as one with which we are best acquainted, exists in the North Atlantic. It is known as the Gulf stream, from apparently taking its rise in the Gulf of Mexico. But before reaching the Gulf it has crossed the Atlantic from the coast of Africa, drawing its supplies from a system of corresponding currents partly in the northern and partly in the southern hemisphere. All the way it has been exposed to the heat of the tropical sun. In the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico its course is contracted, while the perpendicular rays still beat fiercely upon it. When it

issues then from the Gulf of Mexico by the only free exit, the channel between Florida and Cuba, it has a rate of nearly five miles an hour. At the narrowest part of the straits it is about thirty-five miles wide, and it is several thousand feet in depth. From this point it flows to the northward, alongside of, but not touching, the American coast, till it reaches the latitude of Philadelphia. Here its breadth has increased to nearly a hundred miles, while its rate is still about three miles per hour. Its depth has consequently considerably diminished, but it is still not less than three thousand feet. From this point it strikes across the Atlantic, spreading more upon the surface and with a diminished velocity as it advances. In September the flow is most rapid and its deflection the least. then takes a north-easterly direction from the banks of Newfoundland, and passes in the clear way between Great Britain and Iceland. In March it moves most slowly, and takes a course nearly due east till it approaches the south of Europe. Here it divides, a part turning southwards, while the main body flows northwards; skirting, though here also not quite touching, the coasts of France, passing near, and partly through the channels of the British Islands, and pushing on near the Norwegian coast. Between it and this coast there is always a counter current or back draught of cooler water. From March to September, and from September to March, the Gulf

It

stream oscillates between these extreme limits.

On

The existence of the Gulf stream was first made known by Franklin. Its direction and force have been recently ascertained by scientific observations, but they have long been popularly known by the driftwood of strange countries which the stream casts upon our shores. It is common to find trees and plants from the West Indies thus thrown upon the rocks of the Orkney and Shetland Islands. But a still more remarkable test is furnished by the thermometer. In the Gulf of Mexico the summer temperature of the sea is 86. Off New York the middle of the Gulf stream has still a temperature of 80°; while the water between it and the shore is not above 60°. In winter the difference of temperature is still more striking. each side the waters are scarcely above the freezing-point, while in the stream they are 60° or 70°. Even when it reaches our shores, so slowly does water cool that the winter temperature is still scarcely under 50°. The returns of the Scottish Meteorological Society it is much to be desired that similar observations on the temperature of the sea were made by English and Irish meteorologists) inform us that the average sea temperature off the Shetland Islands in January is 48°, or as high as the average winter temperature of Rome. Far into the Polar regions can we trace the penetrating influence of this benign warmth. It keeps the seas of the North Cape perennially open; while on the American shore, Canada and Newfoundland, in the same latitude as Bordeaux, are fast locked in ice.

To supply the place of the waters brought by this majestic flow from the equator, there must necessarily be counter-currents from the Arctic regions. The principal of these descends along the east coast of Greenland. To the south of Greenland it joins another current which descends Davis' Straits. It was this current that brought the Reslute, which was frozen in and abandoned by her crew in Melville

1861.]

Sound in May, 1854, to the spot where she was picked up by an American vessel in Davis' Strait in September, 1855. It was the same current which drifted the Fox during a single winter from the head of Baffin's Bay to the very mouth of the straits. By the same currents are brought down those stately fleets of icebergs that in spring loom awfully through their mantle of fogs in the track of the steamers between this country and the United States. These cold currents meet the Gulf stream off the banks of Newfoundland. Here they in part sink, and flow southwards beneath the hot northward flow. This is indicated by the thermometer, which, while the surface has a temperature of 80°, shows a layer of cold water a thousand fathoms down, where the temperature is below 40°. But a part of the Greenland current does not sink; it flows on the surface between the American shore and the Gulf stream, still making its way to the southward, until off Florida it gradually disappears.

So also, along the European coasts, we have a cold current descending from the Spitzbergen seas. This current is most considerable in summer, when the Gulf stream keeps away towards the middle of the Atlantic. It is least sensible in winter, when the Gulf stream, as we have seen, approaches closely the European shores, and laps our islands in its embrace.

These cold currents along the shores have, besides their effect on climate, a singular and important influence upon our supply of food. It is known that fish are more abundant, and of better quality in cold than in warm seas. By the arrangement of the currents the most valuable fisheries are thus brought close to the European and American shores. English agriculture is curiously affected by like causes operating at the antipodes. Off the coast of Peru there is an Antarctic cold current, first noticed by Humboldt, and called by his name. Its waters teem with fish, which support countless sea-birds. Now, the coast of Peru is atmo

VOL. LXIII. NO. CCCLXXVII.

591

spherically a hot and dry, indeed rainless region. The droppings of these sea-birds are therefore not washed away, but accumulate in dry masses upon the rocks. This is the Peruvian guano, which has doubled the produce of our English fields. But for the existence of the cold sea current in a hot and dry latitude we should not have known what guano is.

But let us come back from the antipodes to the discussion of our own insular climate. Now see what conditions these facts about the Atlantic currents have given us. We have, all through the winter, a mild sea surrounding us. It is not merely on the Atlantic side; it penetrates into the basin of the German Ocean. Enclosed thus by the warm waters, we consequently cannot feel their effect in drawing the winds in either direction. So, through the winter the regular westerly winds are only occasionally turned round. We have storms and variable winds, with only a fair proportion of east in them. But in March this mild sea begins to alter its position. It draws off to the westward. The middle Atlantic becomes warmer: the ocean that surrounds us receives a stronger dash of comparatively cold water from the north. In the end of April and in May this change becomes sensible. Hence the atmospheric suction from the European continent to the westward day by day augments, and it at last becomes strong enough to overcome the west winds, and to cause steady winds from the east. These, if influenced only by the ocean, would become more and more marked during summer as the causes in the ocean which occasion them grow stronger. But in the meantime there are other causes of wind at work, which soon gain strength enough to overpower the influence of the Gulf stream. The summer sun rises in the heavens, and by the middle of May the European continent grows hotter than the Gulf stream. Then the aërial currents begin to flow towards the continent even from the Gulf stream; and the westerly winds

R R

resume their course.

Last year

the sun was less powerful, and consequently the easterly winds continued, light and variably with us, but very markedly in Scotland, till far on in June. In September the Gulf stream has reached its extreme summer limits, and commences its return. At the same time the power of the sun diminishes; and hence we have in November a second period quite distinctly marked in meteorological tables, though less sensible to the ordinary observer, of prevailing easterly winds. In December we are again enveloped in the warm waters, and the westerly winds resume their dominion.

Have we, then, thus plucked out the heart of the mystery of these east winds? He would be a bold man who should say we yet had altogether. All the phenomena of nature are so closely allied-all her laws are so dependent upon each other that he would be bold in

deed who should affirm that any one single cause was the full explanation of the facts he observes. We have in our explanation taken no account of moisture, electricity, and magnetism; and all these we know may, two of them we know do, exercise a powerful influence in directing the course of aërial currents. But at least we may venture to say this, that the explanation of our easterly monsoon which has just been given is not opposed to any known laws-that it is in conformity with the law which is believed to be most powerful in producing aërial currentsand that it is consistent with observed facts. Next to the sun itself, and the diurnal rotation of the earth, the Gulf stream, and the warmth which it brings, are regarded as the most powerful modifying causes in operation upon our climate; and the fact of its retrogression from us at the period when the east winds commonly commence, is too remarkable for us not to attribute to it a main share in producing them.

That the east winds should be so cold and dry, and the west winds warm and moist, is a necessary

consequence of their respective directions. The east winds, as we have seen, are the currents from the poles on their way to the equator. Since they left the regions of perpetual ice on their way hither, they have passed over countries hot enough in summer, but not yet fairly roused from their winter sleep. Except the German Ocean, they have not traversed any seas from which they could extract moisture. The west winds, on the contrary, are on their march from the equator. They pass over a great expanse of ocean; they are therefore warm and moist. This moisture they bestow on us, when they blow on the surface, in the form of frequent rains-forced out of them by the gradual cooling which they undergo as they enter colder latitudes. When they pass overhead as upper currents they also deposit this moisture on their under surface, and the deposit gives that peculiar whiteness to the sky which, even when no clouds are seen, is always observable during the prevalence of east winds on the surface of the earth. But this halfcondensed moisture is immediately absorbed by the thirsty east winds as it descends, and it rarely reaches the earth in the form of rain. Sometimes indeed, after a hot sunny day during the east wind season, the rise of the air over the land draws in the cooler air from the sea; and the upper westerly current descends upon the sea, and is drawn in by the suction towards the land. Then, as it suddenly comes in contact with the cold sea, its moisture is condensed in the form of a fog which gradually ap proaches and at length envelops the land. The sea-fogs are peculiarly common upon the east coast during spring. It cannot be said that the mixture of westerly damp with easterly cold is agreeable to the human feelings; but at least we may admit the force of the reply of the Scottish shepherd to one whom he found on a misty hill-top bitterly demanding what could be the use of such weather. 'What for should ye find fault with the weather, sir? It wats the grass,

1861.]

and it slokens the ewes, and (taking off his bonnet) it's the wull of God!'

I think it is, however, some further consolation to know that our present misery is caused by agencies whose continued operation will secure and increase our future enjoyment. The sea, which is comparatively warmer now, will be comparatively cooler in summer. We shall then have the winds which have fanned its broad bosom, and our summer heat will be tempered by their grateful coolness. So all nature is full of beautiful and wonderful compensations. Our east

593

winds, like the ticking of the pendulum, are not pleasant in themselves, but they give an assurance that the clock is going well. But man's work is an imperfect comparison for the arrangements of Divine Wisdom. The ticking of the clock does us no good, but it is more than probable that the east winds do. This regular period of sharp, dry, piercing air preceding the summer heat may be a necessary element in the healthfulness of our moist climate. And so perhaps Mr. Kingsley is right after all, and the East winds may really deserve an Ode.

B. K.

TWO

THE INDIVIDUAL WO interesting questions have been lately raised respecting the relation between society at large and its individual members. One is, whether the structure of the modern world tends to merge the individual in the crowd, to suppress originality and diversity of thought, character, and pursuit, to make all men closely alike, and history henceforward that of common rather than uncommon men. The other question is one closely related. It is, whether the history of nations, or of the human race, is susceptible of scientific interpretation, disclosing the action of general laws; or whether it is more properly a narrative of so many distinct beings, each in some respects unlike any other of the species, subject to no discoverable laws of variation, and including from time to time, individuals who not only widely deviate from anything like a common type, but leave their own stamp upon the race instead of being moulded by it.

I. The first inquiry does not seem to involve a difficult argument. To the multitude, at least, the social economy of our own times must afford a freer scope for the exhibition of natural varieties of disposition and ability than the institutions of former ages permitted. For what was the condition of the

AND THE CROWD.

bulk of the people, that is to say, of the whole rural population except the proprietary class, in the feudal period? From the village in which he was born, a peasant could seldom escape, unless by the gate of death. He was made prisoner there by the law of the land, by his own poverty and ignorance, by the dangers and difficulties of the road, and by the scarcity of other than agricultural occupations. His bodily powers were his lord's, and the priest took charge of those of his soul. His imagination might be stirred by the pictures of saints and angels in his church, or by the sight of nobles, knights, and ladies belonging to a sphere almost as much above his own, or even by deep draughts of holiday ale; but these temporary emotions excepted, his life must have been nearly as monotonous and thoughtless as that of a beast of burden. If indeed he lived close to a monastery, and had an uncommon aptitude for learning Latin, he might be admitted into a spiritual corporation, which regulated his minutest actions and his inmost thoughts, and regarded any display of what is now called individuality as rebellion or heresy. Or if he lived near a city, he might, after a year's concealment, defy the suit of his lord to recover him as a fugitive

serf.

But he was by no means

sure of a welcome within the city walls; and the regulations of the old municipal guilds were far from being nursing mothers of originality. The industry of towns was then in a constant state of siege, and their inhabitants formed a sort of garrison, which had to be kept in order by stringent discipline. Had the towns, however, favoured individual liberty more than we are justified in supposing, the vast majority of the mediæval population lived in the country, and to this day we find that rural life, until broken in upon by innovations emanating from towns, is a perpetual servitude to custom. In a small island like ours, studded with populous cities, and intersected with railways, rustic usages have long ceased to exist in their purity; but on the Continent we still find the peasantry in many places mere stereotyped copies of their ancestors, with little even of physical diversity between individuals. The true German peasant, for example, is an individual only in a numerical sense. He is merely a common specimen of his race and class; so much so that his immobility has been panegyrised as the grand security against revolution, by a writer whose descriptions of his countrymen are always faithful and instructive, although they will appear to most English minds suggestive of a different moral. The following passage is translated from his pages

Among the townspeople of Germany, the original form of body, as well as of mind and manners, is lost in a type of individuality. The peasantry, on the contrary, vary, even in bodily appearance, only by groups, according to locality and class of life. In one rural district you find a tall, long-boned frame general, in another, a squat, broad-shouldered figure, transmitted for centuries by an unadulterated race. So in Hesse, at this day, you will meet those lengthy visages with broad, high foreheads, small eyes, arched eyebrows, long, straight noses, and big lips, just as they are painted by Jacob Becker in his village tales. Comparing these rustic faces with the sculptures of the thirteenth century

in the church of Elizabeth at Marburg, you perceive that the old Hessian cast of countenance has remained unaltered for six hundred years; with, however, this distinction, that while on those monuments the heads of princes and nobles are carved, showing in their lineaments the genuine stamp of the race, that is now to be found among the peasantry alone. Whoever would portray mediaeval forms with historical fidelity, must look to the peasants for his models. This affords a natural explanation of the fact that the old German artists, of an age when it was far less the custom than in our time to draw from a model, have so generally given one uniform cast to their heads. The human figure had at that time reached no greater individuality. And the fact that this uniformity is still preserved among the peasantry, suggests the following observation. In the so-called educated world, the human being lives and works, for the most part, as an individual; the peasant, on the other hand, lives and works as one of a group, as a unit of an aggregate class. John drives the plough, and lives and thinks just like James; but that, amongst so many thousands, one lives, thinks, and ploughs like another, is a fact of no light weight in the political and social scale. In the educated world, the individual has his style, and style is the index to the man. With the peasantry it is the race, the locality, the province, that have their style, that is to say, their peculiar dialect, idioms, phrases, and songs; and this style is the index to whole communities. It is an historical heir-loom to which the peasant clings with tenacity. There are districts in Hungary where the rustic descendants of German colonists of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries continue to sing the old Saxon songs and tunes, while the educated German immigrant in a very short time forgets the language of his home, and takes to the Hungarian. In America, too, it is seen how long the peasant emigrant preserves the inheritance of his old provincial dialect, while the townsman has the sorry ambition to adapt himself to his new abode by forgetting his mother tongue.

Such are the effects of rural life even now that the peasants of Germany are emancipated from feudal bondage, and are brought near the ferment and progress of the towns of Western Europe. But in the middle ages, the restrictions of