THE EFFECTS OF LIGHTNING ON METALS, OBJECTS, HOUSES, ETC.
When lightning strikes the earth, it makes straight for metals. Their
perfect conducting powers place them in the first rank of conductors,
and the innumerable cases of lightning with which they are associated
have gained them a certain celebrity in the annals of thunder.
We know, indeed, the preference of the spark for metals; we know it
nurses a veritable passion for nails, wire, bell-pulls, that it dotes
on rain-spouts, leaden pipes, and telegraph wires, that it is very
feminine in its adoration of jewels, which it sublimates sometimes
with a truly fantastic dexterity.
Now and then lightning deviates from its path, and performs acrobatic
feats, elfin capers to reach the objects it covets. On April 24, 1842,
it struck the church of Brexton, springing on the cross of the steeple
at first and running down the stem, but, arrived at the masonry which
supported it, broke it into pieces; then with one bound it fell upon
a second conductor, whose support was also broken. Finally, it struck
a third conductor much lower down.
The fluid often searches for metals hidden beneath non-conductors,
which it breaks or pierces. It avoids the mattress to pursue the iron
of the bed, glances off the windows to glide over the curtain-rods, or
the lead of the sash. It has been seen to penetrate thick walls to
reach the iron safes hidden behind them.
We have already mentioned the case of the woman who, without having
been killed, had her ear-ring split. Well, we have a certain number of
similar examples to that.
On June 1, 1809, in a boarding-school for young ladies, at Bordeaux, a
gold chain, worn by one of the young ladies, was melted by the
lightning, which left a black indented line in its place, which,
however, soon passed off. The lady was struck, but recovered
consciousness within a few hours, being none the worse. Her slender
chain, worn in three rows round her neck, had been cut into five
pieces. Some of the fragments showed signs of fusion, and had been
carried to a distance.
Other examples, in which the consequences were more dramatic, will
show ladies the dangers of a love of adornment.
On September 21, 1901, during a violent thunderstorm which burst over
the region of Narbonne, a fireball fell in the domain of Castelou. A
young girl of fourteen was fatally struck by the meteor. The gold
chain which she wore round her throat was completely evaporated. There
was not a trace of it to be found.
It is not unusual to see gold chains broken, melted, partially or
completely, in the pocket which had held them.
Thus, lightning melted a watch and chain into a single lump in the
pocket of a man killed on board a passenger boat.
Bracelets, hairpins, and even precious stones are sometimes very
strangely altered.
As for watches, without speaking of the magnetization observed after a
violent electrical discharge, it has been remarked that the movement
became slower. In some cases they stopped short, and marked the exact
instant when the lightning stopped them.
When the ship _Eagle_ was struck by lightning, none of the passengers
were injured, but all their watches stopped at the moment the shock
took place.
At other times there are peculiarities in the works which are
absolutely inexplicable. The following observation, related by Biot,
is a curious case in point.
A young man was slightly struck by lightning in the street of
Grenelle-Saint-Germain. His watch was in no wise hurt outside, but,
although it was only a quarter-past eleven, the hands pointed to a
quarter to five.
Convinced that it was in need of repair, the young man placed it on
his table, intending to take it to the watchmaker; but next day,
thinking he would wind it up to make sure of the extent of the damage,
he saw, to his amazement, the hands moved and kept regular time.
In some instances the case of the watch is seriously injured, while
the works are none the worse.
A man wore a watch with a double cap attached to a gold chain. The
chain was broken, some of the links soldered together. The cap had
been perforated, and the gold spilt in his pocket. The watch itself
had not been altered.
But if lightning sometimes stops the works of watches, it also
produces the contrary effect.
Beyer relates that a flash of lightning, having entered a room and
broken the corner of a glass, set a watch going which had been stopped
for a long time.
I find the following note amongst my papers: "M. Coulvier-Gravier,
director of the meteoric observatory of the palace of Luxembourg, told
me yesterday that on Sunday, April 8, at 9.35 in the evening, a watch
(wound up), which had stopped a week previously, went on at the moment
lightning struck the lightning conductor on the Luxembourg above
these rooms."
Often enough the case is badly injured: the polish is rubbed off the
metal, it is melted, bored through, and even dented, without any trace
of fusion.
A case of the latter is rare. Here is an example, however.
In the month of June, 1853, a man from Aigremont having been killed by
lightning, his silver watch was found in his watch-pocket completely
smashed.
Indeed, one of the most common effects of lightning on watches is the
magnetization to which the various pieces of steel are subjected. We
have a considerable number of records concerning these magnetic
properties. In one case the balance had its poles so well pointed
that, when placed on a raft, it served as a compass.
We may observe, by the way, that clocks and chronometers are sometimes
as much injured also by the spark. It often gives an energetic twist
to the needles, or to the spring for regulating the strokes, or it
even melts the wheel-works, either partially or completely.
It is difficult to form any idea of the various operations of
lightning; here it hurls itself down like a fiery torrent, there it
makes itself so tiny that it can pass through the smallest apertures.
Does it not even slip under women's corsets, melting the busks and the
little knobs which serve to hook them.
It even attacks the various metal articles which set off our garments,
even to the shoe-buckles, buttons, etc.
Keys are, as a rule, very ill-treated by the fire of heaven: they are
twisted, flattened, melted or soldered to the ring from which they
hang.
On May 12, 1890, a man living at Troyes returned to his house while a
violent storm was raging. The moment he put his key into the lock, the
white gleam of a dazzling flash of lightning surrounded him, the ring
holding his keys was broken in his hand, and they were scattered on
the threshold.
At times, too, scissors, needles, etc., are snatched out of the hands
of the workers, and carried some distance off when they are not
reduced to vapour.
At Saint-Dizier (Haute-Marne) in July, 1886, lightning fell on the
workshop of M. Penon, a chain-maker. Five or six workmen were
finishing their work or getting ready to leave.
Entering by the window near which M. Penon--who was absent at the
time--usually worked, the fluid grazed the bellows which were
opposite, and caught up a piece of it, which one would have thought
was cut off with a knife. Turning to the left, and passing behind a
chain-maker, who felt a violent shock, it passed to a heap of chains
which it did not damage much. All the links in a chain of about a
metre long were, however, soldered together; the whole chain seemed
to be galvanized, and the soldering was not easily broken by hand.
Pieces of iron which had been cut and prepared for the manufacture,
were found twisted and soldered together in the same way. Finally the
lightning snatched the iron hoops from a tub, and, returning the same
way, broke a piece of wood from a board, so as to go through the lower
part of a partition, the masonry of which was carried away for a
length of fifty centimetres.
Very often lightning rivals the most skilful cabinet-makers: iron or
copper nails are pulled out of a piece of furniture with a most
amazing skill, without doing any harm to the material they kept in
place. Ordinarily they are thrown far away. Here are two examples of
this curious phenomenon:--
On September 23, 1824, lightning penetrated a house at Campbeltown;
the copper nails in the chairs were pulled out very precisely, without
the stuff being spoiled. Some were conveyed to the corner of a box
standing at the opposite end of the room, others were so solidly fixed
in the partitions, that it was only with great difficulty that they
were pulled out (Howar). At another time, close to Marseilles,
lightning slipped into a drawing-room, one might say, like a robber,
one evening, and pilfered all the nails out of a couch covered with
satin. Then it departed by the chimney through which it had entered.
As for the nails, they were found, two years afterwards, under a tile!
Locks, screws, door-knobs are frequently pulled out by the fluid.
Sometimes metal objects of much larger size, such as forks or
agricultural instruments, share the same fate. Violently torn out of
the hands of their owners, they start upon an aerial voyage, borne on
the incandescent wings of the wrathful lightning.
Workers in the fields have often been warned of the dangers to which
they expose themselves beneath a thundery sky, by carrying their
implements with the point in the air. Each year the same accidents
occur in precisely similar circumstances.
The electric fluid, invited by the metal point which acts like a
little lightning conductor, darts from the clouds upon this centre of
attraction, and runs into the ordinary reservoir by the intermedial
body of the man, who plays the _rôle_ of conductor.
Two labourers were spreading manure in a field, when a storm came on.
It was at the beginning of May, 1901. Obliged to give up work, they
were thinking of returning home. Each carried an American fork over
his shoulder. They had come within 150 metres of the village, when a
formidable burst of flame took place over their heads. Instantly the
two labourers fell, never to rise again.
In 1903 I made notes of several cases of this kind, from which I shall
quote the two following:--
On June 2, a labourer from the hamlet of Pair, commune of Taintrux
(Vosges), aged forty, was sharpening a scythe in an orchard close to
his house. Suddenly a terrific clap of thunder was heard, and the
unfortunate man fell down stone dead.
On the following day, in the same region, at Uzemain, not far from
Epinal, a young man, twenty-eight years of age, went to get grass in
the country. All at once he was struck by lightning, and his horse,
which he was holding by the bridle, as well. The poor fellow had been
guilty of the imprudence of putting his scythe on the cart with its
point in the air.
On May 27, in the Vosges, the lightning fell on a labourer, Cyrille
Bégin, who was driving a cart to which were yoked four horses. The
unhappy man was struck, as well as two of the horses.
Some authorities have attributed a doubly preservative influence to
umbrellas. The first is undoubtedly to shelter us from the rain; the
second, more doubtful, is the gift of preserving us to a certain
extent from the strokes of the terrible meteor. Silk, having the
property of a veritable repulsion to lightning, one might really
believe that umbrellas, whose covers are often made of this fabric,
are protectors against the fire of heaven. But the records which we
possess are not conclusive; if, now and then, the discharge becomes
distributed by means of the ribs, it also very often happens that it
runs along the metal parts of the handle to whatever pieces of metal
may be on the person, finally striking the soil through the human
body.
On July 13, 1884, in the province of Liége, a man and a woman
sheltering under the same umbrella were struck by lightning. The man
was killed instantly. His garments were in tatters, and the soles torn
from his shoes. His pipe was thrown twenty yards away, as well as the
artificial flowers in his companion's hat. The latter, who was
carrying the umbrella, was stunned.
At a season when, as a rule, thunder is not dreaded--December 9, 1884,
to wit--two men, who were walking on either side of a schoolboy
holding an umbrella, were killed by lightning. The child was merely
thrown down, and got off with a few trifling wounds.
In each of these cases, the person who carried the umbrella suffered
less from the electric discharge, but did not escape altogether,
nevertheless. It may be remarked, also, that the chief victims were
just under the points of the frame, and that in all probability the
electricity passed through these points.
The fusion of metals is one of the lightning's most ordinary
performances; it has occurred at times in considerable quantities.
On April 2, 1807, a fulminant discharge struck the windmill at Great
Marton, in Lancashire. A thick iron chain, used for hoisting up the
corn, must have been, if not actually melted, at any rate considerably
softened. Indeed, the links were dragged downwards by the weight of
the lower part, and meeting, became soldered in such a way that, after
the stroke of lightning, the chain was a veritable bar of iron.
How, one asks, can this truly formidable fusion take place during the
swift passage of the electric spark, which disappears, it may well be
said, "with lightning speed."
What magic force gives the fiery bolt from the sky the power to
transform the atmosphere into a veritable forge, in which kilos of
metal are melted in the thousandth part of a second!
Great leaden pipes melt like a lump of sugar in a glass of water,
letting the contents escape.
In Paris, June 19, 1903, lightning broke tempestuously into a kitchen,
and, melting the gaspipes, set fire to the place.
On another occasion, the meteor breaking into the workshop of a
locksmith, files and other tools hanging from a rack on the wall were
soldered to the nails with which the iron ferrules of their handles
came in contact, and were with difficulty pulled apart.
A house at Dorking, Sussex, received a visit from lightning on July
16, 1750. Nails, bolts, and divers small objects were soldered
together in groups of six, seven, eight, or ten, just as if they had
been thrown into a crucible.
"Money melts, leaving the purse uninjured," says Seneca. "The
sword-blade liquifies, while the scabbard remains intact. The iron in
the javelin runs down the handle, which is none the worse."
We could add other examples, quite as unheard of, as those enumerated
by the preceptor of Nero.
A hat-wire melted into nothing, though the paper in which it was
wrapped was not burnt.
Knives and forks were melted without the least injury being done to
the linen which enveloped them, by the presence of the fluid.
These proceedings give proof of exquisitely delicate feelings; it is a
pity the lightning does not always behave in the same way.
Wires, and particularly bell-wires, make the most agreeable playthings
for the lightning, judging from the frequency with which they are
struck.
Sometimes, in the middle of a fearful thunderstorm, the doorbell is
violently rung; the porter rushes to open the door for the impatient
visitor, only to receive a shock of lightning by way of salvo. The
mysterious hand which pulled the bell is already far away; but it has
left its impress on the bell, and the guiding ray follows the metal
wire in all its windings, passing through holes no bigger than the
head of a pin. The wires are often melted into globules, and scattered
around in all directions.
The Abbé Richard has seen globules from a bell-wire fall into coffee
cups, and become embedded in the porcelain, without the latter being
any the worse.
Metal wires supporting espaliers and vines are often compromising to
the safety of their neighbourhood, especially when they are against a
house.
Without renouncing the succulent peach, or the golden chasselas
grapes, propped on espaliers, we ought to see that they are so
arranged that they do not act as lightning-conductors to our
habitation.
In August, 1868, in a farm amongst the mountains near Lyons, lightning
fell at a distance of about fifteen metres from a dwelling where there
were four people; the meteor, conducted by the wire supporting a vine
on a trellis, followed it into the house, and knocked the four people
down.
One could almost believe that lightning takes a certain pleasure in
looking at its diaphanous and fugitive form in the mirrors hung as
ornaments in our drawing-rooms.
In 1889, a very coquettish flash of lightning rushed to a mirror,
breaking more than ten openings in the gilt frame. Then it evaporated
the gilding, spreading it over the surface of the glass, while on the
silvered back the evaporation of this latter metal produced the most
beautiful electric traceries.
Sometimes the tinfoil or pieces of melted glass are thrown to a great
distance; and at times the fusion of the glass is so complete that the
_débris_ hangs down like little stalactites.
As for the gilding of the frames, it is often carefully removed by the
lightning to a distance, and applied to the gilding of objects which
were never intended to receive this style of decoration.
It is just the same with the gilding on clocks, cornices, church
ornaments, etc.
There are innumerable examples coming under this category. Here are a
few:--
On March 15, at Naples, lightning flashed through the rooms of Lord
Tylney, who was holding a reception that evening. More than five
hundred were present; without any person being injured, the lightning
took the gilding clean off cornices, curtain-poles, couches, and
door-posts; then it shook its booty in a fine gold dust over the
guests and the floor.
On June 4, 1797, lightning struck the steeple of Philippshofen in
Bohemia, and went off with the gold of the clock, to gild the lead in
the chapel window.
In 1761, it went into the church of the Academical College in Vienna,
and took the gold from the cornice of one of the altar pillars to put
it on a silver vase.
It seems difficult for lightning to resist the attraction of gildings.
It was reported that when a house in the Rue Plumet in Paris was
struck in 1767, among several frames hanging in a room, the spark only
touched one which was gilt. None of the others were struck.
In spite of this extraordinarily independent behaviour, lightning has
not so much liberty of action as we might be tempted to believe; it
obeys certain laws which are not yet defined, and its gestures,
although apparently wild and capricious, are not the result of
fortuitous circumstances. To allude to it as chance may serve as a
refuge from ignorance, but it does not, any more than we can, explain
the extraordinary phenomena.
Why are certain organic or non-organic bodies visited repeatedly by
lightning? We need not have recourse to magic to explain.
It is simply because they serve as favourable conductors for the fluid.
One of the best-known examples of this kind is that of the church of
Antrasme. It was struck by lightning in 1752. It melted the gold of
the picture frames adorning the sanctuary, blackened the edges of the
niches in which the images stood, scorched the pewter vases enclosed in
a press in the sacristy; then, lastly, it made two very neat holes at
the end of a side chapel, by which it took its departure. The traces of
this disaster were removed with all haste, but twelve years later, on
June 20, 1764, the lightning returned to the charge. It penetrated the
church for the second time, but the most remarkable fact is, that it
worked havoc similar to that done on its first visit. Again the sacred
picture-frames were despoiled of their gilding, the niches of the
saints blackened, the pewter vases scorched, and the two holes in the
chapel reopened. What demon guided the lightning in these scenes of
pillage? The end of the story gives us the clue. Soon after the
catastrophe the use of the lightning-conductor became general
throughout the whole world. The church was put under the protection of
a rod of iron, after the principles of Franklin, and ever since
lightning allows the faithful to pray in peace within the sanctuary,
and has never returned to profane the church at Antrasme.
Such incidents are of fairly frequent occurrence; they give us a
chance of understanding the supposed preferences of lightning.
In the last chapter we shall see curious cases of "galvanoplasty," of
the nature of the following: amongst others, that of a piece of gold
in a purse, which was silvered over with silver taken out of another
part of the purse, through the leather of the compartment.
What a trick of prestidigitation! On our music-hall stages this turn
would have a great success.
But our last word has not been said about lightning. Just a few more.
One of the most curious effects produced on metals, is the magnetic
polarity communicated to objects in steel and iron, no matter what
they be. We have already quoted a remarkable case, that of the
ascending lightning.
A tailor was slightly touched by the spark; the day after the accident
he found his needles were magnetized: they clung closely to each other
as they were taken out of the case.
Another case of magnetization has been recorded, where certain
objects, which were struck by lightning, had power to raise three
times their own weight.
This magnetization is almost always temporary. Examples are known,
however, where objects preserved the magnetic powers that they
acquired in the moment of the shock. And one can understand the terror
inspired by lightning in uncultured minds, when, after the passing of
the meteor, they see common things suddenly animated by a fantastic
vitality, fine needles attract and raise very much larger bodies than
themselves, and impart a feverish agitation to any pieces of steel or
iron that may be placed near them.
What a lively impression these curious phenomena must have made on the
minds of men in the days when sorcery was in fashion, and when
lightning was, according to the belief then popular, at the service of
heaven and hell! But, nowadays, sorcery is fallen into disuse; the
magnetization of metal bodies, even when the result of lightning, is
something too well known to be attributed to any connection with
Satan.
And yet the gambols of electricity are truly extraordinary.
In the month of June, 1873, the electric fluid penetrated into a
butcher's shop, quite calmly followed the iron bars from which the
quarters of meat were hanging. From one of the hooks a whole ox was
suspended. All at once the skinned carcase was galvanized by the
electric current, and during several instants it was seen convulsed by
the most frightful contortions.
Again, on June 28, 1879, a concierge in the Avenue de Clichy was
sweeping his courtyard when the lightning broke at one metre above his
head. The poor man escaped with the fright. The fluid ran up the
leaden pipes and entered a room, where it broke the mirrors and a
clock, injured the ceiling, and got off by breaking the panes in the
window. On the upper storey it got into a lodging occupied by two old
women, where it caused the following damage: one of the women was
holding a bowl of milk, the bottom of the bowl was cracked and the
milk spilled on the floor; some money which was in a wooden bowl
disappeared and could not be found. The clock was stopped at half-past
six, the pendulum unhooked; and a hole made in a glass globe the size
of a five-shilling piece. Finally, a woman in bed on the same landing
saw the bed split in two by the lightning, which disappeared in the
wall. None of these persons were injured.
As a general rule, indeed, when lightning breaks into houses, although
it often does a great deal of harm, it almost always spares the people
who may be there. One is safer there than anywhere else.
Sometimes the walls are pierced or merely hollowed. This perforation
of the walls is one of the most common effects of the meteor on
buildings.
The thickness of the perforated walls is very variable.
At the Castle of Clermont, in Beauvaisis, there was a formidable old
wall, built in the time of the Romans, so tradition has it, which was
ten feet thick, and the cement was as hard as stone, so that it was
almost impossible to break it. "One day," says Nollet, "a flash of
lightning struck it, and instantly a hole, two feet deep and equally
wide, was made in it, the _débris_ being thrown more than fifty feet
away."
On June 17, 1883, at Louvemont (Haute-Marne), the wall of a bakehouse,
fifty-five centimetres wide, was broken in by lightning.
The church at Lugdivan was struck by lightning in 1761. Two furrows
like those made by a plough were to be seen on the wall.
One of the most dreadful acts of which lightning is capable is that of
hurling considerable masses of stone and rock, broken or intact, to
great distances. We have numerous examples of this terrible
phenomenon. Here are a few:--
On August 23, 1853, thunder burst over the belfry of Maison-Ponthieu.
The explosion scattered the slates and beams of the roof, and shot a
stone, measuring thirty-five centimetres, to a distance of twenty
metres. Rough stones, weighing more than forty pounds, were torn up
and thrown almost horizontally as far as an opposite wall thirty feet
away.
At Fuzie-en-Fetlar, in Scotland, towards the end of the eighteenth
century, lightning broke, in about two seconds at most, a mica-schist
rock of one hundred and fifty feet long, by ten broad, and in some
parts four feet thick; this it split into great pieces. One, measuring
twenty-six feet long by ten broad, and four in thickness, fell on the
ground twenty centimetres off. Enormous stones are thrown, at times,
in different directions.
In 1762 lightning struck the belfry of Breag Church in Cornwall, broke
the stone pinnacle of the edifice, and threw one of the stones,
weighing at least a hundred-weight and a half, on the roof of the
apsis, in a southerly direction, fifty-five metres away.
In a northerly direction another huge stone was found at 365 metres or
so from the belfry; and a third, still larger, to the south-east of
the church.
In certain cases the lightning unites a fantastic skill with this
excessive brutality. For instance, a wall has been removed intact
without being broken in any part. Here is a record of one such
extraordinary occurrence:--
On August 6, 1809, at Swinton, near Manchester, during a deluge of
rain, the lightning all at once filled a brick building, in which coal
was stored, full of pestilential, sulphureous vapour. Above it was a
cistern half full. Suddenly the edifice, the walls of which measured
thirty centimetres in thickness, were torn out of the ground, the
foundations being sixty centimetres deep, and was transported in an
upright position to a distance of ten metres.
The weight of this mass, so oddly and so rapidly moved by lightning,
was estimated at ten thousand kilograms.
In many cases, on the contrary, the subtle fluid has pulverized a
hard stone on the spot and reduced it to powder.
Tiles and slates are very often torn off the roofs: the lightning
makes them fly through the air. Sometimes it is content to perforate
them with a multitude of little holes.
As for chimneys, they are generally very ill-treated by the meteor.
The blows of which they are victims are to be accounted for easily,
for they offer perfect powers of conducting to the fulminant matter,
firstly, because of their prominence on the summit of the building,
especially when they are surmounted by a vane. Again, the flue is
often in cast-iron, and if it is bricked it is supported by bars of
iron. The surface of the interior is covered with a layer of soot, an
excellent conductor, and a stove-pipe often opens into it. Then, too,
the hearth and its surroundings are more or less made of metal.
Finally, the column of smoke and of hot, damp air rising into the air,
shows the lightning the way.
The latter often accepts this invitation, and very frequently gets
into a house by the chimney, where everything seems ready for its
reception.
Rafters and doors are sometimes bored through with one or two holes by
the spark, and split or furrowed more or less deeply. A curious fact
is that it is rare to find the slightest trace of combustion round
them.
In the month of August, 1887, lightning struck the belfry of the
church at Abrest (Allier), carrying off part of the roof.
It destroyed the walls of the porch, and in both sides of the swing
doors bored two holes, each as big as a pigeon's egg, and as
symmetrically as if they had been made by the hand of man.
The cleavage of beams is amongst the most extraordinary injuries to be
observed on woodwork. Lightning works with wrought wood just as it
does when the tree is in full sap: it reduces it to rags, and follows
the direction of the fibres.
With what crimes lightning is charged! When it is a question of
robbing a house, it spares nothing in its way.
The window-panes fly in pieces, and sometimes are thrown a long way
off. Often they are melted and disappear totally.
In July, 1783, at Campo Sampiero Castello (Padua), lightning struck a
building full of hay; the windows had glass in them, and the panes
were melted _without the hay catching fire_!
A still more astonishing phenomenon is that of the total disappearance
of the glass panes, observed at the Castle of Upsal, on August 24,
1760. Lightning visited this edifice and then took flight, carrying
off sixteen panes out of a window. Not the smallest fragment of them
was ever found.
Perhaps, as often happens, terrific heat was generated, and the glass
evaporated.
If we follow the track of lightning through rooms, very singular
effects may be seen on the furniture. Chests of drawers and wardrobes
are gutted, and the contents pulled out and strewn about the room. In
the middle of August, 1887, a house at Francines, near Limoges, was
struck by lightning. It fell in a room where the master of the house
was in bed. He felt a terrific shock, and saw his eiderdown pierced
through and through by the perfidious fluid, and a chest of drawers
with all its contents broken. Continuing on its way, the lightning
demolished the door and entered another room.
A man who was asleep in it was killed. His wife by his side and his
little girl felt nothing, but _a pillow on which one of them had her
head was thrown to a distance_. Finally, the meteor went through the
floor, broke a large clock on the ground floor, setting fire to
everything on its way.
On June 1, 1903, a fulminant ray fell on the church of
Cussy-la-Colonne (Côte d'Or). To start, it turned the clock tower
upside down, broke a clock, then opened a cupboard in the sacristy in
which there were various articles, and broke them all.
In April, 1886, lightning did great damage in the church at Montredon
(Tarn). It demolished the steeple to an extent of three metres,
several bells, and carried the enormous iron bar which supported them
a long way off. The roof of the church was burst in and the tiles were
pulverized in several places by the falling masonry. In the interior a
bench was broken, an image of Christ reduced to powder, and a metal
image of St. Peter twisted.
We may remark, by the way, that churches are very often struck by
lightning, doubtless owing to the height of the steeple above the
edifice.
We have innumerable notes about ruined steeples, turrets knocked off,
the plundering of priestly objects. Sculptures and pictures adorning
the sanctuary are often destroyed, and the altar itself shattered.
Cases of priests struck while officiating are not uncommon. As for the
faithful killed while at church, they may be counted by the hundred.
Without wishing to call lightning a miscreant or an infidel, one is
obliged to confess it fails in respect for holy places.
However, the quips and cranks of lightning observed in dwellings are
no less varied and curious.
Here are some remarkable accounts:--
One night during a terrible thunderstorm, lightning came down the
chimney of a room where two people were asleep. The husband awoke with
a start and, believing the house to be on fire, groped his way to the
mantelpiece to get a candle, but was stopped by a heap of rubbish.
Everything, in fact, of which the chimney had once consisted was
heaped up in the middle of the room. The mantelshelf, violently torn
off, had been partly melted, the clock had had the door of the case
pulled off, and all the window-panes were broken. On the lower storey,
another clock was similarly demolished, the floor was torn up and the
tiles thrown with such force against the ceiling that there were
splinters sticking all over it.
In the month of April, 1866, at Bure (Luxembourg), the thunder, which
had been rumbling for some time, suddenly crashed down all at once
about midnight with the most appalling violence, so that the ground
seemed to tremble and the houses rock on their foundations.
All the inhabitants, aroused in terror; instinctively several of them
sprang out of bed, thinking that their dwellings must be annihilated.
Every one had the presentiment of disaster, which was only too real:
the fluid had just struck the house of a poor workman, and left a
scene of frightful destruction behind it.
The roof had been carried off, the chimney destroyed, the windows
reduced, so to speak, to atoms, the principal door smashed and hurled
to a distance; of the furniture there was nothing left but shapeless
wreckage. But what was most extraordinary is, that this catastrophe
only cost the life of one person, while all that were in the house
might well have been killed.
Three children, sleeping in an upper storey, found themselves thrown
outside the house without knowing how they got there, but _safe and
sound_, though the bed was broken to pieces. The father and mother
were asleep on the ground floor, with two little children, one of whom
was at the breast. This latter was flung out of his cradle and thrown
against the wall, without being hurt.
At this moment the mother sprang out of bed to succour those dear to
her, but while the poor woman was in the act of lighting a candle, the
lightning struck her lifeless on the floor. The husband, who was in
the bed with another child, only felt a severe shaking. The lightning,
having accomplished its work of destruction, finally broke an opening
in the lower part of the wall, went into the stable adjoining the
house, and there killed the only cow that was in it.
In the month of August, 1868, at Liége, Rue du Calvaire, at the point
where the mountain of St. Laurent is highest, lightning first of all
struck two earthenware chimney-pots which were higher than the roofs.
One of these pots was thrown to the ground and broken, the other
disappeared. Then the electric spark ripped off a great part of the
roof. All the tiles were scattered round the house. A young servant
slept in a garret under the roof; the lightning penetrated into the
garret through a little hole in the wall just above the head of the
maid's bed; the latter was flung into the middle of the room without
the slightest bruise, though the wood of the bed was bored through in
two places.
From there, the spark going through the wall again, went down to the
ground floor, following the gutter pipe, which it broke. It re-entered
the house by making a little hole in the wall, pulled off the plaster
which was round two nails holding up a mirror, broke part of the
frame; again left the room, entered a little room adjoining where six
people were sleeping--the father, the mother, and four young children;
pierced the wall to enter a locksmith's, scattered all the tools, tore
out a drawer, broke it into a thousand pieces, and threw the contents
on the floor, broke all the panes of glass; again went through the
wall, went to a hutch with a rabbit in it, killed the animal, and at
last went into the garden, where it dug a double trench several feet
long.
The house was occupied by two families of ten persons, none of whom
were struck. Terrified by the report they rose instantly; the smell of
smoke filling all the rooms told them of the danger they had just
escaped.
On another occasion one sees the woodwork of the chimney burnt, as
well as a press, a looking-glass, and a clock badly injured by the
lightning; which before retiring, and by way of being a good joke,
turns a felt hat upside down, and unscrews the andirons.
Examples of this kind are very numerous. We constantly speak of the
caprices of the lightning, but what name could one give to anything so
burlesque or incomprehensible as the following:--
In the month of July, 1896, lightning fell in the village of Boulens,
on a cottage almost covered with thatch. Entering through the chimney,
which it destroyed, it first threw down a rack, pulling out the hinge
which held it up, and making in the place of the said hinge a hole
right through the wall. Afterwards it lifted a pot and the lid from
the hearth over to the middle of the floor, tearing up some tiles as
it went. It broke the latch of the hall door, as well as the key which
was in the lock; this latter was found afterwards in a wooden shoe
which was under the sideboard. Two canes that were beside the
mantelpiece, were laid on the said mantelpiece as if placed there by
hand.
A meat chopper and a copper basin used for ladling water out of a
pail, and attached to either end of the stove, were likewise thrown
into the middle of the room. But the oddest part was that these two
articles were fastened together, the twine which served to hang up the
chopper being rolled round the handle of the basin. Finally, the
flash divided, and zigzagged off, one part carrying off a piece of the
oak jamb of the hall door, the other part piercing a hole above the
stove in a mud wall. Through this it threw fragments of laths and
mortar into a window eleven metres off, near which two people were
sleeping.
This little dance, in which so many and various articles took part,
does not lack piquancy!
This is how lightning joins in the National Fête of France!
On July 14, 1884, in the village of Tourettes (Vaucluse), lightning
struck a house, carrying off a corner of the roof. It knocked off the
lower part of the roof, and broke through a wall at least fifty
centimetres thick.
In a press built half into the wall, and in which there were about
fifteen bottles containing various kinds of liqueur, only one bottle
of spirits was broken, and this was done in such a manner that no
trace could ever be found either of the glass or the liquid.
From thence it sprang to the pictures hanging above the head of a
little girl of five, who was sound asleep. Three pictures were torn
from their frames, engravings and mirrors were ground to powder, but
the child was not hurt. Then the electric current made an opening in
the ceiling, which was about forty-five centimetres thick, broke a
great many tiles as it left the house, but soon returned by way of
the chimney, three parts of which it demolished. Then it explored the
kitchen on the ground floor, where there were three men by a fire.
One, standing up, was thrown violently against the opposite wall;
another was hurled against the door; the third, seated, was raised
from his chair to a height of at least fifty centimetres, and then
dropped. To crown all, the spark tore away half the butt-end of a gun,
and carried it into the next room, where there were eleven people who
got off with nothing worse than the fright. Then going up the chimney,
it exploded at a height of 1·50 metre, throwing bits of plaster and of
the pothanger in all directions.
What frantic and almost childlike fury!
Yet somewhere else the very brother of this ray may caress the little
head of a sleeping child, and not do it the slightest harm; may scoop
a hole in the little cot, and then depart quietly without giving any
further cause for talk. Or this same lightning, terrible and
ungovernable at times, will snatch something out of a person's hand
with so much dexterity, one might almost say delicacy, that one would
hardly dare to reproach him with his lack of ceremony.
At Perpignan on August 31, 1895, lightning fell on the mountains of
Nyer, near Olette. Twenty-five out of a flock of sheep were struck.
The shepherd was enveloped by a flash, yet escaped, but the knife he
was holding in his hand disappeared--and likewise his dog.
Another time it fell on a house at Beaumont (Puy-de-Dôme), flashed
through every part of it, blew up the stone staircase, and did
considerable damage. It grazed a woman who was sitting with a cup in
her hand, but she was not hurt, though the cup was rudely torn out of
her hands.
In July, 1886, a labourer was in the act of mowing, when lightning
coming on unawares, stole his scythe and threw it 10 metres away. The
man was not in the least hurt.
The following example is truly amazing from this point of view.
A woman was busy milking a cow, when suddenly she saw a tongue of fire
shoot into the stable and round it, pass between a cow and the wall at
a place where there was not more than 30 or 35 centimetres of space,
and finally go out of the door without leaving any marks, or hurting
any living thing.
Very often lightning contents itself with making a frightful hubbub,
and breaking any china or glass it may come across.
In July, 1886, thunder burst over a house at Langres. It was at
breakfast-time. The fluid came down the chimney, which it swept
thoroughly, came near the table, ran between the legs of an astounded
guest, and then knocked a hole as big as a shilling in the neck of a
bottle which was being filled at the pump. Then it took itself off to
the courtyard, which it swept clean, and disappeared without hurting
any of the witnesses of this strange phenomenon.
On August 3, 1898, two women were in the dining-room of their house at
Confolens, when lightning broke a pane of glass in the window, and
passing within a few metres of them, went through the kitchen, and
disappeared through the wall, after having broken several cooking
utensils and the mantelpiece into atoms.
At Port-de-Bouc, on August 21, 1900, lightning struck the custom
house, went into the room of one of the officials, and cut clean in
two a china vase, which was on the mantelpiece, without separating the
pieces.
Several days later, on August 26, the mysterious fluid came to disturb
the peaceful repast of two honest labourers. Having taken refuge from
the storm in a hut, they had set out their provisions for breakfast.
All at once the thunderstorm burst into the humble dining-room,
snatched up the bread, cheese, etc., overturned the bottles and other
articles, covered everything with straw, as if by a violent gust of
wind. The labourers felt nothing but stupefaction.
Was not it a veritable farce?
In another place it bursts open a cupboard, throwing the door away,
and damaging the crockery in the most systematic fashion: it breaks
the first plate, leaves the second intact, cracks the next, spares the
fourth, and so on to the bottom of the pile. Then its task finished,
it becomes quite diminutive, like some little gnome out of a fairy
story, and flees through the keyhole, but without making the key
spring out of the lock.
On August 19, 1866, at Chaumont, lightning, having played havoc in a
house in various ways, espied a pile of plates in a cupboard, china
and earthenware plates being mixed, it broke all the china ones,
leaving the others untouched.
Why this preference? The lightning does not explain. It is for us to
find out.
On May 31, 1903, at Tillieu-sous-Aire (Eure), during a thunderstorm, a
number of china plates were filled with a kind of sticky water. The
earthenware plates beside them were not even wet. I received a little
flask of this water sent me by the parish priest, but analysis
revealed nothing unusual.
The following case gives a formal denial to the ancient prejudice
which attributes a cabalistic influence to the number thirteen.
There were thirteen people in the dining-room of a house at Langonar
while the thunder rumbled outside. Suddenly a flash of lightning
struck a plate in the middle of the table, threw dishes, glasses,
plates, knives, and forks in all directions--in a word, cleared the
table, not forgetting the tablecloth.
None of the thirteen guests were touched.
It sometimes happens, indeed, that glasses or bottles are altogether
or partly melted. Boyle gives a very curious instance of the kind.
Two large drinking glasses were side by side on a table. They were
exactly alike. Lightning seemed to pass between them, yet neither was
broken; one was slightly distorted, however, and the other so much
bent by an instantaneous softening that it could hardly stand.
When firearms are struck by lightning, their injuries are often of the
most varied kind. Sometimes the wood, particularly of the butt-end, is
split, or broken to pieces, the metal parts torn out, or thrown right
away.
On July 27, 1721, the meteor struck a sentry-box at Fort Nicolai,
Breslau, and pierced the top to get at the sentry and his gun. The
barrel was blackened; the butt-end broken and thrown to a distance.
The shot had been discharged and pierced the roof of the sentry-box.
The man got off with a few scratches.
However, firearms when carried by men appear to attract the lightning.
Soldiers are often enough struck when in the exercise of their
calling, when they are carrying arms.
But, curiously enough, many cases are known in which lightning has
struck a loaded gun, melting the bullet and part of the barrel,
without setting fire to the powder.
Thus, at Prefling, lightning penetrated the room of a gamekeeper, yet
none of the many firearms hanging up went off. The wall was damaged
between each rifle. One was standing in a corner of the room; the wall
was injured on a level with the lower end, and above it a hole was to
be seen in the woodwork.
On June 1, 1761, near Nimburg, lightning burst into the house of a
horse-keeper, where it struck a loaded carbine leaning against a wall
on the ground floor. The muzzle was slightly melted by the spark,
which ran along the barrel to the trigger, and which it soldered
together in parts. There were five bullets melted and soldered
together in the magazine and the wads much scorched. However,
incredible as it may seem, there was no explosion.
In another case the lightning went the whole length of a rifle, both
inside and outside, leaving a direct line of fusion, and yet,
incredible though it may seem, no shot was fired though the fusion
reached the powder.
These phenomena appear quite extraordinary, and altogether
incompatible with the usual theory of the combustibleness of
gunpowder. To what cause can the invulnerability of the explosive
matter be due?
Doubtless to the quickness of the lightning, which does not leave the
powder time enough to ignite.
Powder magazines are frequently struck by lightning, and this subject
is one of very great interest; they are not always blown up, in spite
of the vast quantities of explosive materials which they contain.
Here are some examples which go to prove this statement:--
On November 5, 1755, lightning fell near Rouen on the Maromme powder
magazine, and split one of the beams of the roof. Two barrels of
powder were reduced to atoms without exploding. The magazine contained
eight hundred of these barrels.
Can it be that man's thunder can repulse that of Jupiter?
Not always, as numerous examples prove the contrary. The following
observations are extracted from a collection of similar facts:--
Lightning struck the tower of St. Nazaire, Brecia, on August 18, 1769.
It stood above an underground magazine containing a million
kilogrammes of powder belonging to the Republic of Venice. The whole
edifice was blown up, the stones falling in showers. Part of the town
was thrown down; three thousand people perishing.
At four o'clock in the afternoon of October 6, 1856, lightning
penetrated the vaults of the church of St Jean, at Rhodes, setting
fire to an enormous quantity of powder. Four or five thousand people
lost their lives in the catastrophe.
The power of lightning is immeasurable. Well, it sometimes enjoys
itself after the following manner:--
In 1899 it lit a candle which had just been put out. The person who
held it was not struck, but the shock sent him to sleep for four days;
then he awoke, only to go mad, and then slept for seven consecutive
days.
At Harbourg it put out all the lights at a ball; the room was plunged
in darkness, and filled with thick and fetid vapour.
Many a time, too, has a fire, burning brightly in a grate, been
suddenly extinguished by lightning; and the same thing has happened
with pottery and tile-making furnaces. As a rule, it is extremely
difficult to re-light candles or fires thus extinguished. In some
instances it takes on itself to light the gas.
On August 3, 1876, near the Observatory in Paris, Rue Leclerc, towards
the corner of the Boulevard Saint Jacques, a gas jet was lit by
lightning. The latter was twenty centimetres from a long gutter, and
was in the gap, so to speak, of an electric circuit formed by it and
the damp wall communicating with the ground. A violent explosion took
place at the moment the gas caught alight, the gas meter, on the wall
two metres above it, was dislodged, when a second explosion was heard.
The thunderclap was truly terrific, and immediately followed the
lightning flash. The chronometer in the meteorological bureau in the
Observatory was stopped suddenly. The keeper of the square of the
Luxembourg saw a ball of red fire explode with great violence, and
scatter in all directions. The plate belonging to the Pères was,
according to M. de Fonvielle, broken to a thousand pieces, and the
outer part of an iron bar was volatilized. There were no deaths or
injuries to record, although several people were thrown down by the
shock.
Sometimes great disasters are indirectly caused by lightning. Thus in
July, 1903, it set fire to an old house at Muda, Paluzzo. Under other
circumstances, the accident might have been insignificant. But, fanned
by a violent wind, the flames increased, and, approaching nearer and
nearer, burned a hundred houses, or in other words, the whole village.
A similar catastrophe took place at the village of Ochres, in
Dauphine, on August 27, 1900. Lightning set fire to twenty thatched
cottages, which, out of thirty-two composing the village, were in
ashes within less than an hour. Three persons were burnt alive, and
four others seriously injured.
On August 25, 1881, lightning struck the village of Saint Innocent, at
three o'clock in the morning. Seven houses were totally burnt, and
three women perished in the flames.
A fire caused by lightning burst out on June 24, 1872, at Perrigny,
near Pontailler (Côte d'Or). Seventeen houses were burnt, and
seventy-eight people found themselves homeless. Sometimes these
disasters attain terrifying proportions.
During an awful thunderstorm, the electric spark set fire to eighteen
parishes in Belgium; ruin spread over an area of 160 kilometres.
But could anything be more dreadful than the fate of certain ships
that have been struck by lightning?
Here is the case of one which was literally cut in two.
On August 3, 1862, the ship _Moses_, on her passage from Ibraila to
Queenstown, was overtaken in sight of Malta by a violent thunderstorm.
Towards midnight lightning struck the mainmast, and then downwards
along it to the hold, cutting the vessel in two. She filled
immediately. Crew and passengers were lost. Captain Pearson was on the
bridge, and had just time to catch a floating spar, which supported
him during seventeen hours. The ship sank in three minutes.
At the commencement of last century, the ship _Royal Charlotte_ being
in Diamond Harbour, on the Hoogley, was struck by lightning and blown
into a thousand pieces, through the explosion of her powder magazine.
The report was heard a great distance off, and the shock was felt for
miles around.
The form and position of the masts exposes them particularly to the
attacks of the dread meteor. Several examples are known of sailors
being struck by the electric current while aloft in the rigging, and
even being thrown from there into the sea.
On August 26, 1900, the steamer _Numidie_, sailing from Bone, was
struck by lightning. The fluid fell on the mizzen-mast, and went down
the standing jib, to which the second officer was clinging. The
unfortunate man had had both his hands paralyzed and fallen; but if he
had fallen on the outside of the draille, death would have been
inevitable.
The _Rodney_ was under weigh before Syracuse when it was struck. This
was on December 7, 1838. The top-gallant-mast went first; it weighed
eight hundred pounds, and such was the violence of the stroke that it
was instantly reduced to shavings, which hung the whole length of the
vessel, like rubbish in a carpenter's shop. The topmast was very much
damaged and shattered here and there. As for the mainmast, with its
ironwork weighing more than a ton, it was wrecked for a length of some
seventeen metres.
At times the masts are split from top to bottom, broken or cut
transversely in fragments, and flung to a distance. Sometimes they
are planed, like the beams and trees of which we have already spoken.
The _Blake_ was struck by lightning in 1812. The top-gallant-mast was
in green pine, which was split into long fibres in every direction,
like branches of a tree.
It is not unusual for lightning to creep into the heart of a mast and
do it all kinds of injuries, without in any way hurting the outside;
in a word, there may be single or double furrows, longitudinal or
zigzag, sometimes curved, and of varying depth. Sometimes also, the
electric current, far more powerful than the blast of the wind, seizes
the rigging and carries it off. This phenomenon was observed on the
_Clenker_, December 31, 1828; the topmast and sails were torn off and
thrown into the water. Neither are the sails spared by the terrible
meteor; they are torn, riddled with holes, or set on fire. But as a
rule the yards are spared.
One of the most frightful effects of thunder on ships is fire, which
it drives from one part of the vessel to another. Under ordinary
circumstances it is usually local, and easily extinguished; but when
it seizes on various parts of the ship at once, as when struck by
lightning, then destruction becomes inevitable.
In 1793 the _King George_ from Bombay was sailing up the river at
Canton, when an electric spark, followed by a violent clap of thunder,
grazed the mizzen-mast, and disappeared in the hold, after killing
seven men. Seven hours later it was discovered with consternation that
the hold, full of an inflammable cargo, was on fire. It spread rapidly
over the whole ship, which it burned to the water's edge.
The ship _Bayfield_ from Liverpool was struck by lightning November
25, 1845. Instantly the deck was seen covered with globes of fire and
large sparks, which set fire to the vessel. As it threatened the
powder-magazine, the captain decided to abandon the ship. A rush was
made for the boats, but as only thirty pounds of bread could be saved,
many perished of hunger and thirst.
Often, indeed, the explosion of the powder-magazine makes the
catastrophe even more terrible. Thus, in 1798, the English vessel the
_Resistance_, was blown up in the Straits of Malacca. Only two or
three of the crew were saved.
But lightning plays more tricks with the compass than with anything
else when it visits a ship. The vibrating, quivering, magnetic needle
is often paralyzed by the electric current; sometimes its poles are
reversed, or the points, disturbed by the passage of the spark,
deviate, and no longer responding to the magnetic pole, mislead and
move hither and thither.
Sometimes they even lose all their magnetic properties.
These changes in the compass often lead to disastrous consequences.
Many cases are known of ships being steered to destruction through the
deviation of the compass. Arago tells of a Genoese ship which, about
the year 1808, sailing for Marseilles, was struck a little way off
Algiers. The needles of the compasses all made half a revolution,
although the instruments did not appear to be injured, and the vessel
was wrecked on the coast when the pilot believed he could round the
cape to the north. This may account for the total disappearance of
certain ships.
Some ships, like certain individuals and certain trees, appear in
particular to attract the electric fluid. We have many records of
vessels struck several times in the course of a single electric storm.
Here are a few:--
On August 1, 1750, the _Malacca_ was struck repeatedly.
In 1848, the _Competitor_ was struck twice within an hour.
At the beginning of December, 1770, between Mahon and Malta, the ship
of a Russian admiral was struck three times in a single night.
On January 5, 1830, in the Straits of Corfu, the _Madagascar_ received
five destructive discharges in two hours.
We could add many others to this list. But enough. And yet we have
not said the last word on the subject. We have to discuss the
interchange of sympathetic currents, and those which are the reverse,
taking place between the electricity of the skies and that of the
telegraph.
Lightning often comes incognito to visit the earth's surface, or even
the depths of the ocean. These little excursions to our terrestrial
dominions usually pass unperceived; however, in certain cases the
telegraph wires commit the indiscretion of revealing them.
On the other hand, we know that the wires entrusted with carrying our
thoughts round the world, are almost inconceivably sensitive. Without
being conscious of the fact, they are in correspondence with the sun,
149 millions of kilometres away, and any agitation on the surface of
this luminary may cause them indescribable agitation, as we witnessed
at the close of the year 1903.
During the formidable magnetic tempest of the 31st October,
telegraphic and telephonic communication were interrupted in many
parts of the world. In fact, the phenomenon was observed all over the
surface of the globe. From nine o'clock in the morning, till four in
the afternoon, the old world and the new were strangers to one
another. Not a word nor a thought crossed the ocean; the submarine
cables were paralyzed on account of solar disturbances. In France,
communication between the principal towns and the frontiers was
interrupted. During this time the sun was in a condition of violent
agitation, and its surface vibrated with intense heat. In such times
the subtle fluid profits by the confusion to glide noiselessly along
the paths which are open to it. But he does not always wait for these
favourable opportunities.
Let a thunder-cloud pass over the telegraph wires, either noiselessly
or hurling petards in all directions, the line will be affected. The
fluid imprisoned in the sky will act by induction on the electricity
of the wires which will result in the vibration of the latter,
accompanied sometimes by a flash of lightning. These phenomena may
cause grave accidents to the telegraph clerks, unless they are on
their guard against the treachery of the lightning. These mute
discharges happen frequently, but the spark strikes the telegraph
wires often, too, as well as the apparatus in the office. All sorts of
accidents result from these repeated attacks.
We know, for instance, how the birds fall victims to the lightning
when they alight on the telegraph wires after a thunderstorm; they are
often found dead hanging by their claws.
But the fluid acts on man also, through the medium of the wires.
Thus, on April 13, 1863, a telegraph clerk was engaged with several
other employees repairing some telegraph wires in the station at
Pontarlier, when all at once they felt, at the knee-joints more
particularly, a violent shock which made them bend their legs as if
they had been struck with a stick; one of them was even thrown down.
No doubt the fluid reached the wires, which in those remote parts was
in charge of the clerks.
On September 8, 1848, during a violent thunderstorm, two telegraph
poles were thrown down at Zara in Dalmatia. Two hours later, as they
were being set up again, a couple of artillerymen, having seized the
wire, felt slight electric shocks, then suddenly found themselves flat
on the ground. Both had their hands burnt; one indeed, gave no sign of
life; the other, in trying to raise himself up, fell back as soon as
his arm came in contact with that of one of his comrades, who ran to
his assistance on hearing him cry for help. The latter thrown down in
turn, felt his nerves tingle, and giddiness seize him, with singing in
his ears. When his arm was uncovered, there was a superficial burn
just on the spot where he had been touched.
On May 9, 1867, lightning fell on the road from Bastogne to Houffalize
(Luxembourg), attracted by the telegraph wire, which it destroyed for
about a kilometre. At a certain part, and over a length of about
twenty metres, the wire was cut in small pieces, three or four
centimetres long, which were scattered over the ground, and were as
black and as fragile as charcoal. The poles which supported them, and
several poplars planted on the same side of the road, were more or
less damaged.
It has been observed that trees planted on the same side as a
telegraph line were sometimes blasted on a level with the wires. It is
the same with houses near the copper threads along which human
thoughts take wing. Thus, at Chateauneuf-Martignes, on August 25,
1900, lightning destroyed the telegraph poles on the outskirts of the
railway-station. A severe shock, like an electrical discharge, was
felt at the same moment by two people who were in bed, not far from
where the wire was fixed in the wall of the house, which was a very
low one. The same phenomenon had been felt there already.
In the railway-stations, as well as in the telegraph and telephone
offices, curious results of the spark passing at a certain distance,
or even in the immediate neighbourhood, are sometimes observed.
On May 17, 1852, towards five o'clock, the sky looking overcast, the
station-master at Havre warned his colleague at Beuzeville that it
would be well to put his apparatus in connection with the ground.
Beuzeville is twenty-five kilometres away from Havre, and at the
former station the weather then did not look at all threatening. But
clouds soon piled up, driven before a violent wind. Suddenly three
awful peals of thunder succeeded each other in quick succession. With
the last, lightning struck a farm about a kilometre from the station,
and at the same moment a globe of fire of a reddish brown, and
apparently about the size of a small bomb-shell, rose as if out of a
clump of trees. It glided through the air like an aerolite, and
leaving behind it a train of light. At a hundred metres or so from the
station, it alighted like a bird on the telegraph wires, then
disappeared with the rapidity of lightning, leaving no trace of its
passage, either on the wires or the station. But at Beuzeville several
interesting phenomena were observed. Firstly, the needles turned
rapidly, with a grating noise like that of a turnspit suddenly running
down, or like a grindstone sharpening iron, which emits sparks. A
great number, indeed, flew out of the apparatus. One of the needles,
that on the Rouen side, went out of order; all the screws on that part
of the instrument were unscrewed, and on the copper dial near the axis
of the needle, there was a hole through which one could pass a grain
of corn.
The instruments at Havre were unaffected. The needle remained as
usual, also the dial, screws, and so on.
One of our correspondents has sent me the following very interesting
communication:--
"On June 26, 1901, having rung up at the central telephone-office at
St. Pierre, Martinique, a harsh noise was heard, which was almost
immediately succeeded by the appearance of a ball of fire, having an
apparent diameter of twenty centimetres, and the brilliancy of an
electric light of twenty candle power. This voluminous globe followed
the telephone wire towards the instrument. Arrived near the receiver,
it burst with a terrific explosion. The witness of this phenomenon
felt a severe shock, and dizziness. Recovered from his stupefaction,
he noted the following facts: the telephone apparatus was completely
burnt, the relay of Morse's installation was slightly damaged. The
electrical tension must have been enormous, for the wire of the
bobbins was, to a great extent, melted."
This latter effect, however, occurs very frequently. Not only does the
lightning melt and break the telegraph wires, but it injures the poles
which support them.
These are sometimes broken, split, thrown down, burst, or splintered,
sometimes into threads or shavings. Poles which have been blasted are
often to be seen alternating with others which are uninjured. Thus, on
the line from Philadelphia to New York, during a great storm, every
alternate pole up to eight was broken or thrown down; the odd numbers
were uninjured. We have mentioned a similar case already.
There are several accounts, too, of lightning in pursuit of trains.
On June 1, 1903, travellers by train from Carhaix to Morlaix, between
Sorignac and Le Cloistre, saw lightning follow the train over a course
of six kilometres, breaking or splitting several telegraph poles.
This feat has been observed more than once. The train is escorted by
lightning flashes which succeed each other almost without cessation,
and the travellers seem to be whirled through an ocean of flame.
Lightning rarely strikes the carriages; only on one occasion did it
actually wreck one, by breaking a wheel. The mutilated coach, however,
continued to hobble along until the injury was discovered.
Generally the fluid is content to wander about the rails, to the great
terror of the passengers who witness this display of rather alarming
magic. It spreads itself over masses of iron, as for instance the
roofs and balconies in Paris, without striking any particular point.
The danger would be greater to a cyclist on a road. In the suburbs of
Brussels, on July 2, 1904, a cyclist named Jean Ollivier, aged
twenty-one years, was riding during a violent storm, when suddenly he
was struck and killed on the spot.
We shall end this description of the whims and caprices of lightning
by a notice of the blasting of a German military balloon. It
happened in June, 1902. The aeronaut, whose car was steered by a
sub-lieutenant, was held captive, and soared at a height of about 500
metres above the fortifications at Lechfeld, near Ingolstadt. All at
once the aerial skiff was touched by an electric spark, caught fire,
and began to descend, slowly at first, then swiftly. The aeronaut had
the good luck to get off with a broken thigh. The five assistants, who
worked the windlass and the telephone, also received shocks
transmitted through the metal wires of the cable. They fell
unconscious, but were quickly restored. This phenomenon, which is
excessively rare, fittingly closes this odd collection of stories,
fantastically illustrated by lightning.
A communication from Berlin also mentions that the captive balloon of
the battalion of aeronauts was struck by lightning on the exercise
ground at Senne. Two under-officers and a private were wounded by the
explosion.