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British Loyalty to Weather
“The Gentler View,” Harper’s Weekly (December 16, 1911) : 32
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      A non-British mind is as struck by the British loyalty to the weather as the British mind is struck by the hourly changes in the weather. The absorption, the zest and fervor with which the weather is discussed in Great Britain is one of the phenomena that are forever astonishing visitors. It is as formidable as any other of the great bulwarks of the stalwart nation. A people which, after all these centuries, feels mentally nourished by hours of conversation on the weather is mysterious and awful in its strength. To be as invincible as that in the rudiments of life is to possess the secret of staving off the usually inevitable culmination and decline of power. Those writers who feel that effeteness is present in England are upset by the fact that effeteness is in no way discernible. There remains, along with the signs of her over-long prosperity, a ruddy, almost agricultural health and simplicity that is baffling. If she is declining she is doing it bucolically, with satisfied puffings about the appearance of the clouds. There remains, along with the signs of her over-long prosperity, a ruddy, almost agricultural health and simplicity that is baffling. If she is declining she is doing it bucolically, with satisfied puffings about the appearance of the clouds. The health and hope supposed to lie in content with simple things have been monopolized by Great Britain to such an extent that it is small wonder other nations have so little of them.
      In the beginning it was natural that the inhabitants of these islands should have been struck by the weather. They could hardly have been blamed for a feeling that discussion might lead to some sort of solution, but, the thing having continued all this time without showing any signs of abatement, one might have supposed a diminishing of interest to be only natural. It is precisely here that the marvel comes in. Families meeting together after long absences talk of the weather.
      It is searched out of the closed past of weeks ago and compared with the weather of preceding years. Mornings are contrasted with afternoons, and every one has theories as to what it intends being in the near future. There is the instinct to believe that it is only a certain circle of people who talk so, but this hope fades in one’s heart when everybody speaks of letters he has received from all parts of the country, apparently containing nothing but detailed news of the weather in separate localities. The British rise before one’s eyes as worshipers of weather. Why, as they have so much of it, can they not learn to take it for granted? Every one knows that it is a thing that goes on always. If it should stop, that would be the time for clatter. It does not, after all, affect anything but clothes and conversation, and surely the latter might be saved from contamination. But a large vocabulary of phrases has been invented for use on this one subject, and used it must be. But a large vocabulary of phrases has been invented for use on this one subject, and used it must be. Weather has its technical jargon like any other sport, and the British eye watches its every fluctuation with an avidity that is generally reserved for the figures on the stock-market tape or the revolutions of the roulette wheel. When weather is positively preferred to either of these, how can effeteness be so much as thought of?
      They say the rain is “going to take up.” This is a belief generally based on nothing at all, and contrary to past experience, but they continue to say “it will take up,” as though rain were an infinite number of tape measures dangling from an upper region where there was a vague intention of touching a spring that would cause them to curl up suddenly. Then another of their phrases is — said less seldom, generally before garden parties — “The weather is going to break down.” This is better. There is a plausibility about it, and it implies that the weather has been strained to her utmost by the recent effort at self-control and will shortly suffer complete prostration.
      They rush to the glass the first thing in the morning and tap it as though it contained an imprisoned spirit who fascinated them, and, in response to their taps, sent back non-committal but absorbing messages. They read the weather prophecies before the news in the morning paper, and explain that their weather is controlled by a system of pressure situated in the Atlantic Ocean and impossible of attainment by any other country. By a vicious circle that has been so long established as to be incurable, they, by their anxiety, work the weather into such state of nerves that from excessive distrust on the part of the people she is what she is. Hysterical is the word that comes nearest to expressing the English weather By a vicious circle that has been so long established as to be incurable, they, by their anxiety, work the weather into such state of nerves that from excessive distrust on the part of the people she is what she is. Hysterical is the word that comes nearest to expressing the English weather, which is brought about solely by vicious suggestion on the part of the English people. They never take a step without a serious discussion of the many probable things the weather may do, each of which will entirely change their plans. Every one has such varying and strong opinions regarding the climatic possibilities that the weather of necessity always breaks down from sheer inability to tell what the majority expect of her. When, if she had only been let alone and treated with some of the casualness that is shown toward matters of moment, she would gain a little of the hardiness of her fellow-countrymen.
      Yet, on the other hand — there is always another hand — the English are as insensible to their weather as they are to a vast number of other things. They talk of nothing else; but there is yet an artificiality about the conversation that denotes it to be a standardized topic. If genuine feeling and emotion are expressed regarding it by an outsider, they become suddenly touchy, and what seemed neutral ground on which differing temperaments could meet with perfect amiability is seen to be no better than a bank of bristling thistles. It is here that the rules of the weather game are seen more clearly. You may talk of it to the exclusion of everything else, you are regarded as difficult if you have an aversion to a certain amount of speech about it, and yet there are certain things you must never say about it, or, if you do, you must say them as though in spite of everything you would not exchange it for any other weather in the world, and you would defend it with your last breath.
 

8 August 2026