anchored in the bay of Armiro, in the
Adriatic, was struck by lightning. Ionian-like, a
horseshoe was nailed to the mizen-mast; and
at the foot of this mast sat Antonio Teodoro,
patching his shirt. The lightning fell, and
the man was killed on the spot; killed
without wound or burning, only his needle
found stuck into his thigh, and down his
back a light black and blue mark, ending
in the figure of the horseshoe nailed to the
mast.

A brigantine belonging to a Doctor
Micalopulo was struck in the Zantian roads. Five
sailors were at the prow; two asleep, three
awake. The clothes of two of the men were
set on fire; a third lost every hair on his
body, save on his head; and a fourth was
killed as he lay sleeping. He was lying on
his back, and when stripped, they found on
his left side the number forty-four distinctly
marked,—a mark not there previously; and
which was of the size and likeness as the
same number in metal marked on the rigging
of the ship, and which the lightning had
touched in its course.

In the archives of the Académie des
Sciences for eighteen hundred and forty-
seven, where the preceding anecdote is also
preserved, it is related how a certain Dame
Morosa de Laguna was seated at her window
during a heavy storm. She felt a sudden
shock, as a flash more vivid than the rest
blinded her; but she soon recovered, and no
ill effect followed. The image of a flower,
which had been passed over by the electric
current, was perfectly and distinctly printed
on her leg; and she never lost the mark to
the last day of her life.

       SEA-BREEZES WITH THE LONDON
                          SMACK.

THROW up the window; come into the
balcony—here we are, my dear, at the
seaside.

Yes! we have actually got away from
town. I survey the ocean instead of the
opposite houses, I smell sea-weed and salt
water instead of smoke. Looking in the
glass, I see myself reflected in a costume
which would be the ruin of my character for
respectability if I wore it in my own street.
Turning affectionately towards my wife, I
behold a saucy-looking hat on her head
instead of her usual quiet bonnet. Thirty
years ago, when she was a young girl, the
hat would have set off her youth and beauty
becomingly. Now, it makes her look, singularly
enough, many years older than she
really is. I dare not acknowledge it to her,
I hardly venture to confess it to myself, but a
middle-aged woman in a girl's hat is scarcely
a less anomalous sight, to my eyes, than a
middle-aged woman would be in a girl's
short frock and frilled trousers. However,
as no Englishwoman appears to consider
herself too old for a hat at the sea-side—not, as I
observe in some instances, even when she
wears a wig—I have no right to remonstrate
with my wife, who is still on the right side of
fifty. Let us keep to our national peculiarities,
and let no antics in costume be too
ridiculous for us when we are away from
home.

Well, as I said before, we have actually
got away from town. What induces me to
repeat that extremely common-place phrase?
What sinister influence is making me begin
to doubt, in defiance of the view from the
window, in defiance of our conjugal change
of costume, in defiance of the salt-water
smell in my very nostrils, whether we have
absolutely left London behind us, after all?
Surely it must be the organ playing before
the next house? Yes! A London organ
has followed us to our refuge on the coast,
playing the well-known London tunes;
bringing us back by the force of the most
disagreeable of all its associations, to our
street at home. Can I order the dirty,
leering Italian vagabond to take himself out
of hearing? No; for here, at the sea-side, I
am not a housekeeper. The merciful consideration
of the English law for all men who live
by the perpetration of nuisances, necessarily
protects the organ and abandons me. There
was a case in point, the other day, in the
paper. A gentleman occupied in making
some elaborate calculations connected with
important public works, charges an organ-
grinder with interrupting his employment,
and with refusing to move out of hearing.
The magistrate looks at the Act, finds that
nobody but a housekeeper has any legal
right to protection from organs, ascertains
that the gentleman whose occupation has
been fatally interrupted is a lodger only,
and, as a matter of technical necessity,
dismisses the application. Evidently I can
hope for no chance of peace and quiet in my
new abode unless I can get my landlady to
complain for me. She has a family of eight
small children, and no one to look after them
but herself. Can I expect her to find time
to appeal to the local magistrate perpetually,
on my behalf, even supposing (which is not
at all probable) that the Police Act extends
to this place? Certainly not. This is a
pleasant prospect, if I look to the future.
I shall do better, however, if I occupy myself
with the present only, and make my escape
from those hateful London tunes which are
taking me back to town faster than the
express train itself brought me away from it.
Let me forget that I am a tax-paying citizen
who helps to support his country, and let me
leave the musical foreign invader who helps
to burden it, master of the field.

I take my hat and fly. I hurry down the
lane; through the short-cut at the back of the
stables; along the dusty little street where
the post-oflice is; round the corner by the
chemist's shop; past the blank wall with the
lettered board and plump pointing hand in