The sky is changed!  and such a change!  oh, night
Of storm and darkness! &c.

I once stayed a month at Lausanne, on purpose
to see a thunderstorm on Lake Léman, and
witnessed one that the inhabitants thought
very severe.  In comparison with others I had
seen, and may describe presently, I did not
think much of it, though it was certainly
exceedingly beautiful, the lightning flashing
continually, and the thunder very loud and
reverberating.  At Beveno, too, I saw a storm that
lighted up the Lago Maggiore, and the islands
thereon, and the heights behind the solitary inn
at which I had put up.

But those who really wish to witness the
grandest of all scenes in the world must journey
to the Himalaya Mountains—to Mussoorie,
especially—and behold the thunderstorm that
usually ushers in the rainy season—about the
middle of June, or early in July.    For some
days previously the weather, even in the
mountains, is intolerably hot, while from the plains
below you can see the steam and vapour rising
and mingling with the atmosphere.    Dehwah
Dhoon, too, is enveloped in mist.  It takes at
least three days for one of these storms to
gather the materials for its matchless strength.
On the evening of the first day you can descry,
at the setting of the sun, banks of dense, dark
clouds, which wall in the horizon; on the
second day, they are denser and higher; on
the third day, denser and higher still. The
battle generally begins in the plains.    You can
see from Mussoorie the lightning, and the hail,
and hear the distant thunder; while all around
you, on the mountains, is calm and still, and in
reserve—the sun sometimes shines while the
plains are wrapped in the storm.    Towards
night the Dhoon, seven miles distant, takes up
the strain, and becomes a perfect blaze of light,
while the mountains still hold their ordnance in
reserve.  Dense as is the rain and hail in the
Dhoon, the lightning shows the barracks, the
church, and the dwellings of the residents.   Ere
long there comes a flash of lightning, which is
instantly followed by a deafening clap of thunder,
which rolls and reverberates through the
innumerable deep valleys for several minutes. This
is soon followed by another flash, and another
roar even louder than the first, and before its
rolling is half completed, there comes another
and another, in rapid succession.  Farewell to
sleep, all you who wish to sleep on such a
night!   Now is the time to stand out in a
verandah and watch the progress of the storm.
The Dhoon—a plain twenty times the extent of
Domo d'Ossola—is lighted up by her own incessant
flashes; and so are the plains beyond the
pass which skirts the Dhoon; while all around
you, far and near, is one constant blaze of lurid
glare, which reveals to the eye every mountain
and valley, every rock and every tree thereon
or therein.

To me there is nothing more provoking than
to see persons, especially ladies (and sensible
women on all other points), in a state of intense
alarm during a thunderstorm.   They say they
cannot help it, and perhaps they cannot, because
they have never been educated to help it.    If
the truth were known they were, when little
children, just as frightened of a cold bath; but
they were dipped, nevertheless, and inured to it.
One lady will tell you that the thunder makes
her head ache; another that the lightning hurts
her eyes.    As children they were no doubt
alarmed by the report of a pistol, and cried
at the sight of the soap, so painful to the eyes.
Had they been inured to look at these storms
as soon as they could be made to understand
their use and admire their magnificence, the
case would be otherwise.

The Jews open all their doors and windows
during a thunderstorm.  This is in obedience
to a religious tenet: it is expected that the
Messiah will come.  There can be no question
that opening the doors and windows lets out
the foul air and admits the fresh; and this is a
matter of no small importance to persons who
value their health and comfort.  I am not aware
that the houses of the Jews, or the Jews who
reside in them, are struck by lightning oftener
than other people, or that they have any reason to
repent of their rational proceeding in this respect.

I was at a dinner-party a few weeks ago,
and, soon after the cloth was removed, the lightning
began to play, and thunder was heard in
the distance.  The lady of the house became
alarmed, and gave sundry orders to her servants.
The first was to pin a large cloak over the
mirror; the second, to remove the fire-irons;
the third, to close the shutters and draw the
curtains.    The atmosphere was unbearable, for
the day had been intensely warm, and I never
felt more rejoiced than when I took my departure.
Oh! what a luxury to get out into the street,
and enjoy the cool air!

If it be urged that "it is impossible to cure
nervous people of their fears," I admit it,
supposing those fears to have become rooted. But
the great point is to begin early, with boys and
girls.  Children may be taught not to fear
thunder and lightning, just as they are taught
not to fear the sea.  To neglect teaching them
is to exhibit an indifference to their happiness
in after life.

ALDERSHOTT TOWN AND CAMP.

WHATEVER Aldershott may have been in the
former history of its country, it is now a place
which the British soldier has thoroughly
taken by storm.  He has squatted (in obedience
to superior orders) upon its peat and sandy
common; he has pitched his white tents in
groups upon the scanty patches of grass, until
they look, in the distance, like conjurors' cups
arranged upon a green baize table; he has had
planted his long black rows of dwarfed wooden
huts down the gravelly slopes, like streets in the
early days of some English colonial settlement;
and he has had built a long and lofty range of
clean, new yellow-brick barracks which
overshadow the little mushroom town that has risen
up hurriedly to meet and trade with them.