WINDS OF THE WORLD


Every wind is, or ought to be, a poet; but one is classic and converts
everything in his day co-unity; another is a modern man, whose words
clothe his thoughts, as the modern critics used to say prettily in the
early sixties, and therefore are separable. This wind, again, has a
style, and that wind a mere manner. Nay, there are breezes from the east-
south-east, for example, that have hardly even a manner. You can hardly
name them unless you look at the weather vane. So they do not convince
you by voice or colour of breath; you place their origin and assign them
a history according as the hesitating arrow points on the top of yonder
ill-designed London spire.

The most certain and most conquering of all is the south-west wind. You
do not look to the weather-vane to decide what shall be the style of your
greeting to his morning. There is no arbitrary rule of courtesy between
you and him, and you need no arrow to point to his distinctions, and to
indicate to you the right manner of treating such a visitant.

He prepares the dawn. While it is still dark the air is warned of his
presence, and before the window was opened he was already in the room.
His sun--for the sun is his--rises in a south-west mood, with a bloom on
the blue, the grey, or the gold. When the south-west is cold, the cold
is his own cold--round, blunt, full, and gradual in its very strength. It
is a fresh cold, that comes with an approach, and does not challenge you
in the manner of an unauthorised stranger, but instantly gets your leave,
and even a welcome to your house of life. He follows your breath in at