, and blows until eight in the
morning, when the sea breeze begins, increasing till mid-day, and
gradually dying away in the afternoon, a period of stillness occurring
between the changes, as between the ebbing and flowing of the tide. The
sea-breeze of the Mediterranean in summer is said to be perceptible
sometimes as far north as Norway. These draughts of the cool air of the
ocean are important benefactions to various countries, where the heat
would otherwise be insupportable. Along the coast of Malabar, the
alternate breezes are powerfully felt, the land wind extending in summer
a considerable distance out to sea, redolent with the roses and spices
of the shore. Though the land and sea breezes are most sensible in
tropical countries, yet in far remote latitudes, and especially around
lakes, the same diurnal shifting in the direction of the wind is
experienced. The change of temperature in the air over a spacious lake,
caused by the succession of day and night, has been computed to be about
thirty times less than that which takes place in the atmosphere of the
surrounding land—the air over the land being much more heated during
the day, and much less heated during the night, than that over the
lake—an inequality of temperature which necessarily occasions a breeze
from the lake by day, and toward it by night.
[Illustration: =Vesuvius from St. Elmo.=]
The old and faithful voyager, Captain Dampier, in a quaint but pleasing
style, has given the most exact description of these remarkable winds,
as they occur in tropical latitudes. “These sea-breezes do commonly rise
in the morning about nine o’clock, sometimes sooner, sometimes later;
they first approach the shore so gently, as if they were afraid to come
near it, and ofttimes they make some faint breathings, and, as if not
willing to offend, they make a halt, and seem ready to retire. I have
waited many a time, both ashore to receive the pleasure, and at sea to
take the benefit of it. It comes in a fine, small, black curl upon the
water, whereas all the sea between it and the shore, not yet reached by
it, is as smooth and even as glass in comparison. In half an hour’s time
after it has reached the shore, it fans pretty briskly, and so
increaseth, gradually, till twelve o’clock; then it is commonly
strongest, and lasts so till two or three a very brisk gale; about
twelve at noon it also veers off to sea two or three points, or more in
very fair weather. After three o’clock, it begins to die away again, and
gradually withdraws its force till all is spent; and about five o’clock,
sooner or later, according as the weather is, it is lulled asleep, and
comes no more till the next morning.
“Land-breezes are as remarkable as any winds that I have yet treated of;
they are quite contrary to the sea-breezes; for those blow right from
the shore, but the sea-breeze right in upon the shore; and as the
sea-breezes do blow in the day and rest in the night, so, on the
contrary, these do blow in the night and rest in the day, and so they do
alternately succeed each other. For when the sea-breezes have performed
their offices of the day, by breathing on their respective coasts, they,
in the evening, do either withdraw from the coast, or lie down to rest.
Then the land-winds, whose office it is to breathe in the night, moved
by the same order of divine impulse, do rouse out of their private
recesses, and gently fan the air till the next morning, and then their
task ends, and they leave the stage. There can be no proper time set
when they do begin in the evening, or when they retire in the morning,
for they do not keep to an hour, but they commonly spring up between six
and twelve in the evening, and last till six, eight, or ten in the
morning. They both come and go away again earlier or later, according to
the weather, the season of the year, or some accidental cause from the
land. For, on some coasts, they do rise earlier, blow fresher, and
remain later than on other coasts, as I shall show hereafter.
“These winds blow off to sea, a greater or less distance, according as
the coast lies more or less exposed to the sea-winds; for, in some
places, we find them brisk three or four leagues off shore; in other
places, not so many miles, and, in some places, they scarce peep without
the rocks; or if they do sometimes, in very fair weather, make a sally
out a mile or two, they are not lasting, but suddenly vanish away,
though yet, there are every night as fresh land-winds ashore, at these
places, as in any other part of the world. Indeed, these winds are an
extraordinary blessing to those that use the sea in any part of the
world within the tropics; for as the constant trade-winds do blow, there
could be no sailing in these seas; but by the help of the sea and
land-breezes, ships will sail 200 or 300 leagues, as particularly from
Jamaica to the Lagune of Trist, in the Bay of Campeachy, and then back
again, all against the trade-wind. The seamen that sail in sloops or
other small vessels in the West Indies do know very well when they shall
meet a brisk land-wind by the fogs that hang over the land before night;
for it is a certain sign of a good land-wind to see a thick fog lie
still and quiet, like smoke over the land, not stirring any way; and we
look out for such signs when we are plying to windward. For if we see no
fog over the land, the land-wind will be but faint and short that night.
These signs are to be observed chiefly in fair weather; for in the wet
season fogs do hang over the land all the day, and it may be neither
land-wind nor sea-breeze stirring. If in the afternoon, also, in fair
weather, we see a tornado over the land, it commonly sends us forth a
fresh land-wind. These land-winds are very cold, and though the
sea-breezes are always much stronger, yet these are colder by far. The
sea-breezes, indeed, are very comfortable and refreshing; for the
hottest time in all the day, is about nine, ten, or eleven o’clock in
the morning, in the interval between both breezes; for then it is
commonly calm, and then people pant for breath, especially if it is late
before the sea-breeze comes, but afterward the breeze allays the heat.
However, in the evening again, after the sea-breeze is spent, it is very
hot till the land-wind springs up, which is sometimes not till twelve
o’clock or after.”
4. _Etesian winds._ The ancients gave this designation, from _annual_,
to periodical winds which blow from the north-east in the summer months,
for about six weeks, throughout the Mediterranean and adjacent
countries, but mostly in the eastern branch, including the Adriatic and
the Archipelago. The term Meltem is now applied to them by the
fishermen, a corruption, probably, of _mal temps_, referring to the fury
with which they blow, and to the danger to which their small craft
become exposed. On land, they are more favorably regarded. These winds
are noticed by Pliny, Seneca, and Cicero, the latter of whom says, that
in Italy they are equally comfortable and salutary to men, beasts, and
birds, and likewise beneficial to vegetation, by moderating the violent
heat of the weather during the inclement season of the dog-days. In the
Levant, they commence toward the middle of July, about nine in the
morning, continuing only in the day-time. The sun at that season is
powerfully heating the earth under the tropic of Cancer, and rarefying
the atmosphere south of the Mediterranean, thus giving birth to the
north-east etesian gales.
5. _Khamsin_, _Samiel_, _Simoom_, _Harmattan_, _Sirocco_. These are
local titles of winds differing greatly in geographical position and
direction, and also in some of their properties, but prevalent in desert
regions, or in countries adjacent to them, and having one universal
character of being hot blasts. The Khamsin is a hot south wind, which
soon after the vernal equinox begins to blow in Egypt, continuing at
intervals during a period of about fifty days, to which the name refers.
The two next are entirely identical, the Samiel being the name given by
the Turks to the wind which the Arabs called the Simoom. It is common in
Syria, Arabia, and Nubia, deleterious in its mildest forms, occasionally
destructive, many a pilgrim to the shrine of the Prophet at Mecca, and
merchant to the marts of Bagdad, having perished by its noxious
suffocating influence. Bruce suffered from it when ascending the Nile,
he and his company becoming so enervated as to be incapable of pitching
their tents, oppressed as well by an intolerable headache. “The
poisonous simoom,” he remarks, when at Chendi, “blew as if it came from
an oven; our eyes were dim, our lips cracked, our knees tottering, our
throats perfectly dry; and no relief was found from drinking an
immoderate quantity of water.” The most complete account of the simoom
and its effects has been given by Volney, whose accuracy here has been
repeatedly confirmed. “Travelers,” he states, “have mentioned these
winds under the name of poisonous winds; or, more correctly, hot winds
of the desert. Such in fact is their quality; and their heat is
sometimes so excessive that it is difficult to form an idea of their
violence without having experienced it; but it may be compared to the
heat of a large oven at the moment of drawing out the bread. When these
winds begin to blow, the atmosphere assumes an alarming aspect. The sky,
at other times so clear in this climate, becomes dark and heavy; the sun
loses its splendor, and appears of a violet color. The air is not
cloudy, but gray and thick; and is in fact filled with an extremely
subtle dust, that penetrates everywhere. This wind, always light and
rapid, is not at first remarkably hot, but it increases in heat in
proportion as it continues. All animated bodies soon discover it by the
change it produces in them. The lungs, which a too rarefied air no
longer expands, are contracted and become painful. Respiration is short
and difficult, the skin parched and dry, and the body consumed by an
internal heat. In vain is recourse had to large draughts of water;
nothing can restore perspiration. In vain is coolness sought for; all
bodies in which it is usual to find it deceive the hand that touches
them. Marble, iron, water, notwithstanding the sun no longer appears,
are hot. The streets are deserted, and the dead silence of night reigns
everywhere. The inhabitants of towns and villages shut themselves up in
their houses—and those of the desert in their tents, or in pits they
dig in the earth—where they wait the termination of this destructive
heat. It usually lasts three days, but if it exceeds that time it
becomes insupportable. Wo to the traveler whom this wind surprises
remote from shelter! he must suffer all its dreadful consequences, which
sometimes are mortal. The danger is most imminent when it blows in
squalls, for then the rapidity of the wind increases the heat to such a
degree as to cause sudden death. This death is a real suffocation; the
lungs being empty are convulsed, the circulation disordered, and the
whole mass of blood driven by the heat toward the head and breast;
whence that hæmorrhage at the nose and mouth which happens after death.
This wind is especially fatal to persons of a plethoric habit, and those
in whom fatigue has destroyed the tone of the muscles and vessels. The
corpse remains a long time warm, swells, turns blue, and is easily
separated; all of which are signs of that putrid fermentation which
takes place when the humors become stagnant. These accidents are to be
avoided by stopping the nose and mouth with handkerchiefs; an
efficacious method is also that practiced by the camels, who bury their
noses in the sand, and keep them there till the squall is over. Another
quality of this wind is its extreme aridity, which is such, that water
sprinkled upon the floor evaporates in a few minutes. By this extreme
dryness it withers and strips all the plants, and by exhaling too
suddenly the emanations from animal bodies, crisps the skin, closes the
pores, and causes that feverish heat which is the invariable effect of
suppressed perspiration.” The current of the simoom is seldom of any
considerable breadth, but different examples of it have been traversing
a tract of country of but scanty area at the same time, and several
cases of disaster from it upon an extensive scale are upon record. The
opinion is now commonly held, that the destruction of the Assyrian army,
when
“The angel of death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still,”
was accomplished by the agency of the simoom, directed by the Almighty
Will over the host of Senacherib—an interpretation which the terms of
the prophetic announcement of the avenging stroke remarkably support:
“Behold I will send a blast upon him.”
The Harmattan, a periodical hot wind from the desert, differs remarkably
from the simoom. It blows from the interior of the great Sahara, from
the north-east, over Senegambia and Guinea, to that part of the coast of
Africa lying between Cape Verde in 15° north latitude to Cape Lopez in
1° south latitude, a coast line of upward of two thousand miles. It
occurs during December, January, and February, generally three or four
times in that season. The harmattan is the local name of the wind among
the Fantees, a nation on the Gold Coast. It comes on indiscriminately at
any hour of the day, at any time of the tide, or at any period of the
moon, continuing sometimes only a day or two, at other times five or six
days, and it has been known to last upward of a fortnight. A fog or haze
is one of the peculiarities which always accompanies this wind,
occasioning a gloom which frequently renders even near objects obscure,
through which the sun appears for a short time about noon, having a wild
red aspect. Though the wind blows out to sea for ten or twelve leagues,
the fog is confined to the land, and leaves a deposition of fine whitish
particles upon the grass and trees. Extreme dryness is another property
of the harmattan. No dew falls during its continuance, nor is there the
least appearance of moisture in the atmosphere. Vegetables of every kind
suffer; all tender plants and most of the productions of the garden are
destroyed; the grass withers, and becomes dry like hay; vigorous
evergreens feel the pernicious influence; the branches of the lemon,
orange, and lime trees droop, the leaves become flaccid, and so parched
as to be easily rubbed to dust between the fingers, should the harmattan
blow for several successive days. Among other extraordinary effects of
the extreme dryness, it is stated, that the covers of books, though
closely shut up in a trunk, are bent as if they had been exposed to a
fire. Household furniture cracks, the panels of the doors split, and any
veneered work flies to pieces. Another, and the most striking feature of
the harmattan, is its salubrity. Though prejudicial to vegetable life,
and occasioning disagreeable parching effects on the human species, yet
it is highly conducive to health, those laboring previously under fevers
generally recover during its prevalence, the feeble gain strength, and
malignant diseases disappear. It seems that as this wind immediately
follows the rainy season on the African coast, during which diseases are
induced by an excess of moisture, the harmattan, invested with
extraordinary dryness, removes humidity from the atmosphere, and
counteracts its effects.
The Sirocco is analogous to the Khamsin, but milder. It is a hot
south-east wind prevailing in the Mediterranean, in Italy and Sicily,
but felt most violently in the country around Naples, and at Palermo. It
sometimes commences faintly about the summer solstice, but blows
occasionally with great force in the month of July. Mr. Brydone, writing
from Palermo, and referring to July 8th, observes—
“On Sunday, we had the long-expected sirocco wind, which, although our
expectations had been raised pretty high, yet I own greatly exceeded
them. Friday and Saturday were uncommonly cool, the mercury never being
higher than 72½: and, although the sirocco is said to have set in early
on Sunday morning, the air in our apartments, which are very large, with
high ceilings, was not in the least affected by it at eight o’clock,
when I rose. I opened the door without having any suspicion of such a
change, and, indeed, I never was more astonished in my life. The first
blast of it on my face felt like the burning steam from the mouth of an
oven. I drew back my head and shut the door, calling out to Fullarton
that the whole atmosphere was in a flame. However, we ventured to open
another door that leads to a cool platform, where we usually walk; this
was not exposed to the wind, and here I found the heat much more
supportable than I could have expected from the first specimen I had of
it at the other door. It felt somewhat like the subterraneous
sweating-stoves at Naples, but still much hotter. In a few minutes, we
found every fibre greatly relaxed, and the pores opened to such a
degree, that we expected soon to be thrown into a profuse sweat. I went
to examine the thermometer, and found the air in the room as yet so
little affected that it stood only at 73. The preceding night it was at
72½. I took it out in the open air, when it immediately rose to 110, and
soon after to 112; and I am confident, that in our old lodgings, or
anywhere within the city, it must have risen several degrees higher. The
air was thick and heavy, but the barometer was little affected—it had
fallen only about a line. The sun did not once appear the whole day,
otherwise I am persuaded the heat must have been insupportable; on that
side of our platform which is exposed to the wind, it was with
difficulty we could bear it for a few minutes. Here I exposed a little
pomatum, which was melted down as if I had laid it before the fire. I
attempted to take a walk in the street, to see if any creature was
stirring, but I found it too much for me, and was glad to get up stairs
again. This extraordinary heat continued till three o’clock in the
afternoon, when the wind changed at once, almost to the opposite point
of the compass.” All nature languishes under the influence of this wind:
vegetation droops and withers; the Italians suffering from it not less
than strangers. When any feeble literary production appears, the
strongest phrase of disapprobation they can bestow is—_era scritto in
temps del sirocco_, “it was written in the time of the sirocco.” There
can be little doubt but that this hot south-east wind sweeps across the
Mediterranean from the shores of Africa. It is some compensation that
the season of this oppressive blast is also that of the north-east
Etesian winds, and not unfrequently, after a few hours’ experience of
the enfeebling influence of the sirocco, the tramontane—or north
wind—follows with its invigorating breath.
Hot winds, resembling the sirocco of Sicily and Italy, prevail in New
South Wales, and are supposed to derive their heat from tracts of
unknown deserts in the intertropical regions of that island-continent.
“One might almost fancy,” says Mrs. Meredith, “the Ancient Mariner to
have experienced one during his ghostly voyage, he so accurately
describes their aspect—
All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the moon.
The sirocco of that country always blows from the north-west. At Sydney,
its oven-like temperature is moderated by the mid-day sea-breeze; but in
the interior it is severely felt, and is often fatal to the vegetation.
Every green thing droops and dies, dried up like half-burnt paper. Large
tracts of cultivated land, covered with luxuriant green crops of wheat
or barley, just going into ear, are scorched, shriveled, and absolutely
blackened by the heat, and become fit for nothing but to be cut as
litter; and of course the delicate plants and flowers of the gardens are
not spared by the “burning breath of the fervid Air-king.”
6. _Hurricanes._—Sudden and tremendous bursts of storm are common in
mountainous districts, and in the plains which lie at the base of those
vast piles of nature’s building. Their peaks, exposed by elevation to
intense cold, and covered with perpetual snow, cool and condense the
warm air rising up from the regions below, which descends with an
impetus proportioned to its own gravity and the lighter condition of the
air over the regions below, and a tempest ensues upon considerable
condensation and rarefaction in adjoining regions of the atmosphere.
This is the origin of the _pamperos_, or south-west winds, which rush
from the snows of the Andes, and sweeping over the level pampas with
unchecked violence, become hurricanes before their arrival at Buenos
Ayres, and carry to the city clouds of dust collected from the plains,
occasioning almost total darkness in the streets. So sudden is the
operation of the pampero, that persons bathing in the river Plate have
been drowned by the agitation of its waters, through the tempest, before
they could possibly reach the shore. Captain Fitzroy relates, when in
his ship upon the river, that a small boat had been hauled ashore above
high-water mark, and fastened with a strong rope to a large stone; but
the pampero set in, and afterward the boat was found far from the beach,
shattered to pieces, but still fast to the stone, which it had dragged
along.
[Illustration: =Hurricane in the Tropics.=]
But this violent movement of the atmosphere is remarkably beneficial in
its general effect to the inhabitants of the pampas of Buenos Ayres and
on the banks of the Plata. The prevailing winds through a great part of
the year are northerly; and these passing over extensive marshy tracts
bring with them a degree of humidity, which renders the land rife with
fever and pestilence, till the pampero rushes down from the Andes and
clears the atmosphere. A somewhat similar wind is one of our own
physical phenomena, hitherto unexplained, to the violence of which the
tourist to the Cumberland lakes may occasionally be exposed in spring
and autumn. This is the Helm-wind. Hutchinson, in the history of the
county, and the Rev. J. Watson, in a report to the British Association,
have given an account of its singular features. When not a breath of air
is stirring, or a cloud is to be seen, a line of clouds will be suddenly
formed over the summits of the lofty ridge of mountains at Hartside,
extending several miles on the western side. To this collection of
vapors the term Helm is applied from its shape. It exhibits an awful and
solemn appearance, spreading a gloom over the regions below, like the
shadows of night. Parallel to this, another line of clouds, called the
Bar, begins to form. The two lines unite together at their extremities,
and embrace between them an elliptical cloudless space, from half a mile
to four or five miles in breadth, and from eight to thirty miles in
length; the breadth being from east to west, and the length from north
to south. Soon after the complete formation of the Helm-bar, a violent
wind issues from the space between the clouds, generally blowing
directly from the east, and with such power that trees have been
dismantled of their foliage, stacks of grain dispersed, and heavy
vehicles overturned. The Helm-wind has continued for as much as nine
days together, with a noise resembling that of a violent sea-storm, but
it is seldom accompanied with any rain. It has been suggested, that the
air from the coast of Northumberland, being cooled as it rises to the
summit of the mountains, and there condensed, descends from thence with
great force, by its gravity, into the district, to the west of Hartside,
the scene of the phenomenon: but obviously a variety of other causes
must enter into its production.
In several parts of the globe, an extensive vacuum being suddenly
created in the atmosphere by the agency of electricity, the surrounding
air rushes in with immense impetuosity from all points of the compass,
blowing in gusts of resistless power, destroying all the productions of
the earth, leveling forests and the finest buildings, and inundating
whole tracts of country by the deluge of rain with which they are
accompanied. These storms seldom occur far out in the open ocean, or
beyond the tropics, or nearer the equator than nine or ten degrees.
Their principal localities are the West India Islands, those of
Madagascar, Mauritius, and Bourbon, the north-west coast of Africa, the
Bay of Bengal, and the Chinese Sea, where they are variously called
hurricanes, tornadoes, and typhoons. A heavy swell upon the sea, a dusky
redness of the sky, a close oppressive air, and a wild irregularity in
the appearance of things, are the usual precursors of a tropical
tempest. Though generally confined to the districts mentioned, where
they are of frequent occurrence, the extra-tropical latitudes, at more
distant intervals, experience the force of the hurricane.
When were the winds
Let slip with such a warrant to destroy?
When did the waves so haughtily o’erleap
Their ancient barriers, deluging the dry?”
This is the language of Cowper in the Task, respecting the year 1783,
when—amid the other events of that portentous season, noticed upon a
previous page—a succession of storms, accompanied with violent rains,
visited the whole of Great Britain, and caused considerable damage. But
what is known in our records as the “Great Storm,” occurred on the night
of the 26th and the morning of the 27th of November 1703, and has been
referred to by almost all the writers of that period. Derham, in the
Philosophical Transactions for the year following, states—
“Of the preceding parts of the year (1703), the months of April, May,
June, and July were wet in the southern parts of England, particularly
in May, when more rain fell than in any month of any year since 1690;
June also was very wet; and though July had considerable intermissions,
yet on the 28th and 29th there fell violent showers of rain, and the
newspapers gave accounts of great rains that month from divers places of
Europe. On Thursday, November 25th, the day before the tempest, in the
morning there was a little rain, the winds high in the afternoon. In the
evening there was lightning, and between nine and ten o’clock at night,
a violent but short storm of wind, and much rain. Next morning, November
26th, the wind was S. S. W., and high all day, and so continued till I
was in bed and asleep. About twelve that night the storm awakened me,
which gradually increased till near three that morning, and from thence
till near seven it continued with the greatest violence; then it began
to abate slowly and the mercury to rise swiftly.” This tempest filled
the whole kingdom with terror, and produced immense commercial loss, and
many melancholy accidents. The country between the Loire in France and
the Trent in England was the chief scene of its ravages. The historians
of those times give an affecting account of the dismal appearance of the
district. Houses unroofed—steeples blown down—stacks of corn scattered
abroad—vessels dismasted or wrecked—and upward of eight thousand
persons drowned. “The wind,” says Oldmixon, “blew west-south-west, and
grumbled like thunder, accompanied with flashes of lightning. It threw
down several battlements and stacks of chimneys at St. James’ Palace;
tore to pieces tall trees in the Park; and killed a servant in the
house. The Guard-house at Whitehall was much damaged, as was the
Banqueting-house. A great deal of lead was blown off Westminster Abbey;
and most of the lead on churches and houses either rolled up in sheets
or loosened. The pious and learned prelate Doctor Richard Kidder, Bishop
of Bath and Wells, and his lady, were killed by the fall of part of the
old episcopal palace at Wells. The Bishop of London’s sister, Lady
Penelope Nicholas, was killed in like manner at Horsely in Sussex, and
Sir John Nicholas—her husband—grievously hurt.” Upward of 800 houses,
400 windmills, and 250,000 timber-trees were thrown down; 100 churches
unroofed; 300 sail lost upon the coast; 900 wherries and barges
destroyed on the Thames; the Eddystone light-house, built by Winstanley,
was overthrown; 15,000 sheep, besides other cattle, were drowned by the
overflowing of the Severn; and Rear-Admiral Beaumont, with the crews of
several ships, perished on the Goodwin Sands.
The West Indies and the vicinity of the Mauritius seem to be two
principal foci of hurricanes, from their frequency and tremendous
violence in those localities. Of thirteen hurricanes, described by
Colonel Reid, in his interesting attempt to develop the law of storms,
eleven took place in the neighborhood of the Mauritius and Madagascar,
which sanctions an opinion prevalent among seamen, that gales are
commonly avoided by ships steering in a course so as to keep well to the
eastward of the Mauritius. To give some idea of a tropical hurricane,
the particulars gathered by Colonel Reid from various sources,
respecting that which desolated several of the West India Islands in the
year 1831, are here introduced. It passed over Barbadoes, St. Lucia, St.
Domingo, and Cuba, swept the northern shores of the Gulf of Mexico,
raged simultaneously at Pensacola, Mobile, and New Orleans, entered the
adjoining states, and seems to have been disorganized by the opposition
offered to its progress by the mountain region of the Alleghanies. The
hurricane accomplished the distance of 2000 miles in 150 hours, at an
average velocity of 13½ miles an hour, but the rate of its progressive
motion was insignificant in comparison with that of its rotatory
movement, a feature hereafter to be adverted to. Before its arrival at
St. Vincent, a cloud was observed to the north by a resident, so
threatening in its aspect and peculiar in its color, that of _olive
green_, that, impressed with a sense of impending danger, he hastened
home, and by nailing up his doors and windows saved his house from the
general calamity. In this island, the most remarkable effect of the
storm was the destruction of an extensive forest at its northern
extremity, the trees of which were _killed without being blown down_. In
1832, these trees were frequently examined by Colonel Reid, and appeared
not to have been killed by the wind, but by the immense quantity of
electric matter rendered active during the storm. When at its height,
two negroes at Barbadoes were greatly terrified by sparks of electricity
passing off from one of them, as they were struggling in the darkness,
in the garden of Coddrington College, to reach the main building, after
the destruction of their hut. Such was the quantity of spray carried
inland from the sea by the wind, that it rained salt water over the
whole island, which killed the fresh-water fish in the ponds, and
several ponds continued salt for some days after the storm. The
afternoon that ushered in the hurricane, that of the 11th of August, was
one of dismal gloom, but about four o’clock, there was an _obscure
circle of imperfect light toward the zenith_ subtending an angle of 35°
or 40°. Variable squalls of wind and rain, with intervening calms,
prevailed till midnight, when the lightning flashed fearfully, and a
gale blew fiercely from the north and north-east. At 1 A. M. the wind
increased, but suddenly shifted its quarter, blowing from north-west and
intermediate points. Toward three o’clock, after a little intermission,
the hurricane again burst from the western points, hurling before it
thousands of missiles—the fragments of every unsheltered work of human
art. The strongest houses vibrated to their foundations, and the surface
of the earth trembled as the destroyer passed over it. There was no
thunder at any time distinctly heard, but the horrible roar and yelling
of the wind, the noise of the ocean, whose waves threatened the
destruction of every thing in Barbadoes that the other elements might
spare, the clattering of tiles, the falling of roofs and walls, and the
combination of a thousand other sounds, formed a hideous and appalling
din. As soon as the dawn rendered outward objects visible, and, the
storm abating, permitted the inhabitants of Bridgetown to venture out, a
grand but distressing picture of ruin presented itself. From the summit
of the cathedral tower, the whole face of the country appeared the wreck
of its former condition. No sign of vegetation could be observed, except
here and there a few patches of sickly green. The surface of the ground
exhibited the scorching and blackening effect of the lightning. A few
remaining trees, stripped of their boughs and foliage, wore a cold and
wintry aspect; and the numerous villas in the neighborhood, formerly
concealed amid thick groves, were exposed and in ruins.
In the year 1837, three hurricanes occurred in the West Indies and
adjacent parts of the Atlantic, the narratives of which, as collected by
Colonel Reid from different observers, present some singular features.
The first passed over Barbadoes on the 26th of July. The sky assumed a
blue-black appearance, with a red glare at the verge of the horizon. The
flashes of lightning were accompanied with a whizzing noise, like that
of a red-hot iron plunged in water. The barometer and sympiesometer fell
rapidly and sunk to 28·45 inches. The Antigua hurricane, the second of
that year, commenced in the Atlantic, on the night of the 31st of July,
and was encountered by Captain Seymour, in the brigantine Judith and
Esther of Cork. He observed near the zenith _a white appearance of a
round form_, and while looking stedfastly at it, a sudden gust of wind
carried away the topmast and lower scudding sails. During the hurricane
the eyes of the crew were remarkably affected, their sight became dim,
and every one of their _finger-nails turned quite black_, and remained
so nearly five weeks afterward. The captain inferred, from the
universality of the effect, that it could not have been produced by the
firmness of the grasp with which they were holding by the rigging, but
that the whole was caused by an electric body in the elements. On the 2d
of August, in another situation, the Water Witch was caught by the
skirts of the same storm, the wind blowing in squalls from the W. and N.
N. W. till the evening, when “a calm succeeded,” states Captain Newby,
“for about ten minutes; and then, in the most tremendous, unearthly
screech I ever heard, it recommenced from the south and south-west.” The
third hurricane of the year was met with by the Rawlins, about midnight
of the 18th of August, when, after blowing violently for twelve hours
from the north, in an instant a perfect calm ensued for an hour, and
then, quick as thought, the wind sprung up with tremendous force from
the south-west, no swell whatever preceding the convulsion. During this
hurricane, an extraordinary phenomenon presented itself, resembling a
_solid, black, perpendicular wall_ about 15° or 20° above the horizon,
which disappeared and became visible again several times, described by
one of the observers, as “the most appalling sight he had ever seen
during his life at sea.” A similar spectacle is described by an officer
on board the ship Tartarus, during a hurricane on the American coast in
the year 1814:—“No horizon appeared, but only a something resembling an
_immense wall_ within ten yards of the ship.” The power of the wind was
remarkably exemplified during the great hurricane of 1780, which at
Barbadoes forced its way into every part of the Government-house, and
tore off most of the roof, though the walls were three feet thick, and
the doors and windows had been well barricaded. Obliged to retreat from
thence, the governor and his family fled to the ruins of the foundation
of the flag-staff, and, compelled to relinquish that station, they with
difficulty reached the cannon of the fortifications, under the carriages
of which they took shelter. But here they were not secure, for the
cannons were moved by the fury of the wind, and they dreaded every
moment that the guns would be dismounted, and crush them by their fall.
From the preceding accounts it appears that the agency of electricity is
frequently extensively developed in hurricanes; that they have a
progressive motion; that calms of short duration occur during their
continuance; after which the wind bursts forth from a quarter different
to that from which it has been blowing—peculiarities which have led to
a theory respecting storms which may be considered as established in its
leading principles.
Down to a very recent date, a hurricane was generally deemed to be
simply a gale of wind pursuing with immense velocity a rectilinear
direction. Colonel Capper departed from this idea after investigating
the storms of the Indian Ocean, and published the conclusion in the year
1801, that the hurricanes he had examined in that region were real
whirlwinds of varying diameter, having a progressive as well as a
rotatory motion. The evidence collected from the records of an immense
number of storms in the Atlantic by Mr. Redfield, of New York, and in
the Indian Ocean by Colonel Reid, seems to place beyond all dispute the
fact, that they occur in the form of a ring, having an outer circle,
where the air revolves with intense velocity, and an interior space, the
diameter of which is sometimes equal to several hundred miles, the
vortex of the whirlwind, which is the scene of gusts and lulls, a
comparatively slow progressive motion on the surface of land and sea
distinguishing the whole. A hurricane which occurred at New Brunswick in
the year 1835 strikingly exhibited the character of a revolving storm;
for, while about the centre bodies of great weight were carried spirally
upward, at the extremities the trees were thrown in opposite directions.
The same circumstance was observed at Barbadoes in 1831, near the
northern coast: the trees which the hurricane uprooted lay from N. N. W.
to S. S. E., having been thrown down by a northerly wind, while in some
other parts of the island they lay from S. to N., having been prostrated
by a southerly wind. It is evident, therefore, that the direction of the
wind at a particular point affords no indication of the course in which
the whole revolving mass of the atmosphere is advancing. Another
singular conclusion respecting storms, which the American and Anglican
philosophers, along with Professor Dove of Berlin, have arrived at by
independent investigations, is, that the hurricanes in the southern
hemisphere revolve in a _counter direction_ to those in the northern;
and while the axis of a storm in the North Atlantic has a progressive
motion from the equator obliquely toward the north pole, that of one in
the Indian Ocean proceeds obliquely from the equator toward the south
pole. In the Pacific Ocean, a region of hurricanes, their revolving
motion appears to be sanctioned by the evidence which has been obtained
respecting them. Mr. Williams, the missionary, describes a hurricane at
Raratonga, one of the Hervey Islands, during which the rain descended in
deluging torrents, the lightning darted in fiery streams among the
dense, black clouds, the thunder rolled deep and loud through the
heavens, and the island trembled to its very centre as the war of the
elements raged over it. Scarcely a banana or plaintain tree was left,
either on the plains, or in the valleys, or upon the mountains; hundreds
of thousands of which, on the preceding day, covered and adorned the
land with their foliage and fruit, and immense chestnuts, which had
withstood the storms of ages, were laid prostrate on the ground, while
those that remained erect had scarcely a branch, and were all leafless.
It was observed, that when the gale ended, the wind was in the west,
whereas in the early part of its action the east end of the chapel had
been blown in, which shows the wind then to have been in the east. The
hurricanes of New South Wales have been observed to develop the same
peculiarity. Mr. Meredith traced the path of one in the centre, and
found at the termination a circle plainly shown, in which the trees lay
all ways.
The cause of this rotatory motion of storms remains in obscurity, but it
is probably due in part to the same law under which eddies or whirlpools
are formed in water, by two currents being obliquely impelled against
each other. The great hurricanes may thus be considered identical with
the small local whirlwinds, which are common with us in the summer
season, carrying upward and along the dust and loose grass in spiral
columns, exhibiting a progressive and rotatory motion. In the region of
the sandy deserts these atmospheric whirls transpire upon a great scale,
raising up immense quantities of the loose particles in columns to a
considerable height, which sweep along with prodigious violence, and
have occasionally swallowed up whole caravans in their tremendous
vortex.
“Man mounts on man, on camels camels rush,
Hosts march on hosts, and nations nations crush,
Wheeling in air the winged islands fall,
And one great earthy ocean covers all.”
“One of the largest of these pillars of sand,” says a modern traveler,
Caille, “crossed our camp, overset all the seats, and whirling us about
like straws, threw one of us on the other in the utmost confusion. We
knew not where we were, and could not distinguish any thing at the
distance of a foot. The sand wrapped us in darkness like a fog, and the
sky and the earth seemed confounded and blended in one. Whilst this
frightful tempest lasted we remained stretched on the ground motionless,
dying of thirst, burned by the heat of the sand, and buffeted by the
wind. We suffered nothing, however, from the sun, whose disk, almost
concealed by the clouds of sand, appeared dim and deprived of its rays.”
Bruce has sketched with spirit several of these desert whirlwinds, of
which he was an eye-witness:—“At one o’clock,” he states, “we alighted
among some acacia trees at Waadi el Halboub, having gone twenty-one
miles. We were here at once surprised and terrified by a sight surely
one of the most magnificent in the world. In that vast expanse of
desert, from W. to N. W. of us, we saw a number of prodigious pillars of
sand at different distances, at times moving with great celerity, at
others stalking on with a majestic slowness; at intervals we thought
they were coming in a few minutes to overwhelm us; and small quantities
of sand did actually more than once reach us. Again they would retreat
so as to be almost out of sight, their tops reaching to the very clouds.
There the tops often separated from the bodies, and these, once
disjoined, dispersed in the air, and did not appear more. Sometimes they
were broken in the middle, as if struck with large cannon-shot. About
noon they began to advance with considerable swiftness upon us, the wind
being very strong at the north. Eleven of them ranged alongside of us
about the distance of three miles. The greatest diameter of the largest
appeared to me at that distance as if it would measure ten feet. They
retired from us with a wind at S. E., leaving an impression upon my mind
to which I can give no name, though surely one ingredient in it was
fear, with a considerable deal of wonder and astonishment. It was in
vain to think of flying; the swiftest horse, or fastest sailing ship,
could be of no use to carry us out of this danger; and the full
persuasion of this riveted me as if to the spot where I stood. The same
appearance of moving pillars of sand presented themselves to us this
day, in form and disposition like those we had seen at Waadi Halboub,
only they seemed to be more in number and less in size. They came
several times in a direction close upon us; that is, I believe, within
less than two miles. They began immediately after sunrise like a thick
wood, and almost darkened the sun. His rays shining through them for
near an hour, gave them an appearance of pillars of fire. Our people now
became desperate; the Greeks shrieked out and said it was the day of
judgment; Ismael pronounced it to be hell; and the Turcorories, that the
world was on fire.” The procession of tall columns of dust, the upper
end seeming to vanish off, or puff away like light smoke, and the lower
apparently touching the earth, is not unusual on the large plains of New
South Wales, in dry weather. They move in a perpendicular position,
quietly and majestically gliding along one after another, but really so
fast that the fleetest horse is unable to keep pace with them. According
to Mrs. Meredith, when they are crossing a brook, the lower portion of
the dust is lost sight of, and a considerable agitation disturbs the
water, but immediately on landing the same appearance is resumed. “As
some vanish,” she remarks, “others imperceptibly arise and join the
giant waltz; and when I first observed this most singular display, I
amused myself by fancying them a new species of genii relaxing from
their more laborious avocations, and having a sedate and stately dance
all to themselves. When the dance ends, these dusty performers always
appear to sit down among the neighboring hills.” To the same class with
these rotating and progressing pillars of sand, that singular phenomenon
called the _waterspout_ clearly belongs, a whirlwind raising into a
columnar mass the waters of the sea, and causing the aqueous vapors in
the atmosphere to assume the same form, the two frequently uniting, the
whole presenting a magnificent spectacle.
[Illustration: =Waterspout.=]
The Greeks applied the term Prester to the waterspout, which signifies a
fiery fluid, from its appearance being generally accompanied with
flashes of lightning, and a sulphureous smell, showing the activity of
the electrical principle in the air. Lucretius refers to it in the
following terms:—
Hence, with much ease, the meteor may we trace
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:—
Days.
South-west 112
North-east 58
North-west 50
West 53
South-east 32
East 26
South 18
North 16
The same register shows, that the south-west wind blows at an average
more frequently than any other wind during every month of the year, and
that it blows longest in July and August; that the north-east blows most
constantly during January, March, April, May, and June, and most seldom
during February, July, September, and December; and that the north-west
wind blows oftener from November to March, and more seldom during
September and October, than any other months.
* * * * *
=INFLUENCE OF PLACE ON RACE.=
=BY BON GAULTIER.=
Blancs ou noirs, gelés ou rotis,
Mortels que j’ai faits si petits,
Dit le bon Dieu, d’un air paterne,
On pretende que je vous gouverne;
Mais vous devez voir, Dieu merci,
Que j’ai des ministres aussi. Beranger.
Are not the mountains, waves and skies a part
Of us and of our souls, as we of them? Byron.
Though there seems no good reason to doubt that the earth was made for
man, and that he has got the supremacy of it, yet we believe it is as
little to be doubted that his character and royalty have been very much
modified by “the beggarly elements” of the world, and still continue to
be so, though in a lesser degree than during the earlier ages of his
existence in it. In more recent times a great many causes, arising from
customs, laws, beliefs, and so forth, have been effective aids in
establishing the diversities of nations, such as we see them. But the
great disposing causes, operating on men earliest and producing the most
permanent tendencies, were in the localities in which they found
themselves, and multiplied their generations; and these influences of
place can still, in the divisions of the human family, be distinctly
traced beneath all others which civilization may have superinduced.
We are not disposed alone to test this proposition by the differences
existing between the European families and their affiliations. We would
go further, and comprehend “the black men, the white men, the frozen and
fried,” of whom Beranger speaks—the eight or nine hundred millions
that, at this moment, are crawling about on the thick rotundity of the
globe; and thence argue that the soil and the sun have been the chief
modifiers of all the human varieties. But here we are met, _in
liminé_—on the threshold of our disquisition—by a crowd of respectable
names, among which are those of Professor Agassiz, Van Amringe, Dr.
Morton, etc., backed by arguments denying our right to conclude, from
the apparent difference of race, the operation of topical influences.
These philosophers say there were other causes—that, in fact, these
differences were mainly produced by creation—that several distinct
species of men were fashioned by the Divine hand, to suit the elemental
diversities of the world.
Of course we cannot get along without considering these views—very
fairly urged and very worthy of consideration. Every effort after truth
is a good thing in itself—even though, like the arrow of Acestes, it
should miss its aim, and only make something to wonder at:—
Volens liquidis in nubibus arsit arundo
Signavitque viam flammis tenuesque recessit
Consumpta in ventis.
Though the philosophy of Agassiz and the rest has not, however, been
dissipated in thin air, we have an idea, nevertheless, that it has
failed, like the Trojan’s arrow. We “cannot away with” that notion of
making a species of man for every extreme climate of the globe, and do
not think they have at all made the matter clear. They argue
analogically. Their opponents argue analogically too. Pritchard and
others support their views of the unity of the human species by the
analogy of animals. They bring forward a very strong argument in the
fact, that hybrids of plants or animals—the offspring of different
species—are sterile, as a general law of nature. The offspring of the
most dissimilar races of men are never hybrid—but capable of continuing
the kind. Pritchard says the difference between the skull of the
domestic hog and that of the wild boar is as great as that between the
European and Negro skulls; and Blumenbach says there is more difference
between the skulls of the Neapolitan and Hungarian breed of horses,
respectively, than between the most dissimilar human heads.
But those who agree with Agassiz rely a good deal upon the assertions of
Dr. Morton, of Philadelphia, and adduce several instances in which
hybrids were found to be fruitful—mostly, however, in conjunction with
an animal of pure stock. Still, these cases are so exceptional, or so
uncertain, that no general conclusion can be drawn from them, sufficient
to make head against Pritchard, Buffon, Cuvier, Hunter, and those who
argue with them, on the matter. The general law is the true one. A man
has suckled an infant, and a heifer, that never calved, has given milk;
but such things cannot tell against the order of Nature.
Taking higher ground in this argument, we are the more strongly of
opinion that the analogical mode of reasoning is a wrong one. We do not
perceive how the analogies can be made good in the business. It seems
fallacious to conclude, with Professor Agassiz, that, because plants and
animals—as is generally believed—have not originated in a common
centre, our race could not have so originated. To argue from the fact
that such “inconsistencies” do not occur in the laws of nature is bad
philosophy, after all. He does not clearly or fully know what Nature, or
the power we are agreed to call Nature, intends for laws. He takes a
department of the material world—a section embracing the Marsupiata,
the Edentata, fishes of cartilagenous type, certain plants, flowers, and
so forth; and, circumscribing it, he seems to look upon it as the proper
sphere for the laws of nature to work in. But it is possible—indeed we
believe it to be the truth—that Nature has laws ten millions of miles
beyond and above that little circle, and that we do not know or even
suspect one half of them. By what law of nature was the ball we cling
upon launched into space, and man, “of a reasonable soul and human flesh
subsisting,” put upon it? Certainly by one of those laws which we, not
comprehending them, call miracles. Coming down a little from the summit
of such high positions, we find that man is not the analogue of
reptiles, fishes, animals, plants, and so forth—that he differs from
them in something out of the rule—something miraculous—the “reasonable
soul” which St. Athanasius speaks of. The philosophy of analogy is at
fault here, and must be. Man enters none of the categories; he is
neither an animal, a reptile, nor a fish. The laws of these are not the
laws of Nature—the whole book—nor the laws of man. It is nonsense,
therefore, to talk, with such an air, of “inconsistencies.” Even
supposing that man may, on the Lamarckian principle, at any time of his
development, have been a sponge and lived on salt water, he is, as he
stands now—the laughing, the exchanging, the believing animal—not the
less an exception and a miracle, and as such philosophers must deal with
him.
It is not improbable, after all, that our materialist philosophers may
be going astray. The doctrines of Bacon and Locke were noble
pronunciamentos in their way and day, and fulfilled in a memorable
degree one of the great laws of human progression. They displaced
Aristotle, Ptolemy, and those other ancients who were the Bacons and
Lockes of the earlier generations. It is not improbable that the
founders of the English school of philosophy may, in time, yield to new
teachers of men and obey the supreme laws of mutation. Nothing is
permanent; every thing tends to something newer and higher. Bacon and
Locke may yet abdicate their supremacy, and go away with the other
mental and physical Megatheriums of the world—having lived their
appropriate and necessary lives. They have built a noble materialist
edifice; but they who come after them and strive to raise a metaphysical
superstructure from it are probably building upon the wrong foundation.
There is nothing any where to show that mind and matter are subject to
the same laws—that the development and destiny of one belong, at all,
to the other. We may yet be fated to know something more of the origin
and end of man than we have been able to gather, ever since the first
syllable of recorded time; but it must be by some means widely different
from the circumscribed and earth-grubbing; philosophies which have risen
amongst us of late, and which sometimes make us regard with a feeling of
preference the transcendentalisms, infinite misty soarings, and so
forth, of the Kantean school. We are so tired of Aristides Bacon,
Aristides Locke, and those other solid thinkers, so repeatedly called
the Just and the True, that we feel ourselves at times disposed to
ostracise them.
We cannot bend man to the laws of Linnæus, Lamarck, or any one else. The
arguments against the unity of his species, drawn from the unreasoning
creation, are not at all convincing. They are very violent and clumsy.
Messrs. Agassiz, Amringe, and others, desire to make a simple and
consistent theory—one which shall have nothing miraculous in it. And
yet to avoid one miracle, they adopt a dozen. They turn their backs upon
their own development doctrine, and refuse to believe that the material
of the human structure could undergo its changes in process of time, and
under the various elemental influences. They argue that there must have
been originally several creations of men, to suit the varying localities
of the earth. Following their views, and taking the divisions of race
made by different philosophers, we should find our beliefs blown about a
good deal. For Blumenbach, Cuvier, and Latham, hold that the Deity made
three species; Martin and Lawrence that he made five; Dumenil and Lesson
that he made six; Fischer and others that he made seven; and Desmoulins
and Pickering that he made eleven. But, in the midst of the confused
indecision in which we are left, where would be the unreasonableness of
taking the subdivisions of these divisions and asking why we may not
look on _these_ as distinct species also—why, in fact, should there not
have been creations equal in number to the twenty-four subdivisions? If
these philosophers go on, making distinctions, (in which no two of them
will be found to agree with the others,) where are they to stop? There
are varieties enough in the osteology and general appearance of the
races to warrant a hundred distinctions—therefore, a hundred creations.
Why should we stop at three creations—or six, or eleven? It is as easy
and more consistent to suppose half a hundred creations than half a
dozen. Then those who contend for only three or four creations, admit a
great number of varieties; and thus admit the principle that climate and
other accidents can, after all, change the race from the exact condition
of a type. Thus the principle of their argument is compromised—the
philosophy of it is in a loose and untenable condition. It is a very
clumsy hypothesis altogether:
How smiles
The gazer’s eye in philosophic mirth
To see the weak design!
Here we have the Deity forming several pairs of the race, to suit the
several hills, plains, and peculiar configuration of the earth just
rising above the slush and slime of the Saurian period. This shocks our
ideas of divine wisdom. Our reason, such as it is, teaches us, and it
seems to be generally received that creative power works with simplicity
and not in repetitionary ways. And, taking another view of the case, we
cannot conceive why the great Artificer should make different species
expressly for different places. The argument that, because many plants
are, or seem to be, proper to their peculiar habitats, man should be so
to one place, is a feeble one. Man is not rooted, but biped; legs were
given him for locomotion; unlike the other animals, he has got a mind
and the _adductor pollicis_, and can build coracles, caravels,
cunarders. The Supreme Being did not surely design that man should stay
in any particular place. The children of men have been nomade from the
beginning, moving over the surface of the globe, hither and thither,
like the waves on the sea. If God did really produce three, or six, or a
dozen distinct species—each for its own place, it was labor in vain and
without foresight—a very ridiculous conclusion to come to.
It is generally admitted that within the reach of the historic periods,
several predominant races proceeded from the middle of Asia, in several
directions—north, south, east, and west. The advocates of the different
species contend that there are no nomade invaders on record who did not
find inhabitants in the countries they intruded on. If such were the
case, the creation of these _autocthonoi_, or “children of the ground,”
was an unnecessary thing; for the Hyperboreans, Mongols, Egyptians,
Arabs, Circassians, Pelasgians, Getæ, and so forth, came to obliterate
them and flourish in their stead. And if the invaders could thus
flourish in localities for which they were not created, there would seem
to have been little necessity for the creation of more than one species
of man. Altogether, it does appear that the scheme of making a distinct
species for distinct zones or parallels is incompatible with our
received notions of divine wisdom.
As for the production and distribution of animals and plants, we have no
objection to consider them on the Lamarckian principle. The germs of
earth’s million vegetable varieties were and are doubtless scattered
through the crust of the earth, to be modified by the elements which act
upon the surface; they may exist in an infinitesimal manner, baffling to
our senses and our ideas alike. The reptiles, fishes, and animals,
probably owed their origin to _infusoria_ and a variety of changes
following the law of development, and influenced by the sea or the sun.
But between these and man—as we have already insisted—there is only an
imperfect analogy, extremely helpless in this question of human
derivation. That Lamarckian hypothesis—set forth so eloquently in the
Vestiges of Creation—a work which, of a surety, belongs to Professor
Nichol of Glasgow—answers very well for every thing but the man. Leave
him out. Omit the part of Hamlet, and so play out the play. But man, the
miraculous—that strange compound of dirt and divinity—will not be
amenable to all this gradation—will not be put in a category and
decided on, like a cactus or a kangaroo. He still remains apart—
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.
Such are the considerations which lead us to reject the idea of a
variety of pristine pairs. The arguments by which it is supported are
many, but they are feeble. One of them is the fact, that, so far back as
the records of the race have extended, the existing distinctions of it
are discoverable. The most ancient Egyptian sculptures show the
different features of the Negro and Ethiopian races, such as they appear
at this day. These sculptures bear date nearly four thousand years ago;
and it is concluded these heads had not time enough, since the beginning
of the world, to be changed from a common type—seeing they have not
since been changed in a lapse of time twice as long. They assume that
our race has only been six thousand years on the globe. But that sort of
argument is set aside by general consent. Chronological science is not
among the truths which the Bible was intended to teach; with respect to
the age of the world that venerable book is not historic nor
authoritative. The most orthodox believers all over the world have
admitted the demonstrations of geology; and we may safely conclude that
our race has been roaming over the periphery of this planet for a longer
period than that deduced by Usher from the Hebrew records. Philosophical
science does not avail itself of such uncertainties as the world’s age
is allowed to be. Again; it is argued by the doctors of development that
a _pair_ could not naturally propagate a species. They keep their eyes
very closely upon the habits of the lower animals. They do not consider
what was contrary to nature in making the paragon of animals, only a
little lower than the angels. The propagation of a species from a pair,
seems a very conquerable sort of difficulty, compared with others, that
lie along this field of our disquisition. Why should people strain so
much at a gnat, after they have swallowed the dromedary?
We have been following this argument through the pages of Col. Smith’s
work[1] on the Human Species, with an Introduction by Dr. Kneeland. The
doctor gives the views of Pritchard, Agassiz, and others, _pro_ and
_con_, on this matter, and subjoins his own opinions, supporting those
of Agassiz, and claiming more than one original species. Dr. Kneeland’s
conclusions seem lame enough. He argues, among other things, that a
human mixture is bad. He says history proves that artificial breeds and
mixed races of men have no permanency, and become extinct, unless they
procure supplies from a pure stock. If this be true, God help these
United States of ours! Here we are receiving increments from almost all
the races of the world—certainly from all those of the old world—and
making a perfect _olla podrida_ of our civilization! Are we to decline,
fall away, perish and become extinct, if we do not call upon the pure
Celtic, Teutonic, or Anglo-Saxon stock for large periodical supplies? We
hope not. Intermixture may not turn out so fatally. England has
certainly drawn her strength and empire, in a great measure, from the
fountain of her mongrel blood of Peghts, Britons, Celts, Romans, Danes,
Teutons, Northmen, and all the rest of them. And yet there may be, after
all, something in this ethnic philosophy of Dr. Kneeland. Still it is
not good to despair; and, in fact, there is much to console the future
of this federation, should its mingled blood grow too much diluted.
Ireland is bent on coming over here bodily; and the pure Celtic blood of
that island will be happily available to the veins and arteries of our
debilitated body politic!
In this question of the human species—whether there were many created,
or only one—we think it most reasonable to abide by the old doctrine of
a single pair, seeing that the advocates of repeated creations cannot
overthrow it, nor recommend their own. It is, at all events, simplest to
believe in one; for if you believe in more, you will soon be bewildered
into the belief of twenty or thirty primordial pairs. Assuming, then,
that the race first issued from some part of Central Asia—where it
seems generally allowed that it originated—we see nothing very violent
in the supposition, that climate and locality produced the varied
appearances of the human family, which we see at this day. After a
certain lapse of time, black races were found to exist—especially in
Africa—exhibiting features which distinguished them, in a very marked
manner, from the white and other varieties:—viz—flat noses, protruding
thick lips, retreating foreheads, and a wooliness of hair. These
peculiarities are found, more or less, in all the races of that
continent; the exceptions are few—still exhibiting the prevailing marks
of race. The Egyptians sculptured on monuments have features resembling
those of the Negroes—in the breadth of nostril, the thickness of the
lips, and the general expression, but certainly of a higher facial
order. A number of authorities, among whom are reckoned Pritchard and
Denon, sanction the idea, that the Egyptian must, in a great degree, be
classed with the Negro race. This race exhibits no proof of having been
created especially to occupy an appropriate place, for it is found in a
hundred localities. Clans of Negroes have existed in Laristan, in
Makran, in Persia, and on the Helmund. They are also scattered over the
Indian Archipelago—bearing the Hindoo, Mongol, and Malay
characteristics. The Papuas of Nicobar, the Philippine Islands, and
these oriental longitudes, resemble the numerous tribes of Negro variety
to be found in Africa. On the latter continent, the races have all a
strong family likeness; marked, however, by diversities which seem to
prove the existence of modifying influences. In South Africa, the
Hottentots and Bushmen greatly resemble, in size and face, their brother
men of the Mongolian stock, in the opposite latitudes—to wit, the
Chinese, the Esquimaux, and the other tribes of Northern Asiatics. Some
of these diversified Negro races have woolly hair, and others straight
hair. The skulls of the woolly tribes cannot be classed sufficiently
distinctly. They exhibit that variety which runs through all those dusky
families, recognized as one stock from their general resemblance. Thus
it would seem that races of men were made Negroes in Asia as well as in
Africa—perhaps long before they reached the latter continent—in which
similar elemental influences were prepared to produce a like result.
If we consider the other extremes of mankind which we call the
Caucasian, Japhetic, Bearded, and so forth, we find no certain sign that
they constitute a distinct species. They have such diversities among
themselves, and such intermingling resemblances to other divisions of
humanity, that it is bewildering and, indeed, impossible to abide by any
arbitrary distribution of them. In Asia, the Caucasian features are
blended with the Mongolian, and Capuan or Negro, in a variety of
degrees, in different localities, and under many nomenclatures. Toward
the West, the Caucasian face is modified into the Egyptian, which is
still further modified into some of the several Negro types. Each of the
extreme divisions is found to be connected with the other by many signs
of common likeness, and the races seem imperceptibly to run into one
another as they appear to be modified by locality, or habits of
existence. We may mention, in passing—as showing the resemblance that
human aspects bear to one another, though the owners of them may have
their native habitats a thousand leagues asunder—that the daguerreotype
of Erasmus York, (a Mongol boy,) taken a few months ago in London,
presents a face which we thought we saw with a basket of oranges the
other day, in the street, a few days after it had arrived from the
county Galway, in an emigrant ship.
People have speculated a good deal on the aspect and general appearance
of our first parents. Some suppose they had white skin—that Adam was
colored and shaped somewhat resembling the Sagittarius Apollo, and that
the first of women was like the finest of her daughters at Almack’s or
Saratoga, in the season—
That she, who lived six thousand years ago,
Was made exactly like the best we know.
This idea of the primordial pair has been variously expressed. Dubufe,
the Frenchman, whose two pictures of the Temptation and the Expulsion
have been so extensively carried about and admired, represents Adam and
Eve as a very fair and almost rose-colored pair of progenitors—as if
they had just stepped out of band-boxes. Instead of resembling in aspect
the old _intonsus Cato_, at a time when razors were unheard of, Adam
wears his countenance smooth-shaven, while his dark hair and beard look
as well dressed as if they had just come from the accomplishing hand of
a barber. The toilet of the father of all men living seems, in fact,
perfected as to the head; and he looks for all the world like a handsome
French guardsman, _in puris naturalibus_. The genius of Gaul breathes
from the whole representation, proving as strongly as the poetry of
Victor Hugo, Chateaubriand, and Lamartine, that though powerful in the
picturesque, splendid and _grandiose_, it is still deficient in the
finer and higher faculties of poetic inspiration. An Englishman has
certainty made a far nobler picture of the human protoplast and his
better half. John Milton says of Adam—
His fair, large front and eye sublime declared
Infinite rule; and hyacinthine locks
Round from his parted forelock manly hung
Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad.
In both these instances the man seems to be of the Caucasian type—a
European; for Milton’s portrait has an air of Greek dignity. Pritchard
is of opinion that Adam was of a melanic skin—a black man, in
fact—though not of course belonging to what we recognize as the African
type. Indeed, it is difficult not to suppose the first man and woman
beings of a swarthy complexion, to suit their skies—and nobly-faced, as
the Afghans and other races of Central Asia are at this day. If we
assume—as we are disposed to do—that the first pair were fashioned by
miraculous initiative, we must conclude they would be physical, and,
indeed, mental exemplars—of beautiful aspect and faultless symmetry.
But the ardent oriental sun, and the glorious exposure of their persons
to the elements, would naturally darken their complexions, and in this
guise should they be represented by painting and poetry. “But whither
would conjecture stray,” on such a theme as this?
Spreading out from their original locality, the various branches of the
human family may be easily conceived to undergo changes from the climate
and mode of life of their successive generations. That such changes were
undergone seems to be borne out by the comparison or contrast of the
different races. In some places, the people who traveled out of the
temperate zone, or whose lot was cast in places far inland, and without
rivers, where the powers of nature were niggard and the elements
unfavorable, would become deteriorated, and the course of generations
would confirm in them the growing inferiority of their
condition—physical and mental. On the other hand, they whose lines were
fallen to them in pleasant places, in a temperate zone, by the shores of
seas, or banks of rivers, and in the midst of a country, fit either to
feed cattle or to produce corn and wine, would keep their original
dignity of feature and physical structure.
Thus, for instance, the first wanderers to the South and East would, in
time, become the black Papuan races; and others, passing through Suez
and Egypt into Africa Proper—so to term it—would become baked and
brutified by the sun and the sandy wilderness. On the other hand, they
who moved through the temperate zone under beneficent firmaments, and in
Mesopotamian districts, would naturally become the Assyrian, Persian,
Pelasgian builders of houses, ships, temples, great cities, and
historical colonies. The tribes migrating up toward the North would,
from the first, suffer from the Boreal elements, and take deep traces of
them; but would also be endowed with great physical energy from the
same, and under the Mongolian name, agitate all the North with powerful
migrations, and, in the end, originate those world-overthrowing hordes,
which filled subsequent ages with so much terror and glory. The earlier
wanderers into Africa, passing inward and southward, would give rise to
those marked and many-named tribes, classed under the nomenclature of
Negroes. The hot sun, and the condition of their soil, would affect
their physical nature. Every thing would tend, as we have still the
opportunity of perceiving, to degrade the human type in the interior of
Africa. The people would become mere animals without the stimulants of
happier localities. They would bask lazily in the sun, crowd together in
kraals, and propagate their degraded race into something still more
stupid and degraded by the vitiating closeness of their intermarriages.
In such circumstances of savagery, the dropping and thickness of the
sensual mouth, and the other facial peculiarities would grow and become
hardened features, in the course of time. It seems to be generally
understood that the power of adaptation is a law of physical nature, as
well in man as in the lower organizations; and it may very reasonably be
concluded that the human head is modified by the powers of the
brain—the energy of thought expanding the capacity of the head. This is
the opinion of Mallebranche, and other philosophers and physiologists.
We may conclude that the sensual stagnation of the intellectual
faculties, under the tropical elements, where exertion of any kind could
have but little effect in bettering the condition of a lazy population,
leaves the brain to grow feeble and flaccid from disuse; whence it is
not unphilosophical to conclude the fore part of the head would sink in,
and lie toward the back. It seems to be a general physical law, that the
expression of the face shall indicate the natures of men. The Arabs and
other Asiatics arriving from the East into Egypt, and bringing on their
firm faces the traces of their arduous circumstances and active habits,
came, in the course of generations, to be marked with the sensuousness
of mouth and chin, and the lower arch of the head which distinguish the
Egyptian face. The hot and enervating climate of Egypt had a
deteriorating effect on the population, which at last grew to resemble
the Negro race. That the Egyptians were not so degraded in appearance as
these last, was owing to the many immigrations of foreign tribes, who
preserved to the kings, priests, and higher classes, a more Asiatic
physical expression. The river Nile, the Sea—the great civilizer—and
the influences of commerce, had also their beneficent effects upon the
condition of the people of Egypt.
With regard to the other more marked races, it is known that the law of
Northern latitudes is, the lessening of physical development and
capacity, from the temperate toward the colder zones. In these last, the
blood of men grows colder and more sluggish, and their bodies grow
smaller and weaker. Extreme cold is unfriendly to the element of life;
and under its influence, acting directly on man, and indirectly on his
condition, from the soil, the Northern races received their stunted
proportions of figure and mental energy—such as we witness in the
Esquimaux and other tribes, of the same high latitudes.
We should not calculate the climatic effects of primitive times, from
the result of experience or observation now-a-days. The conditions of
men are not exactly what they were, even in those places we consider
barbarous. In the beginning, men were ignorantly exposed to all the rude
shocks of the elements for generations, and lived and propagated the
conditions which those elements impressed upon them. All the
deteriorating influences of savage life, working in a very vicious
circle, effected then what can no longer be effected, in a general way,
so decidedly and remarkably. People, now, can move about and live in
extreme latitudes, and yet keep for generations their peculiar traits
and conformation. But they have comfortable means and appliances about
them, and hold themselves aloof from the barbarisms peculiar to the
place. In this way, the climatic influences are resisted for ages.
Those who argue for a distinct species in the case of the blacks, and do
not believe in the slow changes produced by geographical position and
the elements, will point to the fact, that Negroes taken into temperate
latitudes, and propagating purely for a few generations, have appeared
to be Negroes still—not much the whiter for the experiment. But it has
not been a full and a fair one. Nature produces her permanent results
very slowly. She took hundreds of years to bake, and blacken and
flatten, and lanify the nigger, and hundreds more to harden his
osteology—to burn, as it were, his traits into his clay; and if the man
is to be unbaked, unblackened, and so forth, she must have something of
the same time, in which to reverse her operations. It would take four or
five hundred years, at least, to bleach Pompey or Lucretia. Perhaps at
Spitzbergen, or some of those hyperborean places—
Where the wild hare and the crow
Whiten in surrounding snow—
the process may be accelerated by a century or so. But, till some
philosopher gets his pair of blacks, and sits fairly down to see the
experiment out, we shall be of opinion that, centuries would be
necessary to counteract the slow workmanship of nature in this business;
but certainly, that at the end of that time, the whole human type would
have suffered a perfect change, conformable to the latitude and
longitude—the _locus in quo_. We repeat—those early effects of
climate, tropical or boreal, were such as no elemental influence noted
in modern times can give us any correct idea of. Ages and continents
were the first premises and means, by and from which Nature stamped her
human varieties in the first ages.
Coming from the physical and ethnical considerations, we see the
influence of the material elements very perceptible, in the social,
moral, and historical manifestations of the various races of the world.
A consideration of the Asiatics, the Greeks, the Egyptians, and other
nations of ancient or modern name, would make this evident. The Easterns
inhabiting, in Central Asia, vast extents of level country, for the most
part at a distance from the sea, were chiefly pastoral and nomadic. They
had room to wander and grow, and be numbered by millions. Under such
circumstances, they were naturally liable to be dominated by great
commanders, to whom—seeing that their unsettled polity also included
the principles of war and plunder—they would delegate the leadership;
and who, on the broad _plateaux_, could make use of cavalry and
chariots—those ready means of conquest and despotism in the old times.
Hence the people fell numerously under the sway of a few kings, who used
their power with the fierceness and irresponsibility of gods, and kept
the soldiery and the masses in a state of slavery—whether following
plunder, cultivating the soil, or making bricks from mud, and rearing
with these, through sweating generations, those walls and towers of
Central Asia—Nineveh, Babylon, and so forth—of which we have
transmitted to us such vague and magnificent traditions, and of which
Layard and others have been discovering some traces for us latterly.
It was the same way, nearly, in Egypt—that prominent historic feature
of antiquity. The valley of the Nile was one level, isolated extent of
unrivaled fertility—capable of supporting millions at the expense of no
very heavy amount of agricultural toil. People necessarily multiplied
there, and being of peaceful agrarian disposition, came, in time, to be
subservient to the priests and Pharaohs of the land. The civilization of
Egypt was a monstrous sort of thing, born of the sun and the sediment of
the Nile, like the other monsters of that “Great river.” Relaxed and
enervated by the heat of the climate, kept in ignorance, and employed in
masses by the despotism of the country, the people became slavish
laborers, husbandmen and manufacturers, living content, in a hot inland
condition, unfreshened by any breeze of the civilizing sea, worshiping
animals first used as hieroglyphical helps to language, and hating the
idea of foreign invasion, ever associated in their minds and traditions
with the revolution of the nomade shepherd kings. The stupendous
architecture of Egypt, like that of Assyria, proved the numerical force,
physical slavishness, and mental superstition of that people. Fattened
by the _lætas segetes_—the exuberant harvests of the Nile—brute force
and beaverism divided the nation between them—excepting what amount of
esoteric knowledge the priests and kings made use of to keep the
many-headed monster in order.
Let us now look at the aspects of Greece—a country, undoubtedly,
peopled from the places and races of Central Asia. Greece is an
irregular land of hills and valleys, broken by a thousand bays, and
clasped, beneficently, in the serpent arms of the Midland Sea. In Greece
are no broad levels on which a despot may deploy his horsemen and
war-chariots. Marathon, to be sure, is a plateau, looked on by the
mountains, and looking on the sea—
The mountains look on Marathon,
And Marathon looks on the sea—
but history tells us that the Persian cavalry found it far too rugged a
place to charge upon. Neither had Hellas any fat, broad extent of soil
on which maize, rice, and corn may grow, to feed millions in a supine
content, and predispose them to be the instruments of some powerful
despotism, kingly or priestly. The climate of Greece was varied by the
inequalities of its surface and the nearness of the sea; and the
inhabitants became a pastoral, agricultural, and commercial people. The
soil brought forth, in reward of care and labor, corn, and wine, and
oil, and vegetation of great beauty and grandeur. The climate was marked
by those vicissitudes which the experience of the world proves to be
most favorable to the condition of man, and the highest development of
his powers. It had none of the inland and enervating characteristics of
Middle Asia or Egypt. The Greek was obliged to wrestle with Nature for
her blessings. Thence rose, in time, the illustrious polities, the
immortal mythologies, and white theories of her fields and streams—all
that memorable splendor of intellect and war which has had nothing
comparable to it in antiquity.
The geography of Greece forbade that deadly centralization which has so
disastrously weighed upon most other civilizations. Nature divided the
Hellenic land into states—fashioned the Greek group of peoples on the
federal principle. The results were that the distinct races and families
of men set about taking care of their own destinies—began to make their
municipal arrangements, and lift up their ideas to the great argument of
self-government. Each nationality was small enough to be within the ken
and influence of all its citizens. Every man in the state—slaves
excepted—had an intimate personal interest in its welfare—the people
were all politicians or soldiers, and could be statesmen—if necessary.
Their minds were thus nursed in independence—educated in the true
school of civil liberty; and, even in monarchies as well as republics,
the power, intelligence, and influence of the people, constituted the
life and vigor of the state. The warlike and religious games of Greece
perfected the strength and symmetry of the human body. Its climate and
soil were eminently calculated to produce happy results on the minds of
men so organized and educated; and the national character became
reflected in the graceful arts and superstitions of the people. In the
East and Egypt, the vague idea of some supreme divinity, which hovered
over all nations from the beginning, and never seems to have been absent
from the world, was degraded by the degraded souls of the people. Their
notions of supernal things were monstrous, grotesque, and
inhuman—gathered evidently from their experience of kings and
crocodiles. To express them the slavish race accepted the shapes of
birds and beasts—winged bulls, cows, cats, hawks, alligators, and so
forth. How different the cheerful and eminently human mythologies of
Greece, born of the elements of the clime—autochthonous of that
immortal ground! The Orientals, Egyptians, etc., bowed down to brutal
shapes, congenial with the gross conceptions of their own laborious
ignorance. But the Greek looked up, with a dignified sense of
things—admired his own splendid symmetry in the olympic festivals, and,
with a glorious egotism, invested the many manifestations of the
universal spirit with the finest forms of men that ran or fought naked
in the _palestræ_. Pan was no monstrous deity—he was a jolly rustic
divinity—of the earth, earthy—a bucolic _bizarrerie_, coming naturally
from the gay, gross genius of agrarianism; a little _caper_-footed, to
be sure; but therefore only the more in character, and a very
respectable divinity, indeed, for the country parts.
Berenger, the French poet, fables that it was Cyprus wine which first
gave birth to the gods of Greece—stating that Hesiod had warmed his
veins with the liquor before he began to embody his Olympian theories.
But Hesiod, after all, only transcribed and touched up the popular
belief; it was the bright, sensuous genius of Greece, transfiguring the
happy elements of the clime, that brought forth the theogonies—peopled
with immortal dwellers the
Elysian, windless, fortunate abodes,
Beyond heaven’s constellated wilderness.
The Greeks deified the best attributes of mankind, and adored the
Supreme Spirit in the reflections of their own cheerful and elevated
minds. In the vastness and power of the sea they saw Poseidon on his
car, drawn by sea-horses, and girt by his conch-bearing Tritons,
sounding in response to what the old Greek dramatist calls “the
innumerable laughter of the waves”—_anarithmon kymaton
gelasma_—Jupiter thundered from the acroceraunian top of Olympus,
Soaring all snow-clad through his native sky
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty;
Phœbus-Apollo and Diana, his sister, moved, beautiful unspeakably, in
the sun and moon; gods blew in the four great winds and in the breeze;
every fountain had its Naiad, and every oak its Hamadryad. Pan shouted
on the mountains—especially whenever good came to Greece; and on the
day of Marathon his mighty vociferations were heard at wonderful
distances!—and the Fauns, Satyrs, Dryads, Oreads and so forth, his
subjects and followers, wandered over every meadow, and were seen
peeping from the glades and openings of every forest.
Much of the power and civilization of Greece grew from her commerce and
maritime enterprise—from the sea. Dr. Arnold, the historian, says very
truly, that the sea has always been one of the greatest agents of
liberty and civilization. The supremacy of Athens over Sparta, then, and
in the memory of all future time, was due to the port of the Piræus. The
crowning glories of the Attic metropolis—her immortal sculptures and
temples and her splendid philosophies—were owing to a refining
intercourse with other peoples, and to the maritime exactions, somewhat
tyrannically levied from those sea-born states that, from the waters and
shores of the Mediterranean, looked to Athens as their mother city and
protectress. Tyre, Carthage, Syracuse and other seaports—ancient and
modern—have owed their wealth, celebrity and distinguishing character
to their respective geographical positions.
If we follow the movements of the human family through Germany and up to
the high latitudes of Europe, we find that the severe elements of the
north and the peculiarities of soil were able to imbue the human mind
with a portion of their own character. The life of the great
Scandinavian race was necessarily divided between war and plunder; and
the ideas which they entertained of the superior powers and a future
state were reflected from their circumstances. These corsairs and
kempions believed the Valhalla of departed spirits was a place where the
happy warriors fought one another during the day, and feasted together
at night, (eating flesh and drinking mead from deer’s horns) after Odin
had miraculously put together the severed limbs and healed all the
wounds; till the morrow should once more renew these murdering
beatitudes of the boreal heaven! Again—the iron hills of the Northern
region helped to form the mythologies and superstitions originally so
distinctive of the Scandinavian mind. The Lapps, Finns, and other
peoples of the high latitudes, were in a great measure miners and
smiths. Æschylus, we believe it is, who says that the sword is “the
child of Scythia”—a saying not more figurative than matter-of-fact.
Jornades, a Goth, says Scandinavia was the Forge of Mankind—_humani
generis officium_—indicating the metallurgic nature of that influence
exerted on the fate of the more Southern European nations. The men who
mined, and who hammered into shape the swords of the Northmen, were
small in their physical proportions, and usually had their stithies near
the mouths of the mines among the hills. Hence the kobold-workers, the
hill-folk, the goblins, trolls, dwarfs, wee men and so forth, of a
superstition which has overflowed the rest of Europe, almost as
extensively as the military migrations from the same places did, once
upon a time. These little hyperborean _diableries_ have wandered all
over the fields of the South and permanently tinged the currents of its
various literature.
Turning to Asia, we perceive how the relaxing heat of the climate led
the mild and perspiring Hindoo to regard God as a being who sits still
and reposes—a type of sublime steadfastness and languor. If
Christianity had been born in the middle of Europe, the history of
society would probably have wanted some of its most curious and
remarkable features—monasteries and hermitages. In the East,
enthusiasts, overpowered by the heat, naturally agreed that thinking and
doing nothing would be a great help to devotional feeling. So the pious
were led to go very much together into cool crypts, and, from the
physical sensations of the East, gave rise to a philosophy which having
passed into the colder climates, became naturally identified with more
of penance and endurance. The Koran would not have been written—could
not have done its work, in any Northern latitude. It is as much a part
of the East—of south-western Asia—as if it was a date or a palm tree,
and grew near a well in the desert. One of the sublimest religious
duties among the Brahmins and Turks is said to be, to sit on the floor,
with the eye of the mind fixed on the very centre of the midriff, and
thus expect the growth and efflorescence of sanctity—a much pleasanter
way of coming at the result, than by walking or taking any violent
exercise, where the thermometer is usually up to 95 in the shade! It is
also a part of religion in these hot latitudes to wash one’s self—a
piece of piety which is good enough to be Christian. The Arab is free,
because no one cares to dispute his sands with him; and hospitable,
because without hospitality his dusty father-land would be nearly
impassable or uninhabitable. Montesquieu says that poor and barbarous
nations are most hospitable, and trading nations least so; for which
moral effects there could be adduced very good geographical causes.
Regarding Asia, on the whole, we perceive its great inferiority to
Europe in every thing which civilization boasts of. For the causes of
this we must look to the circumstances of sun and soil—the latter,
especially. Europe, unlike Asia, is broken into many distinct
territories by mountain chains, seas, straits, rivers, etc. Nature, in
laying out portions of her domain, as it were, prepared those divisions,
segregations, and isolations which fostered national independence, and
left to the European families of men leisure to entertain the more
humanizing and elevating thoughts of life. Europe became crowded with
nationalities in which the federal principle grew up, perilously shaken
by blows, to be sure, and nourished with human gore, but still
struggling forward; by degrees, into more assured vitality; while
flowing around and through all, the civilizing sea with its breezes
fanned into strength the warm blood in the arteries of enterprise, toil
and progress. The Asian continent, on the contrary, is comparatively a
vast, unwatered, sun-baked extent of solid ground, open, for the most
part, to the wild winds and the wilder hordes of barbarians and
semi-barbarians. If, by some convulsion of Nature, the Caspian Sea could
have been widened and prolonged eastward for fifteen hundred miles or
so, the history of Asia, and, perhaps, of the world, would certainly
have been different from that we now peruse.
Freedom and national prosperity are hard to locate. They have never
seemed to thrive, as yet, (we don’t know how it may be in the future) in
the soft and sunny places of the world. They require hard conditions of
the sun and soil to bring them to a valid and permanent state of
existence. They seem to have succeeded best in presence of a
difficulty—proving apparently, the truth of the saying, that the price
of independence is eternal vigilance. The perfection of the human race
belongs to the temperate zones and to the necessity of energy imposed by
their elemental conditions. The civilization of warm, fertile,
spontaneous countries is not that by which the progress of the world is
accelerated. Switzerland has been kept free by her barren ground and her
keen winds, which have invigorated the souls of her people; and they
have also, probably, dissuaded the ambition of her neighbors. But it is
certain that she has shown herself courageous and determined to be free.
The Hollowland, south of the Baltic, lying half in the ocean, and
subject to its overflows, was not very vehemently regarded by the rulers
of men, and therefore, for a long time, served as a refuge for the
peaceful and industrious. Labor built up their energies in that place,
and their spirit of independence along with the dykes, and they at last
learned to love and die for “their new-catched miles” taken from under
the trident of Poseidon; and so they made that land the asylum of
liberty, toleration, enlightenment and commercial prosperity. Venice,
China, and other states in which labor and vigilance have been necessary
to cope with certain difficulties of the soil or situation, are further
proofs of this influence of climate on national character.
If we look to England—we think it could be shown that all she is—all
that contrasts in her so strongly with the condition of other European
nations, has been owing to her place on the map. Beneath a variable sky,
the soil, which would yield little spontaneously, was still rich enough
to reward cultivation; and so the Anglo-Saxons—not to go further
back—became agricultural and accustomed to toil. Their tribes,
occupying a series of independent localities, after a primitive fashion,
were necessarily accustomed to look to their own plow-lands, hundreds,
parishes and counties, and regulate them independently. The space of the
island was too small to permit any nomade movements; and when it was
brought to acknowledge a common ruler, the parish and county regulations
were in customary force. The agricultural and household fixity of the
people allowed them to form regular habits and ideas of policy. The
circumstances of the island did not encourage any central despotism to
grow up in it like that of Charlemagne over France and Europe. Girt by
the waters of the four seas, the Saxon polity had time to grow hardened
on the soil, so that the invasions of the Danes and the Normans had no
power to do away with it. The Norman government, imposed for centuries
on the island, grew-weak in time before the well-rooted Anglo-Saxonism
of the land; the early county representatives flowered at last into the
Parliament, and the _folkmotes_ of Egbert and the Confessor are, at this
day, flourishing bravely and remarkably on wide-severed hemispheres of
the globe.
The isolation of England preserved her from the despotic influences of
the continent. But for her separating sea, she would have been many
times overrun by her neighbors. If she had touched the bounds of France
or the Low Countries, she might have passed under the French crown in
the reign of King John, or she would have been overrun by the terrible
Spanish infantry—a _land_ armada—in the days of Philip; or would have
had Napoleon, in 1804, dating his European decrees from the brick-built
palace of St. James’. The ocean gods that have been the friends of Great
Britain, have vindicated the truth of Dr. Arnold’s assertion—in
fostering a maritime wealth and empire, of which no former example has
at any time existed in the world, and which will only be exceeded when
the Anglo-Saxonism which is the moral back-bone of this
continent—obeying the unexpired old insular impulse of the slow
gathering years long before the Mayflower floated—shall spread out a
broader breadth of canvas to all the winds of Heaven—a more Briarean
strength of arm over the seas and shores of the world.
It would be absurd to deny, we repeat, that other influences beside
those of climate and soil operate upon peoples. Accidents, of conquests,
great men, modes of government, religions—these mould the life and
character of nations. But, as far as the world has yet gone, we must
perceive the more radical and permanent power of the elemental and local
influences. We see that nations keep their peculiar character, through
the long period of progress, for a thousand years together. The Germans
seem to be the same with those Teutonic tribes described by Cæsar and
Tacitus. The former described the French of to-day in the Gauls of his
own time. He says that nowhere were the common people more despised and
kept down than in the country of the Gauls. The Italians of this century
are certainly those of the ancient Roman days. If we desire to find a
parallel for that general supineness and helplessness which, they
exhibit just now, we shall find them under the emperors, from Augustus
down, when the old warlike spirit of the people seemed to have entirely
evaporated; and if we desire to find something like the heroism which
drove Brennus back to the mountains and refused to despair after Cannae,
we may discover it in the revolution and siege of Rome in 1848 and 1849.
The “human plant” in Italy appears at all times to belong to the soil
and the sun: capable of heroic things after “the high Roman fashion;”
also wonderfully content with maccaroni and the basking _dolce far
niente_, which, being interpreted, is the _panem et circensis_ of those
times when Rome was mistress of the world; and as handy with the
stiletto as once, upon those historic Ides of March, when the blood of
Cæsar
Came rushing out of doors to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knocked or no.
In the same way could be traced old resemblances in the features of many
other modern nations—surviving time and change, and, apparently,
proving the truth of the autocthonous principle.
Coming to ourselves—we also exhibit the influence of climate on
character. And first, as to physical character, in which this
proposition seems least controvertible. The Americans, are found to be
less robust than their European forefathers—English, Irish, German,
French, Spanish, and others. The citizens of this republic are,
generally speaking, a thinner and paler race than the peoples of the old
world. This fact is the more striking, that the condition of immigrants
is customarily improved on this soil—they eat and drink better, and
have more of the physical comforts of life. Philosophers have been
endeavoring to account for this. Some maintain there is something in the
climate of America which will not permit organized beings to possess the
fire and vigor of the animal creation of the other hemisphere. The dogs
of this community are found not to have at all the ferocity of the
European hounds: and the American cock does not keep up the high,
military heart of his insular brother over the way. It has been
considered that to the greater moisture of the British Isles (it is
chiefly to these we confine our contrast—seeing they furnish us with
the chief material for making it) is owing the superior freshness of
complexion and roundness of form which distinguish the insulars. The air
of this continent is far dryer than that of the United Kingdom. Another
cause has been found in the astonishing haste in which Americans live
and move and have their being—their incessant play of speculative
thought: and especially the rapid way in which they furnish the
microcosm with its necessary aliment—or, as Mr. Micawber would say,
with a burst of confidence —bolt their victuals, in fact. Other causes
have been found in the general use of stoves in houses, and the
consumption of acidulating fruit in this country. Certainly the health
of American women, in particular, suffers from these two causes in a
very palpable manner. The stoves of anthracitic America, vitiating the
air of close rooms and relaxing the powers of the human body, are
calculated to produce a great difference of some sort or other between
our people—the women especially—and those islanders who use bituminous
coal and open grates. All these things, of course, produce their
results; but we think the chief cause of this effect—“or of this
defect; for this effect defective comes by cause,” as old Polonius would
say—would seem to exist in the atmosphere; inasmuch as the lower animal
creation on this continent is also found inferior to that of Europe in a
certain amount of physical stamina.
As regards the mental and moral character of our people, it could be
fairly shown that among all the influences affecting it, those of sun
and soil are radically the most forcible. The vast and varied resources
of our territory have made us a nation of energetic workers and traders.
The lower faculties of our minds have been so excited by the prospects
and opportunities which commerce has displayed and discovered to us, on
all sides, that the rest of these faculties, in sight of such a
wonderful business and the great ends to which it is tending, engage
also in the excitement, and Science, Art, Poetry, Philosophy, Religion
even, move down gladly to join the great and manifold march of our
destinies. Whatever amount of social greatness, enterprise and far
speculation distinguishes us from the other nations, is certainly owing
to our continental place upon the surface of the globe—this moral _pou
sto_, whence we may yet be enabled to move the whole world in a variety
of ways. Our minds seem to grow to the measure of this territory, and to
represent, in its capacities, the material resources of the empire in
all their affluence and incompleteness.
Science and general intercourse will, doubtless, do a great deal in
time, in the way of obliterating nations’ distinctives. But these can
never wholly pass away before the moral advances of civilization. In the
human economy, in fact, it would seem that the principle of variety
which we find at work every where in the universe, is just as necessary
and good as in the material scheme of things. Man must always, more or
less, bear the character of those elements by which he is surrounded.
-----
[1] Natural History of the Human Species; by Lieut. Col. C. H. Smith.
Reprint, Boston. Gould & Kendall.
* * * * *
=SONG.=
=BY WM. H. C. HOSMER.=
Music; where soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory. Shelley.
She knew me not, although her breast
Had pillowed oft my head,
And thought I long had been at rest
With Ocean’s ghostly dead.
Full on my wan and wasted face
She fixed her melancholy gaze;
But there, alas! she could not trace
The look of other days.
She knew me not! the flight of time
An iron form will bow,
And bondage in a tropic clime
Had darkened cheek and brow:
I spoke of friends; with look cast down,
Who shared her joy in better hours—
Whom Death had added to his crown
Of darkly folded flowers:—
In vain! the mourning one no glance
Of love or welcome gave;
She thought beneath the blue expanse
Of ocean was my grave:
I then sang airs that in the cell
Of hoarding memory long had slept,
And with a look tongue cannot tell
She clasped my neck and wept.
* * * * *
=SONNET.—THE COMET.=
=BY WM. ALEXANDER.=
Upon what deed of hazardous emprise,
Bold Comet, dost thou come? From vistas deep
Of space, thou hurriedly dost sweep,
Self-shining, with thy trail athwart the skies,
To greet the golden sun. Nor comest thou
Alone—a myriad more press on thy track,
In wild excursion; soon to measure back
The ebon distances. Come, tell us, now,
Why unannounced, strange visitant! once more,
So suddenly thou burstest on our sight,
A terror at mid-day—a wonder of the night?
Precursor of red war, then, dost thou soar,
Or monitor of wo? Peculiar Fire!
Thy presence can in us no confidence inspire.
* * * * *
=FANCIES FROM A GARRET.=
=BY GEO. CANNING HILL.=
BUBBLES.
And why not, pray, from a Garret?
And from a Country Garret, too?
Though the sun doth not flood the crannies and crevices with its
light—and though dangling webs from spiders’ looms swing from one huge
beam to another—yet may there brood no Fancies there?—fancies, too,
themselves radiant with sunshine, and fringed with a fine web of beauty?
Ay—it is not in smooth-shaven meadows alone, or beneath broad-reaching
trees, or beside brawling brooks, that a man’s Fancies will disport
themselves:—it is not in the woods only, that his inward nature will
take airy wings, and revel among speculations far more real, after all,
than the very realities about him:—but it is
here—there—everywhere:—it is even beneath the rafters of a dim,
dusty, and lumber-laden Garret.
* * * * *
I have got a little apartment in the south-east corner of one of these
thought-peopled Garrets; none at all too spacious, to be sure; lighted
by but a single window, and walled in on all sides by the weird and
strange influences that haunt the place. To this retreat I am accustomed
to betake myself occasionally, when I would indulge in that refreshing
and genial siesta of the senses—a Reverie.
Here are no interruptions. Of a warm summer day, I open my door and
suffer the cool wind to draw through the room. Sometimes, on entering at
the window, it snatches hold of the corners of my manuscript sheets,
whirls them rudely about to the floor, performs a rapid pirouette, and
whisks out through the door. There it dances at its pleasure in the
spacious and silent Garret-hall—piping its own soft music—and kicking
up with its airy feet the venerable dust of years.
When the sunlight blazes upon the crisped shingles, it seems to me that
it is night; and that I behold innumerable stars, where, the light
streams through the hundred holes in the roof. The effect is singular
enough. And I go groping about in the darkness and the dust—crouching
beneath huge beams—crawling carefully into dim archways and
quaint-looking angles—ransacking the lumber of years’ accumulation—and
raising clouds of dust, which the slender lines of sunlight through the
roof fashion into shining threads of gold.
All the influences here at times are sombre; yet they are not so sad as
to depress me. I have a strange feeling of being momentarily out of the
world. I do not feel lost: only isolated. Neither do I feel myself
wholly lonely; for olden and strange associations come thronging to me,
so that I may easily imagine myself surrounded with beings of life and
thought.
I wander and grope about in this spacious garret, and lose myself
sometimes in the varied play of my feelings. My eyes light on old bits
of trumpery, that were vastly counted on fifty years ago. Here are
children’s worn and faded playthings—the baubles and hobby-horses, that
absorbed minds which are now impressing an influence upon the world.
Here, still clasping an open beam, are the ends of the rope by which
children swung themselves, full a half century ago; and the whole dusky
beam seems circled round and round with rings of childish laughter. Here
are dark corners, and cosy angles, and curious spaces, where each
erected spacious playhouses, that might, in mimicry, have rivaled the
establishments of the jealous Montagues and Capulets.
And I pick out from the rubbish, or take down from the edges of beams
and rafters, remnants of ancient China sets, with their quaint devices
shattered into other and stranger ones—all of them faithful souvenirs
of the days and the habits of our godly grandmothers. And hidden away in
the dusty lumber, are a few old and badly bedimmed portraits—coarsely
enough done, but once probably sources of secret pride and gratification
to their owners.
And then when I stand in the midst of these rare collections of time,
and perceptibly feel the influence of the deep silence and the faded
light, I say to my heart—Why should not a Garret be the place, of all
others, the fullest of living Fancies?
* * * * *
—I had thrown myself into my arm-chair one day—it was in the latter
part of a protracted and severe winter—and was gradually losing myself
in the sweet and soothing play of feelings that always hover about me
here. The wintry winds had bawled themselves hoarse over the snowy
fields in the distance, and were charging in thick squadrons down the
wooded road, to attack the first chance traveler. I could hear them
piping shrilly at the crannies and beneath the eaves; and their
whistling voices had, I confess, a secret charm for me. I knew they
could not reach me with their frost-biting breath; and I unconsciously
drew a bit nearer the fire, and wrapped myself more closely in the
feeling of comfort that I had drawn about me.
It was already past mid-afternoon; and the pale and lifeless sun threw
itself across my floor more like a veritable shadow, than like the
cheerful sun it should have been.
I tried to lose myself entirely—to sleep; but that was only impossible.
My thoughts would not wholly sleep. Yet they were, for all that,
disposed to drowsiness.
Every thing I had ever heard, or read, seemed crowding back on my
memory. Chance sayings from lips that had not spoken in long years; and
quaint lines from quaintest authors. Old books sifted out their
piquancies into my lap, that I should pick them up and examine them over
again, one at a time. My mind was, for the moment, converted into a
crowded museum. Every thing was huddled together there; yet not so
confusedly as that I could not lay my hand—so to say—on whatever I
wanted.
By some unknown association, the line of Banquo, in his questioning of
Macbeth respecting the three witches, came to me; and I know not if I
repeated it aloud to myself or not, in the state of reverie into which
my mind was lapsing:
“The earth has bubbles, as the water hath.”
At all events, the line kept running and spinning round in my brain—I
all the while trying to deduce some hidden meaning from it. I had it
over and over again; and in time, my thoughts began to weave themselves
together somewhat after this wise:—
* * * * *
—Bubbles? Yes—and a plenty of them, too!
The baby blows them from the smooth bowl of a clay pipe; distending its
little cheeks to their utmost, and staring at the gaudy tints that sail
over their surfaces, with a delight that is almost uncontrollable.
The youth blows them, when he looks out from one of the windows of his
lofty air-castle; and his eye swims with the pleasant prospect he sees
through the golden mist that hangs before him.
The man of mature years blows them—big and round; but they are not
always so gayly painted as those he inflated years ago. The colors are
faded: they seem soiled: they are, in truth, wanting. Yet the bubbles
are no less bubbles, albeit they look so vapory and dull.
—And so, thought I, we all keep blowing bubbles, from early babyhood
till we lean upon the staff. It is only when the silvery snows of old
age lie thickly upon the temples, and the clear eye has altogether lost
its crystal lustre, that we leave off the occupation.
Early in life we call it a pleasant pastime; when we grow older, we make
it a business. While we are children, we send the fragile creations up
into the air; and we laugh and clap our hands, to see the winds play
gently with them as with foot-balls. And when at last their thousand
liquid threads snap in sunder, and only a glistening water-drop falls to
the earth, our faces for a moment forget their smiles, and then—we
straightway go to blowing more.
We get further on in years. We are sanguine, even to feverishness. We
hope for every thing which our minds can conceive. We know no such
chances as those of impossibility. Our blood is hot: it flies swiftly
along our veins, and we do not know how to brook restraint. Life is all
pleasure; or rather, a concentric series of pleasure—the outer circles
seemingly quite as thickly crowded with happiness as those nearer the
centre. We snatch quick glances at the future; and we see the years
going round and round in these charmed circles, till our brain grows
giddy. And then we give ourselves up to nothing but this single object
and purpose—Pleasure.
We grow out of mere boyhood—that age of continual conflict betwixt
pride and sense—that time wherein we experience more mortifications
than during all the rest of our lives—and we feel the first flush of
manhood on our brows. The limbs are lithe, and graceful, and strong. The
senses take a secret pleasure at the very consciousness of their
existence. The eye is quick, and clear, and far-sighted. The ear catches
the slightest sounds. A sense of strength, and so of confidence, settles
down upon the whole being. There are no feats—whether physical or
intellectual—for which we do not seem to have abundant capacity.
And the hopes, too, are so high; and the ambition is so exalted; and the
heart is so strong!
—Oh, how much it would take of trial, to crush the strength out of the
heart now!
You are looking, with an eye full of hopeful expression, out upon the
world’s highway. Crowded as it is, you have no fears of there being no
room for you. You are so full of self-reliance—to give it no harsher
name—that you even think the world will need your services—that it can
ill do without them.
—Immature fellow! You might die; and a thousand more of equal promise
and hope, might die along with you; and yet your loss would never be
felt by the world. There would be enough left to perform all you had in
your heart resolved upon.
You think, as you pass on, and as the days begin to lag and grow more
tedious, that you will need the sympathy of another, from which, as from
a never-failing fountain, to feed your own. You sometimes, even now,
have moments of weariness and exhaustion, although they are as fleeting
as fleecy clouds; yet they suggest to you fears of weariness and
exhaustion, in the battle of coming years—and you secretly resolve not
to be taken unawares.
At the first, this is but a thought of expediency; or of something that
looks as much to safety as to any thing else. Then it slowly and
gradually takes form. Then it thrusts its bursting grain-head above the
heart-soil; and it instantly becomes an existence—a living reality.
Then it shoots and germinates rapidly; drawing strongly on the life for
sustenance; and sucking up almost all the invigorating juices from the
heart.
You are thrown off your guard by the most trifling cause—nay, by no
causes at all. Your nerves become shattered, unstrung, and sadly out of
tune. Your head swims with the slightest pretexts. Your eyes grow wild,
and at times glassy, even to ghastliness. Your heart feels never so sad
and so lonely; never so deeply in want of another’s sympathy.
You have brothers?—No—no.
Sisters?—Ah—but even that will not do. Something nearer even than
brother or sister, is what this heart-hunger craves now.
And all this time—silly fellow!—your eyes are tightly shut. You see
nothing. You are willing to grope your way thus in the dark. Yet if you
would but exercise a little of the reason you have laid by as of no
present service, in what a straight-forward way would you go at your
purpose!
The sight of a pale ribbon, flirting in the wind, throws you in a panic.
The faintest smile from ruby lips, makes you fairly go mad. The sudden
glance of a twinkling dark eye, only intoxicates you. How the hot blood
rushes up to the eyes—and then slowly ebbs back upon the heart again!
—Ah! if you could but catch the sweet music of her voice!—
Well—well; and that time at length comes along. You have waited
patiently and long. You have wrestled valiantly with your
bashfulness—and, at last, you are the victor.
You speak to her, whose image has so long been haunting you. She replies
to you. Her voice is like the low tones of a lute.
—Was there ever such joy?—
—Again. You just feel the slight weight of her hand upon your arm. Yet
you think you cannot feel it, either. You wish she was heavier. You wish
she was far more of a burden on your arm.
The lace-frills on either side of her face are snowy white; but not near
so white as her face itself. Nothing could be whiter than that. You look
hurriedly at it, and you greatly wonder while you fear.
Lean more on me for support! you say.
She throws up a grateful glance at you, but says nothing. Yet you read
in that glance, as plainly as if it had been upon a printed page—
Thank you: I lean on you now all I can!—
But, how like a feather! How fearfully fragile! She leans on you with
all her weight? Then is she scarce heavier than a shadow.—
You try cheering words. You tell her how balmy airs always refresh your
senses; and timidly ask her if she is not already refreshed herself. The
blushing red rose that has ambitiously climbed over the wall, you pluck
hastily for her—heedless of either thorns or pain. You offer it to her.
She lays it upon her lips.
Alas! how fearful the contrast with that blanched face. For the moment,
yours is fully as white as her own.
You speak of flowers; but your lip quivers. You know that the flower you
support on your arm is too white for a rose; too pale by far for a lily;
too fragile altogether for an earth-flower: and you cannot keep it out
of your mind, that she must soon bloom in another soil.
—Oh, God! How the rushing thoughts come now! All your ambition—that
strong cord that bound you down to earth—is snapped like tow in a
blaze! You could at once burn your books, and feel no regret; if by that
means these cruel fears would release your heart from the clutch of
their skinny fingers! You would give up your whole life-time, day by
day, and year by year—if, by this devotion, you could crush the life
out of these cruel spectres!
* * * * *
Then comes a long day: a dark day: a dismal day. No other such day could
ever have been notched in the calendar. The sun is clear—but you do not
see it. You are wholly in the darkness. The soft south winds blow upon
your temples, and refresh your nostrils with the fragrance they have
rifled from gardens full of flowers.
—If _she_ could but feel this refreshing fragrance in her nostrils!—
You behold many faces—and many strange ones, too. These are wild briars
running all over the turf you are slowly treading on; but no roses on
one of them; nothing but thorns. Your eye is glassy; and it runs round
hurriedly on the ring of faces that are turned to your own. Your muscles
are so very rigid—you think your face is of marble.
There is a dark throng all around you. Circles of young girls—but not a
smile on the face of one of them. Their eyes are cast down; and you
fancy their pale lips slightly quiver. You look closer; and your own
tremble and shake in spite of you.
The dull tramp of feet has ceased. There is no voice—no sound. The
silence is unbroken. It hangs over you—over those about you—over the
whole dense throng, like a heavy pall. You would even put out your hand
and raise it from before your eyes. You feel strange sensations, as of
suffocation; and you would fain speak aloud, to satisfy yourself that
you still possess your senses.
—How heavy!—how oppressive!—how appalling!—
By and by, a low, faint, scarce audible sound rises on the air. It is
very near you, yet it seems as if it were a very great way off. Now
louder—now higher—now nearer still to you. It is as if the air were
filled with low wails!
It is only a dirge for the dead.
—How your flesh creeps, as the fearfully solemn tones fall on your
ears. How icy cold is the blood in your veins—and yet the beaded drops
of perspiration stand upon your temples, and in your palms! How stoutly
you struggle to feel that you still have your senses; and yet, in your
strong agony, you fiercely bite your lip through and through, and know
it not.
Alas!—what wo!—what wo!—what untold wo! No heart now, from whose
depths to draw refreshing sympathy. No open ear, into which to pour the
torrent of your untold grief. You cannot move from your tracks. You
would not move if you could. You would not speak—nor utter so much as a
faint cry. You would for ever stand there, like a lifeless block of
marble.
You wonder if all the rest feel as you do; and you try to lift your
eyes, to meet the gaze which you feel is upon you.
Just then, another wail of song—and your dimmed eyes drop to the
ground. They behold what has been spared you till now.
They fall into a gaping grave!
—And then comes blindness again, and a swift swimming of the brain; and
a sickening of all the senses; and you fear for yourself, lest you may
suddenly reel and pitch into the newly-dug grave.—
Oh, God!—you pray—if this cup would but have passed from me!
Four men stand near the dark cavity. Their feet are imbedded in the
gravel that has been freshly thrown out, and it rattles back again into
the grave, with an unearthly echo.
The men each hold on upon a strap. They let it slip—you can distinctly
hear it—through their hands. Down—down—down!
The coffin has gone down beneath the edge of the grave. It grates, and
rubs, and rumbles against the rough sides of its cell, and then sinks
into the silence and darkness for ever.
You hear sobs—quick, convulsive, heart-rending sobs. They are full to
bursting with distress. They come from the lips of her mother—her
sister—her brother.
You cannot bear it yourself. Oh, for only a single tear! Oh, for but a
single heaving of the breast!
—But no—but no. No one to whom to carry all your griefs now. They must
flow back upon your heart again. They must scorch it with their boiling
lava. They press even now so hard upon you, that you feel fearfully
self-possessed. It is almost impossible to bear it all.
Young girls step timidly up to the edge of the dark grave—snatch a look
at the coffin that holds all your own heart—and cautiously throw roses
down upon it.
The sight goes to your very heart. But no tears yet. What a relief would
they not be?
And now you clench your hands tightly together, and bite your lip in
fresh agony. You spit blood already from your mouth.
Only a prayer—a slow, solemn prayer from the reverend man of God—and
all is over. The dense throng begin to turn away.
They are nearly all gone: they wait for you only.
Some one touches you gently on your arm; but you are senseless as stone.
Your eyes are fixed on that remorseless grave—the greedy grave, that
has in a moment swallowed up all your hopes of earthly happiness.
You only wish you could lie down, and be buried there too!
—Then you think of her again—of the time when she was in the flush of
health and beauty. You remember well the very first look she gave you.
It will never, you think, pass out of your memory.
You call up her tender expressions; her genial thoughts; and her many
arch and graceful sayings. You think how surpassingly beautiful she
seemed to you, on a certain summer morning, when you were riding
together along a road lined with ruddy apple-blossoms, and vocal with
the bewildering music of birds. You think, too, of the time when she
gently dropped her head upon your manly shoulder, and you felt your soul
full to the brim with happiness.
And then to have the crushing thought fall again like a great weight
upon you—that this is all that is left of her love; and that she is
carefully laid away for the rioting worm!
—Oh, for but a hot—a scalding tear! How you pray that this mighty
grief will break its bounds and overflow!
This time they pull harder at your arm, and call you by name. You look
up—but you comprehend nothing. You hear your name spoken—but know not
by whom.
They warn you to come away. You move on reluctantly after them; but your
last look is on that grave. And you think you will come back again, when
night steals over the place; and watch by the side of it till she comes
and sits down beside you; and then you will weave fresh roses again into
garlands together.
* * * * *
—You are back in your little office once more. You open a book—a huge
book—and lay it out upon the table before you. The events of the day
you desire to make into something more real; and you bring them into
close proximity with your daily duties—with the very books you have
handled so often, with the clear type on the page.
Alas!—in only a moment—they become far too real to you. They roll
rapidly over your brain, like yeasty waves over a drowning man.
—No ambition now—no more hope—no high thoughts for the future. You
care nothing for applauding voices. They are but faint whispers, in the
storm of your roaring and deafening trouble.
You pace to and fro in your little room; but no consolation. All your
castles, that you had builded with such nice care, have crumbled to the
ground. All the domestic bliss you had thought soon to enter upon, has
suddenly become a blank. The homefires you had thought to kindle so
brightly on your hearth, are all smothered and smouldering. Only dry
ashes before you: no blaze; no warmth. A vacant chair stands beside your
own.
You seize your hat, and rush out to breathe out your still grief upon
the winds—hoping, perchance, they may waft it to her ears.
—And this is your first disappointment—your first great grief. Would
to God—you say—it may be your last!
* * * * *
—Bubbles—all bubbles, thought I, as the wind shrieked at the crevices
of the Old Garret again. When do we stop blowing them?—and when do they
stop bursting?
Now, I thought I knew what Banquo meant, when he said that the earth,
like the water, had bubbles;—
“And this is of them!—”
* * * * *
I piled fresh logs upon my fire. I felt chilled, as with a searching
wind.
My eyes wandered out at the window. The sick sun no longer lay across
the floor. It had gone down behind the distant hills. The swart shadows
were at the casement, and were slowly creeping in.
—They had come—thought I—to throw their dark shroud about the Fancies
that were brooding here. And I gladly welcomed them, too.—
I buried my face in my hands; and a secret joy stole into my heart, that
the Night had finally come.
* * * * *
=THE MINISTER’S WIFE.=
=BY ELLA RODMAN.=
The Rev. Sydney Saybrook preached his first sermon to an admiring
congregation. The people of L—— were astonished; old men dwelt with
delight on the excellent home-truths introduced, as it were, amid a bed
of flowers—young men admired the eloquence and frank bearing of the
speaker—and young ladies, ah! _that_ was the thing. _They_, disdaining
the matter-of-fact admiration of the rougher sex, looked forward into
futurity, and, as the young minister was reported free of encumbrances,
they thought of putting an end to his season of bliss by providing him
with _one_ as soon as possible.
This, however, is in strict confidence—they would not have acknowledged
it for the world, and yet many of the brains pertaining to those
attentive faces were busily at work within the pretty parsonage,
altering, remodeling, arranging things to their own particular tastes.
One would have that rose-vine taken away—it obscured the view; another
would not only leave the rose, but would add a honeysuckle, too—it
looked pretty and romantic; while a third had re-carpeted the stairs to
the last flight by the time that Mr. Saybrook arrived at “thirteenthly.”
Milly Ellsworth was a very pretty girl, and, therefore, what might
perhaps have been vanity in one more plain, was with her only a pleasant
consciousness of her own charms; as, in apparent forgetfulness of the
saying that it takes two to make a bargain, she exclaimed:
“I have made up my mind to captivate Mr. Saybrook—it must be so
beautiful to be a minister’s wife.”
The last remark was intended as a sort of compliment to their visitor,
who enjoyed that enviable distinction, but Mrs. S—— merely smiled as
Milly’s earnest face was raised toward her.
“Only think of it,” continued the young enthusiast.
“I do think of it,” replied Mrs. S——, quietly; “but the thought to me
brings up some scenes that are any thing but agreeable. If I cannot tell
‘tales that would freeze your very blood,’ I can relate some that
_would_ freeze a little of that enthusiasm. _A minister’s wife!_ You
little know what is comprised in that title.”
“Of course,” replied Milly, with a demure face, “it is a station of
great responsibility, and has its peculiar duties. A minister’s wife,
too, is a sort of pattern, and should be a—a—in short, just the
thing.”
“Exactly,” returned Mrs. S——, smiling at this very satisfactory
explanation, “but for ‘pattern’ read ‘mirror’—a reflection of
everybody’s own particular ideas; in which, of course, no two agree. But
let me hear _your_ ideas on the subject, Milly—I wish to know what you
consider ‘just the thing.’”
“Why,” continued Milly, warming with her subject, “her dress, in the
first place, should be scrupulously plain—not an article of jewelry—a
simple straw hat, perhaps, tied down with a single ribbon—and a white
dress, with no ornament but natural flowers.”
“Very good,” said Mrs. S——, “as far as it goes; but the beauty of this
very ‘simple straw-hat’ is, of course, to consist in its shape and
style, and country villages are not proverbial for taste in this
respect. It would never do for a minister’s wife to spend her time in
searching for a tasty bonnet, and with a limited purse this is no light
labor. Then, too, she is obliged to encourage the manufactures of the
town in which she resides. If you could have seen some of the hats _I_
had to wear!”
Milly shuddered; she could have borne reverses of fortune, could even
have stood at the stake unflinchingly, supported by the glories of
martyrdom; but an unbecoming bonnet is one of those petty trials for
which one gains no credit but that of bad taste.
“As to the white dress,” continued Mrs. S——, “you must intend it to be
made of some material from which dirt will glance harmlessly off on one
side. Or perhaps you have one already—a legacy from one of those
everlastingly white-robed heroines in the old novels. Those must
assuredly have been spectre woods that they wandered in, for in _our_
days brambles and under-wood leave their marks. _I_ was obliged to give
up white dresses.”
Milly looked thoughtful.
“Oh, well,” said she, after a short pause, “dress is very little, after
all. I should like the idea of being a minister’s wife; you are so
looked-up to by the congregation; and then they bring you presents and
think so much of you.”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. S——, “there _is_ something in that; I had seven
thimbles given to me once.”
“Well, that must have been pleasant, I am sure.”
“It would have done very well had they not expected me to use the whole
seven at once. Don’t look so frightened, Milly—I don’t mean in a
literal sense; but I was certainly expected to accomplish as much work
as would have kept the seven well employed. This, with my household
affairs, was somewhat impossible.”
Milly sighed; she was not fond of work, and had vague visions of meals
of fruit and milk, and interminable seams accomplishing themselves with
neatness and dispatch.
“Now, that you look rather more rational,” said Mrs. S——, with a
smile, “I will give you a little of my own experience, that you may not
walk into these responsibilities with your eyes half-shut, as I did. My
ideas upon the subject of minister’s wives were very much like your own,
and when I left my father’s house in the city to accompany Mr. S—— to
his home in a distant country-village, it was with the impression that I
was to become a sort of queen—over a small territory, it is true, but
filled with adoring subjects. Mr. S—— is not very communicative, and
as he did not pull down my castles-in-the-air with any description of
realities, I was rather disappointed to find no roses or honeysuckles;
but a very substantial-looking house, with an immense corn-field on one
side and a kitchen-garden on the other. I could scarcely repress my
tears; but Mr. S——, who had been accustomed to the prospect all his
life, welcomed me to my future home as though it were all that could be
desired.
“The congregation soon flocked, not ‘to pay their respects,’ but to take
an inventory of my person and manners. I was quite young and naturally
lively, and old people shook their heads disapprovingly at the
minister’s choice, while grave spinsters, disappointed ones perhaps,
tossed theirs at the idea of ‘such a chit.’ The very rigid ones
black-balled me from _their_ community as unworthy to enter, while the
gay ones regarded me as a sort of amphibious animal, neither one thing
nor the other.
“Before long, the gifts of which you speak thronged in. I was pleased at
the attention—not dreaming, in my innocence, that twice as much would
be required of me in return. My ignorance on a great many subjects
excited the contempt, and often indignation of my country neighbors;
they made not the least allowance for my city education.
“I was standing in the kitchen one day, with a delusive notion of making
cake—for my attempts in the cookery line always placed me in a state of
delightful uncertainty as to the end, it was quite a puzzle what things
_would_ turn out—when a middle-aged woman made her appearance, and,
without being invited, seated herself near me. A basket accompanied her;
and after remarking that ‘it was awful hot!’ she asked me ‘if I wouldn’t
like some turnpike-cakes?’
“Previous unpalatable messes had been sent in to the table, and afraid
that I might be drawn in to taste some nauseous compound, I replied
rather hesitatingly—‘No, I thank you—I do not think that I am very
fond of them.’
“Mrs. Badger, for that was my visitor’s name, placed a hand on each hip,
and looking me full in the face, burst forth into a laugh that would
have done credit to a backwood’s-man. I trembled, and felt myself
coloring to the tips of my ears. To this day I have a vivid recollection
of the impression made upon me by that woman’s contempt.
“‘Well, wherever was you broughten up,’ said my visitor, at length, ‘to
’spose that turnpike-cakes was meant to _eat_! Why, bless your heart,
child! they’re to make bread with!’
“I caught eagerly at the idea; Mr. S—— was partial to home-made
bread—Mrs. Badger, who was by no means ill-natured, willingly left the
turnpike-cakes, and I was soon plunged up to the elbows in my labor of
love. I had very mistaken ideas though upon the subject of bread, and
its capabilities of rising; I supposed that a very minute piece of dough
would bake into a pretty loaf, and was extremely surprised when I beheld
only an extensive tea-cake. Mr. S—— laughed good-naturedly at my
baking, and pronounced it very well, what there was of it. Anxious to
distinguish myself in his eyes as a good housekeeper, I toiled over
pies, cake, and every thing eatable that I could think of; but, alas!
the mead of praise always fell short of my expectations. He dispatched
the pies with a mournful air, as he assured me that ‘he never expected
to taste any equal to his mother’s;’ and after trying in vain to reach
this standard of perfection, I gave it up in despair. This, I have since
found, is merely a delusion peculiar to men, to be classed in the same
scale with the fancy that sermons were longer and winters merrier in
childhood than they are now.
“_My_ experience of ministers has convinced me that, with respect to
worldly matters, they are an extremely thoughtless, improvident race;
and the machinery of _work_, indispensable to the producing of comforts,
always contrives to get on ‘the blind side’ of them. Mr. S—— seemed to
imagine that shining shirt-bosoms and spotless cravats grew on trees, or
were fished-up, unharmed, from the depths of the sea, for every week his
astonishment at Biddy’s failures was indescribable.
“Anxious to put an end to this perpetual state of surprise, I went into
the kitchen to oversee the girl’s performances—knowing about as much of
the matter as she did. Her request, ‘and would ye plaze, ma’am, to be
afther showin’ me,’ just meant to do it myself. The sensations that Mr.
S—— experienced on finding me thus employed were almost too deep to
vent themselves in words, but he positively forbade my doing it again;
so, whenever I knew that he was off on some lengthy visit, I continued
my mysterious occupation unsuspected; while he rejoiced at Biddy’s
improvement, and in the innocence of his heart exclaimed:
“‘Don’t tell me, my dear, that these Irish cannot be taught—look at
Biddy!’
“I did look at her, and encountered so hopelessly vacant a visage that I
laughed to myself at his credulity.
“I was invited, rather _commanded_, to join ‘The Dorcas Society for the
Relief of Indigent Females,’ which met every week, and where the members
always sewed on unbleached muslin and sixpenny calico; they made me
president, and in consequence I was expected, at each meeting, to take
home the unfinished work and do it up during the week. I was collector
for the poor—and in my rounds some gave me sixpence, some nothing, and
some impudence. I was superintendent of the Sunday-school, besides
teacher of a Bible-class of middle-aged young ladies who were not quite
grown up. I was member of a ‘Society for the Diffusion of Useful
Reading,’ which also met every week; and where, had I not been a
minister’s wife, I should certainly have fallen asleep over the
‘Exhortations,’ ‘Helps,’ ‘Aids,’ and ‘Addresses,’ that were showered
upon us poor women; while I wondered that nobody took the trouble to
write to men.
“You must acknowledge that my time was pretty well employed; but,
besides all this, I was expected to entertain innumerable visitors.
Traveling clergymen always made our house their stopping-place; and it
must have been conveniently on the route to almost every place in the
Union; for some were going north, some east, and some west, but that was
always the halting-place. Their hours of arriving were various and
unexpected; but _I_ was expected to furnish banquets at the shortest
notice—to drag forth inexhaustible store of linen and bedding—and
throw open airy apartments that had hitherto been concealed by secret
springs. Mr. S—— was firmly convinced that the house possessed the
elastic properties of India-rubber, and mildly disregarded my ignorance
when I asserted that it would not stretch to any extent.
“A convention of ministers was to meet in the village, for some purpose
or other, and the visitors, like British soldiers during the revolution,
were to be quartered upon the inhabitants—with only this difference,
they were to be invited before they entered a house. I was seated in Mr.
S——’s study when he mentioned the ministers.
“‘I spoke for you, too, my dear,’ said he coolly, ‘and said that we
could accommodate six.’
“‘Mr. S——!’ I exclaimed, roused past all endurance; ‘are you really
crazy!’
“‘Anna!’ replied my husband, as he turned his eyes upon me. Mr. S——
was usually very mild, and appeared to think that a look was sufficient
to subdue refractory spirits. He now undertook to _look_ me into reason;
while I, fairly boiling at the idea of being treated like a naughty
child, and yet struggling with a sense of right and wrong, sat with
downcast eyes trying in vain to get cool.
“‘I hope,’ continued Mr. S——, ‘that my wife has not forgotten the
rules of hospitality, or the precepts of the Bible?’
“‘But it is so impossible!’ I pleaded, ‘Neither beds nor any thing else
will hold out under such an inundation.’
“‘Remember the widow’s cruse of oil,’ replied my husband.
“‘Yes,’ said I, for I felt just the least bit termagantish, ‘but such
things do not happen now-a-days.’
“Mr. S—— _looked_ again, and I was quieted, though I felt very much
like laughing.
“‘One can sleep on the sofa,’ continued my husband, after a pause.
“It was the nearest approach toward calculating probabilities that I had
ever known him to make; but I took somewhat of a wicked pleasure in
replying,
“‘Not if he is very tall—and then he would probably roll out, it is so
narrow; and, after all, that is only one.’
“‘Chairs!’ suggested Mr. S——.
“‘Don’t you think,’ said I, rather hesitatingly, ‘that they would rather
go where they could be better accommodated?’
“‘Anna,’ said Mr. S——, as he deliberately laid down his pen, ‘I am
really sorry to see you so unwilling to contribute your mite toward
entertaining those who should be welcome guests in every house.’
“‘_Mite_, indeed!’ thought I; ‘but that sounded better in a sentence
than ‘superhuman efforts.’’
“‘Mr. S——,’ said I, in a sort of frantic hope of reducing him to
reason, ‘there are exactly two spare-beds in the house—these divided
among six full-grown men are not very extensive accommodations.’
“My husband turned upon me a look, ‘more in sorrow than in anger,’ and
left the room, as I imagined, to examine our stock of blankets and
comfortables. But not he; he only went to look for a book of reference,
and soon was writing again as calmly as though six ministries were not
hovering over us in perspective.
“I sat like one bewildered, and thought. Mr. S—— would not imagine the
possibility of our not being able to accommodate them; and I foresaw
that all the blame of a failure would fall upon me. Had they only been
girls, I could have disposed of them somehow; but the idea of packing
away six grave ministers, like so many bundles, was quite repugnant to
my feelings of reverence. I thought, however, in vain—there was no
conclusion to come to; nothing left for me but inglorious retreat. In
spite of having taken him ‘f
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