several years in London, and having no pride in his Scottish idiom.
“Ye puir callant,” said he to me, as we emerged into the open air. “I did na ken ye at a’. To think of your bein’ clean wud the night, just real daft, and thrawing awa’ your puir auld father’s last bawbee.”
I heard him, and yet I seemed not to hear him. I was in a dream-like state, and suffered myself to be led home and put to bed by Angus, as if I had been a child of two years led by the hand.
When I awoke next morning Angus was beside me. He brought me a bottle of soda-water, which somewhat cured the confusion in my head, besides quenching a burning thirst.
“My poor boy,” said Angus, “do you remember?”
The rush of recollection, though confused, the shame of my conduct, the ruin, the misery that I had so narrowly escaped bringing upon my poor father and our family, overcame me entirely. I nearly fainted. I believe I felt in that moment all the agony that would have been my father’s portion, if Angus had not interposed his strong arm between me and that most accomplished knave and hypocrite, who had me wholly in his power. After a few moments of keen remorse I revived, and replied “I have but a confused recollection.” As I reflected, the incidents of the first part of the evening came out one by one on the background of memory with much clearness. “But how came you to think of coming to the Horns, Angus, and at 12 o’clock at night?” I asked.
“I will tell you,” said he, very seriously, “that you may know how Providence watches over you; but I trust you will not therefore ever tempt Providence again. Last night I retired at ten, and, as is my custom, I was asleep the minute after my head touched the pillow. At eleven, I awoke with a violent palpitation of the heart, and I saw that gaming room at the Horns, and you and that gamester at the table. I saw him ply you with spirits. I saw that you played at dice, and I saw, too, that his were loaded. I watched you both as he allowed you to win, and I thought of your poor father, and the ruin that was being wrought for him. I saw all this in a moment, as one sees a landscape, and takes in its features of houses, hill, and vale, in a single flash of lightning, and I sprang from my bed, dressed me as rapidly as my agitation and trembling would allow, and laid my hand on your shoulder at the Horns as soon as my limbs would bear me there. And if your life had depended on my speed, I would have trusted myself sooner than any horse I ever saw.”
“You saved me from life-long remorse, and my dear father from ruin, my good Angus,” said I. My heart was too full for adequate expression.
“Give God thanks,” said Angus. “It was my gift. It was the second sight, Allan, and all our gifts are from God. Therefore we should use them wisely. Keep my secret, Allan, and I will keep yours, and we will both be thankful all our days, to the good Providence that had us in keeping.”
Though this occurred many years since, I have never before communicated the facts to any person. I would like to have this and other strange experiences of my friend explained. When I have spoken with him on the subject, he has always said, “It is my gift, Allan. It never comes at call, and I am glad it does not, but it always comes for good. I thank God for it, and I am sure you do, Allan, for had you not cause?”
METEOROLOGY—ITS PRESENT CONDITION.
In these days of new theories we must not be astonished at the rise of new sciences. One or two of them, at least, are yearly born of hypothesis and experience. Social Science is still a babe in arms; Ethnology, Comparative Philology, and several more are hardly released from the nursery. Meteorology, however, is growing like a young giant. Many writers have dabbled in it from Aristotle to Lord Bacon; but from its very nature, composed as it is of numerous observations, time and opportunities of comparison were needed before it could be elevated to more than a piece of empiricism. Hear, however, Admiral FitzRoy’s cheering language. It is contained in the last Blue Book issued by the Meteorological Department of the Board of Trade, which we purpose to examine in this article. Speaking of the air currents of these latitudes, he says:
“Knowing these circumstances, and having accurate statical observations of these various currents at selected outlying stations—showing pressure (or tension), temperature, and relative dryness, with the direction and estimated horizontal force of wind at each place simultaneously, the dynamical consequences are already measured approximately on geometrical principles; and, judging by the past, there appears to be reasonable ground for expectation that soon meteorological dynamics will be subjected to mathematical analysis and accurate formulas.” This means, simply, that meteorology will soon rank among the exact sciences. The climate of any place in the world, even if no observations have been as yet taken there, can even now be approximately defined.
Many domestic philosophers of the past and present century have amused themselves in the spirit of White of Selbourne, by registering rainfall; but their statistics seldom had more than a local interest. Observations, however, are now taken officially at several home and colonial ports. All Her Majesty’s ships are required to register a large number of practical facts bearing on the weather. Not less than 5500 months of good meteorological observations have been collected from about 800 merchant vessels, and thus a large library of log-books and other statistical documents is now in existence at the Admiralty. The subtle agencies over which meteorology reigns have been tracked and seized upon with the utmost perseverance. The amount of fog is measured by the lighthouse-keepers round our shores. The direction of the wind is registered in many places by self-acting anemometers, and a few easy calculations show its force. The amount of dew is daily collected at our great observatories; the degrees of heat and cold carefully ascertained; the quantity of ozone in the atmosphere determined; electricity and magnetism duly taken into account.