effects of rain in mountainous districts—the district of moray—the great floods of 1829—commencement of the rain—the swollen rivers—disastrous effects of the flood—means adopted for the rescue of cottagers—kerr and his brave deliverers—rescue of funns and his family—floods of the rhone in 1840—overflowing of the mississippi.

It is well known that some years are wetter than others; but to persons living in tolerably flat countries an unusually wet season causes no great inconvenience. It interferes, it is true, with outdoor employments, but people seldom apprehend any danger from the long continuance of rain. It is not so, however, in hilly or mountainous regions; an unusual fall of rain swells the rivers to such an extent, that they often overflow their banks, and occasion much damage to the surrounding districts; or, where the river’s banks are defended on both sides by perpendicular rocks, the waters sometimes rise so fast as to attain a height of forty or fifty feet above their natural level, and from this height they pour with destructive violence over the face of the country. Such was the case in the great floods of Moray, which happened in the year 1829, of which the following is a brief abstract, derived chiefly from Sir Thomas Dick Lauder’s interesting volume on this subject, published soon after the calamity for the benefit of the sufferers.

The province of Moray, or Murray, is a large district in the north-east of Scotland, bounded by the Moray Frith on the north-east and north. The eastern half of the province is lower than the western; in which the mountains render the whole country characteristically highland. On the north is a long belt of lowlands, about 240 square miles in extent: this is greatly diversified with ridgy swells and low hilly ranges, lying parallel to the frith, and intersected by the rivers Ness, Nairn, Findhorn, Lossie, and Spey running across it to the sea. The grounds behind the lowlands appear, as seen from the coast, to be only a narrow ridge of bold alpine heights, rising like a rampart to guard the orchards, and woods, and fields: but these really form long and broad mountain masses, receding, in all the wildness and intricacy of highland arrangement, to a distant summit line. Some of the broad clifts and long narrow vales of these mountains form beautiful and romantic pictures; while many of their declivities are practicable to the plough or other instruments of cultivation; so that the bottoms and the reclaimed or reclaimable sides of the valleys are estimated to comprehend about one-third of the entire area. The lowlands of Moray have long been celebrated for mildness and luxuriousness of climate, and also for a certain dryness of atmosphere, which seems to have some intimate connexion with the mournful calamity about to be described. The high broad range of mountains on the south-west shelter the lowlands from the prevailing winds of the country, and exhaust many light vapours and thinly-charged clouds, which might otherwise produce gentle rains; but, for just the same reason, they powerfully attract whatever long broad streams of heavy clouds are sailing through the sky, and, among the gullies and the upland glens, amass their discharged contents with amazing rapidity, and in singular largeness of volume. The rivers of the country are, in consequence, peculiarly liable to become flooded. One general and tremendous outbreak, in 1829, “afforded an awful exhibition of the peculiarities of the climate, and will long be remembered, in connexion with the boasted luxuriousness of Moray, as an illustration of how chastisement and comfort are blended in a state of things which is benignly adjusted for the moral discipline of man, and the correction of moral evil.”

The heat in the province of Moray during the summer of 1829 was unusually great. In May the drought was so excessive, as to kill many of the recently planted shrubs and trees. As the season advanced, the variations in the barometer became so remarkable, that observers began to lose all confidence in this instrument.

The deluge of rain, which produced the flood of the 3d and 4th of August, fell chiefly on the Monadhlradh mountains, rising between the south-east part of Lochness and Kingussie, in Badenoch, and on that part of the Grampian range forming the somewhat independent groups of the Cairngorums. The westerly winds, which prevailed for some time previously, seem to have produced a gradual accumulation of vapour to the north of our island, and the column, being suddenly impelled by a strong north-easterly blast, was driven towards the south-west, its right flank almost sweeping the Caithness and Sutherland coasts, until rushing up and across the Moray Frith it was attracted by the lofty mountains just mentioned, and discharged in fearful torrents. There fell at a great distance from the mountains, within twenty-four hours, about one-sixth of the annual allowance of rain; on the mountains themselves the deluge that descended, must have been so enormous as to occasion surprise that a flood, even yet more tremendous in its magnitude and consequences, did not result from it.

The mouth of the Findhorn is described as the most important scene of action. The banks of this river are well defended by rocks on either side, and its whole course is distinguished by the most romantic scenery. At the part where it is crossed by the old military bridge of Dulsie, the scenery is of the wildest character. The flood was most tremendous at this bridge, for the water was so confined that it filled the smaller arch altogether, and rose in the great arch to within three feet of the key-stone, that is to say, forty feet above the usual level. This fine old bridge sustained but little damage, while many of the modern buildings were entirely swept away. At another part of the river, it is stated, as a curious illustration of the height to which the stream had risen, that a gardener waded into the water as it had begun to ebb on the haugh, and with his umbrella drove ashore and captured a fine salmon, at an elevation of fifty feet above the ordinary level of the Findhorn.

At Randolph’s bridge the opening expands as the rocks rise upwards, till the width is about seventy or eighty feet; yet, from the sudden turn of the river, as it enters this passage, the stream was so checked in its progress that the flood actually rose over the very top of the rocks, forty-six feet above the usual height, and inundated the level part that lies over them to the depth of four feet, making a total perpendicular rise at this point of not less than fifty feet.

The effects of the deluge of the 3d and 4th of August, remain on the Dorbach, in a bank one hundred feet high, which rose with slopes and terraces covered with birch and alder wood. The soil being naturally spongy imbibed so much rain, that it became overloaded, and a mass of about an acre in extent, with all its trees on it, gave way at once, threw itself headlong down, and bounded across the bed of the Dorbach, blocking up the waters, flooded and wide as they were at the time. A farmer, who witnessed this phenomenon, told Sir Thomas Dick Lauder that it fell “wi’ a sort o’ a dumb sound,” while astonished and confounded he remained gazing at it. The bottom of the valley is here some two hundred yards or more wide, and the flood nearly filled it. The stoppage was not so great, therefore, as altogether to arrest the progress of the stream; but this sudden obstacle created an accumulation of water behind it, which went on increasing for nearly an hour, till, becoming too powerful to be longer resisted, the enormous dam began to yield, and was swept off at once, and hurled onwards like a floating island. While the farmer stood lost in wonder to behold his farm thus sailing off to the ocean by acres at a time, another half acre, or more, was suddenly rent from its native hill, and descended at once, with a whole grove of trees on it, to the river, where it rested on its natural base. The flood immediately assailed this, and carried off the greater part of it piecemeal. At the time when Sir Thomas was writing, part of it remained with the trees growing on it in the upright position, after having travelled through a horizontal distance of sixty or seventy yards, with a perpendicular descent of not less than sixty feet.

The flood like—Brig of Bannock. (The dotted line shows the height gained by the flood above the usual level of the stream)

At Dunphail, the residence of Mr. Bruce was threatened by the flood, and that gentleman prevailed on his wife and daughter to quit the house and seek refuge on higher ground. Before quitting the place, their anxiety had been extremely excited for the fate of a favourite old pony, then at pasture in a broad green, and partially-wooded island, of some acres in extent. As the spot had never been flooded in the memory of man, no one thought of removing the pony until the wooden bridges having been washed away rendered it impossible to do so. When the embankment gave way, and the patches of green gradually diminished, Dobbin, now in his 27th year, and in shape something like a 74-gun ship cut down to a frigate, was seen galloping about in great alarm as the wreck of roots and trees floated past him, and as the last spot of grass disappeared he was given up for lost. At this moment he made a desperate effort to cross the stream under the house; the force of the current turned him head over heels, but he rose again with his head up the river; he made boldly up against it, but was again borne down and turned over: every one believed him lost, when rising once more and setting down the waste of water, he crossed both torrents, and landed safely on the opposite bank.

At night Mr. Bruce says there was something inexpressibly fearful and sublime in the roar of the torrent, which by this time filled the valley, the ceaseless plash of the rain, and the frequent and fitful gusts of the north wind that groaned among the woods. The river had now undermined the bank the house stood on, and this bank had already been carried away to within four paces of the foundation of the kitchen tower, and, as mass after mass fell with a thundering noise, some fine trees, which had stood for more than a century on the terrace above it, disappeared in the stream. The operations of the flood were only dimly discovered by throwing the faint light of lanterns over its waters, and its progress was judged of by marking certain intervals of what remained of the terrace. One by one these fell in, and at about eleven o’clock the river was still rising, and only a space of three yards remained about the house, which was now considered as lost. The furniture was ordered to be removed, and by means of carts and lanterns this was done without any loss. About one o’clock in the morning, the partial subsidence of the flood awakened a slight hope, but in an hour it rose again higher than before. The banks which supported the house were washed away, and the house itself seemed to be doomed, and the people were therefore sent out of it. But Providence ordered otherwise; about four o’clock the clouds appeared higher, the river began again to subside; by degrees a little sloping beach became visible towards the foot of the precipice; the flood ceased to undermine, and the house was saved.

But the ruin and devastation of the place were frightful to behold. The shrubbery, all along the river side, with its little hill and moss-house, had vanished; two stone and three wooden buildings were carried off; the beautiful fringe of wood on both sides of the river, with the ground it grew on, were washed to the ocean, together with all those sweet and pastoral projections of the fields which gave so peaceful and fertile a character to the valley; whilst the once green island, robbed of its groups of trees and furrowed by a dozen channels, was covered with large stones, gravel, and torn-up roots.

At another part of the same river (the Divie) Sir Thomas describes, from his own observations, the progress of the flood. The noise was a distinct combination of two kinds of sound: one, an uniform continued roar; the other, like rapidly repeated discharges of cannon. The first of these proceeded from the violence of the water; the other, which was heard through it, and as it were muffled by it, came from the numerous stones which the stream was hurling over its uneven bed of rock. Above all this was heard the shrieking of the wind. The leaves were stripped off the trees and whirled into the air, and their thick boughs and stems were bending and cracking beneath the tempest. The rain was descending in sheets, not in drops: and a peculiar lurid, bronze-like hue pervaded the whole face of nature. And now the magnificent trees were overthrown faster and faster, offering no more resistance than reeds before the mower’s scythe. Numerous as they were, they were all, individually, well-known friends. Each, as it fell, gave one enormous plash on the surface, then a plunge, the root upwards above water for a moment; again all was submerged—and then up rose the stem disbranched and peeled; after which, they either toiled round in the cauldron, or darted, like arrows, down the stream. “A chill ran through our hearts as we beheld how rapidly the ruin of our favourite and long-cherished spot was going on. But we remembered that the calamity came from the hand of God; and seeing that no human power could avail, we prepared ourselves to watch every circumstance of the spectacle.” In the morning the place was seen cleared completely of shrubs, trees, and soil; and the space so lately filled with a wilderness of verdure was now one vast and powerful red-coloured river.

On the left bank of the Findhorn the discharge of water, wreck, and stones that burst over the extensive plain of Forres, spreading devastation abroad on a rich and beautiful country, was truly terrific. On the 3d of August, Dr. Brands, of Forres, having occasion to go to the western side of the river, forded it on horseback, but ere he crossed the second branch of the stream, he saw the flood coming thundering down. His horse was caught by it; he was compelled to swim; and he had not long touched dry land ere the river had risen six feet. By the time he had reached Moy the river had branched out into numerous streams, and soon came rolling on in awful grandeur; the effect being greatly heightened by the contrary direction of the northerly wind, then blowing a gale. Many of the cottages occupied a low level, and the inhabitants were urged to quit them. Most of them did so; but some, trusting to their apparent distance from the river, refused to move.

About ten o’clock the river had risen and washed away several of the cottages; and on every side were heard reports of suffering cottagers, whose houses were surrounded by water. One of them was Sandy Smith, an active boatman, commonly called Whins, (or Funns, as it is pronounced,) from his residence on a piece of furzy pasture, at no great distance from the river. From the situation of his dwelling he was given up for lost; but for a long time the far-distant gleam of light that issued from his window showed that he yet lived.

The barns on the higher grounds accommodated many people; and large quantities of brose (broth) were made for the dripping and shivering wretches. Candles were placed in all the windows of the principal house (that of Mr. Suter) that poor Funns might see he was not forgotten. But, alas! his light no longer burns, and in the midst of the tempest and darkness, it was utterly vain to attempt to assist the distressed.

At daybreak the wide waste of waters was only bounded by the rising grounds on the south and west: whilst, towards the north and east, the watery world swept off, uninterruptedly, into the expanding Frith and the German Ocean. The embankments appeared to have everywhere given way; and the water that covered the fields, lately so beautiful with yellow wheat, green turnips, and other crops, rushed with so great impetuosity in certain directions, as to form numerous currents, setting furiously through the quieter parts of the inundation, and elevated several feet above it. As far as the eye could reach the brownish-yellow moving mass of water was covered with trees and wreck of every description, whirled along with a force that shivered many of them against unseen obstacles. There was a sublimity in the mighty power and deafening roar of waters, heightened by the livid hue of the clouds, the sheeting rain, the howling of the wind, the lowing of the cattle, and the screaming and wailing of the assembled people, that riveted the attention. In the distance could dimly be descried the far-off dwelling of poor Funns, its roof rising like a speck above the flood, that had evidently made a breach in one of its ends.

A family named Kerr, who had refused to quit their dwelling, were the objects of great anxiety. Their son, Alexander Kerr, had been watching all night, and in the morning was still gazing towards the spot in an agony of mind, and weeping for the apparently inevitable destruction of his parents. His master tried to comfort him; but even whilst he spoke, the whole gable of Kerr’s dwelling, which was the uppermost of three houses composing the row, gave way, and fell into the raging current. Dr. Brands, who was looking on intently at the time, with a telescope, observed a hand thrust through the thatch of the central house. It worked busily, as if in despair of life; a head soon appeared; and at last Kerr’s whole frame emerged on the roof, and he began to exert himself in drawing out his wife and niece. Clinging to one another, they crawled along the roof towards the northern chimney. The sight was torturing. Kerr, a little a-head of the others, was seen tearing off the thatch, as if trying to force an entrance through the roof, whilst the miserable women clung to the house-top, the blankets which they had used to shelter them almost torn from them by the violence of the hurricane; and the roof they had left yielding and tottering, fell into the sweeping flood. The thatch resisted all Kerr’s efforts; and he was now seen to let himself drop from the eaves on a small speck of ground higher than the rest, close to the foundation of the back wall of the buildings, which was next the spectators. There he finally succeeded in bringing down the women; and there he and they stood, without even room to move.

Perilous situation of Kerr and his family

Some people went on horseback to try to procure boats. They managed to get on some way by keeping the line of road. The water was so deep that the horses were frequently swimming; but at length the current became so strong that they were compelled to seek the rising grounds. Dr. Brands attempted to reach the bridge of Findhorn, in hopes of getting one of the fishermen’s cobbles. As he was approaching the bridge he learned that the last of the three arches had fallen the instant before; and when he got to the brink, the waters were sweeping on as if it had never been, making the rocks and houses vibrate with a distinct and tremulous motion. The current was playing principally against the southern approach of the bridge, and soon the usually dry arch, at its further end, burst with a loud report; its fragments, mixed with water, being blown into the air as if by gunpowder. The boats had all been swept away, and the fishermen’s houses were already one mass of ruin. The centre of the main stream was hurried on at an elevation many feet higher than the rest of the surrounding sea of waters; the mighty rush of which displayed its power in the ruin it occasioned. Magnificent trees, with all their branches, were dashing and rending against the rock, and the roaring and crashing sound that prevailed was absolutely deafening.

As there was no chance of getting a boat the Doctor returned with difficulty to the house, his mare swimming a great part of the way. On again looking through the telescope at poor Kerr and his family, they were seen huddled together on a spot of ground a few feet square, some forty or fifty yards below their inundated dwelling. [55] He was sometimes standing and sometimes sitting on a small cask, and, as the beholders fancied, watching with intense anxiety the progress of the flood, and trembling for every large tree that it brought sweeping past them. His wife, covered with a blanket, sat shivering on a bit of a log, one child in her lap, and a girl of about seventeen, and a boy of about twelve years of age, leaning against her side. A bottle and a glass on the ground near the man gave the spectators, as it had doubtless given him, some degree of comfort. Above a score of sheep were standing around, or wading, or swimming in the shallows. Three cows and a small horse picking at a broken rick of straw that seemed to be half afloat, were also grouped with the family. Dreading that they must all be swept off, if not soon relieved, the gentlemen hastened to the offices, and looked anxiously out from the top of the tower for a boat. At last they had the satisfaction to see one launched from the garden at Earnhill, about a mile below. The boat had been conveyed by a pair of horses, and had only just arrived. It was nobly manned by three volunteers, and they proceeded at once to the rescue of a family who were in a most perilous situation in the island opposite to Earnhill. The gentlemen on the tower watched the motions of this boat with the liveliest interest. They saw it tugging up till it was hid from them by the wood. Again it was seen beyond, and soon it dashed into the main stream and disappeared again behind the wood, with a velocity so fearful that they concluded it was lost. But in a moment it again showed itself, and the brave fellows were seen plying their oars across the submerged island of Earnhill, making for John Smith’s cottage; the thatch and a small part of the side walls of which were visible above the water. The poor inmates were dragged out of the windows from under the water, having been obliged to duck within ere they could effect their escape. The boat then swept down the stream towards a place called ‘The Lakes,’ where John Smith, his wife, and her mother were safely landed.

The boat was next conveyed by the horses to a point from which it was launched for the rescue of the Kerrs. Having pulled up as far as they could in the still water, they approached the desperate current, and fearlessly dashed into its tumultuous waves. For a moment the spectators were in the most anxious doubt as to the result; for, though none could pull a stronger oar, yet the boat in crossing a distance equal to its own length was swept down 200 yards. Ten yards more would have dashed them to atoms on the lower stone wall. But they were now in comparatively quiet water; and availing themselves of this, they pulled up again to the park, in the space between two currents, and passed, with a little less difficulty, though in the same manner, the second and third streams, and at length reached the houses. The spectators gave them three hearty cheers. By this time the Kerrs had been left scarcely three feet of ground to stand on, under the back wall of the houses. A pleasing sight it was to see the boat touch that tiny strand, and the despairing family taken on board. How anxiously did the spectators watch every motion of the little boat, that was now so crowded as very much to impede the rowers. They crossed the first two streams, and finally drew up for the last and dreadful trial. There the frail bark was again whirled down; and notwithstanding all their exertions, the stern just touched the wall. The prow however was in stiller water; one desperate pull,—she sprang forward in safety, and a few more strokes of the oar landed the poor people amongst fifty or sixty of their assembled friends. After mutual greetings and embraces, and many tears of gratitude, old Kerr related his simple story. “Seeing their retreat cut off by the flood, they attempted to wade ashore. But the nearer the shore, the deeper and more powerful was the current. The moment was awful. The torrent increased on all sides, and night, dark night, was spread over them. The stream began to be too deep for the niece, a girl of twelve years of age,—she lost heart and began to sink. At this alarming crisis Kerr seized the trembling girl, and placed her on his back, and shoulder to shoulder with his wife, he providentially, but with the greatest difficulty, regained his own house. Between eight and nine o’clock he groped his way, and led his wife and niece up into the garret. He could not tell how long they remained there, but supposed it might be till about two o’clock next morning, when the roof began to fail. To avoid being crushed to death, he worked anxiously till he drove down the partition separating them from the adjoining house. Fortunately for him it was composed of wood and clay, and a partial failure he found in it very much facilitated his operations. Having made their way good, they remained there till about eight o’clock in the morning, when the strength of the water without became so great that it bent inwards the bolt of the lock of the house-door, till it had no greater hold of the staple than the eighth-part of an inch. Aware, that if the door should give way the back wall of the house would be swept down by the rush of the water inwards, and that they would be crushed to atoms, he rummaged the garret and fortunately found a bit of board and a few nails; and standing on the stairs, he placed one end of it against the door and the other on the hatch, forming the entrance to the garret, and so nailed it firmly down. At last the roof of the second house began to crack over their heads, and Kerr forced a way for himself and his companions through the thatch as has been already told.”

Poor Funns and his family were not yet rescued from their little island; and the boat was declared to be too small and weak for so desperate a voyage. It was therefore determined to row to a spot where a larger boat was moored. To effect this, they were compelled to act precisely as they had done in proceeding to rescue the Kerrs. But unfortunately, on entering the third stream, they permitted the boat to glide down with it, in the hope that it would carry them in safety through the gate of the field, and across the road into that beyond it. In this, however, they were mistaken, and the boat was swamped. Fortunately for them, they were carried into smooth water, and by wading shoulder deep they reached the large boat.

Having secured the small boat, they attempted to drag the large one through the gateway against the stream; but it soon filled with water and swamped, and, in spite of all their exertions, they found it impossible to get it up. The small boat was now all they had to trust to, and this was next caught by the strong stream and overwhelmed in a moment; and had not the men, most providentially, caught and clung to a haycock that happened to be floating past, they must have been lost. They were carried along till it stuck on some young alder trees, when each of them grasped a bough, and the haycock sailed away, leaving them among the weak and brittle branches. They had been here about two hours, when one of the men being unable to hold on longer by the boughs, let himself gently down into the water with the hope of finding bottom; when, to his surprise, he found that the small boat had actually drifted to the root of the very tree to which they had been carried. Some salmon nets and ropes had also, by the strangest accident, been lodged there. The man contrived to pull up one of these with his foot, and making a noose, and slipping it on his great toe, he descended once more, and managed to fix the rope round the stern of the boat, which was then safely hauled up, the oars, being fixed to the side, being also saved. The boat was returned to Mr. Suter’s and fresh manned, when it proceeded to a house occupied by a family of the name of Cumin, consisting of an old couple, their daughter, and grandson. By the time they reached the cottage, its western side was entirely gone, and the boat was pushed in at the gap. Not a sound was heard within, and they suspected that all were drowned; but, on looking through a hole in a partition, they discovered the unhappy inmates roosted, like fowls, on the beams of the roof. They were, one by one, transferred safely to the boat, half dead with cold; and melancholy to relate, the old man’s mind, being too much enfeebled to withstand the agonizing apprehensions he had suffered, was now utterly deranged.

Rescuing cottagers

The poor Funns’ were still the last to be relieved. They and their cattle were clustered on their little speck of land; and the poor quadrupeds, being chilled by standing so long in the water, were continually pressing inwards on them. It was between six and seven o’clock, the weather was clearer, and the waters were subsiding. The task being the most difficult of all, none but the most skilful rowers were allowed to undertake it. One wide inundation stretched from Monro’s house to the tiny spot where Funns and his family were; and five tremendously tumultuous streams raged through it with elevated waves. The moment they dashed into the first of them they were whirled down for a great way; but having once got through it, they pulled up in the quieter water beyond, to prepare for the next; and in doing so, Sergeant Grant stood in the prow, and with a long rope, the end of which was fixed to the boat, and wherever he thought he had footing, he sprang out and dragged them up. The rest followed his example, and in this way they were enabled to start afresh with a sufficient advantage, and they crossed all the outer streams in the same manner. The last they encountered, being towards the middle of the flood, was fearful, and carried them very far down. But Funns himself, overjoyed to behold them, waded towards them, and gave them his best help to drag up the boat again. Glad was he to see his wife and children safely set in the boat. The perils of their return were not few; but they were at length happily landed.

These examples will suffice to show the nature and extent of the great floods of Moray. The inundation covered a space of something more than twenty miles in the Plain of Forres, and, as it was expressively remarked by one of the sufferers, “Before these floods was the Garden of Eden and behind them a desolate wilderness.” And how often did the beautiful expression of the Psalmist occur to them: “The floods have lifted up, O Lord, the floods have lifted up their voice; the floods lift up their waves. The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters; yea, than the mighty waves of the sea.” Ps. xciii. 3, 4.

But it is not in Scotland alone that the terrors of the floods are experienced. All rivers which rise in high and cold regions, and pass into warm lowlands, are naturally very liable to overflow their bounds. A remarkable example is afforded by the river Rhone, which rises in the glaciers of Switzerland; and, after passing through the lake of Geneva, descends into the south-eastern departments of France,—a very level district, where the climate is mild and genial. Rapid meltings of the ice in Switzerland, or heavy falls of rain or snow in that country, greatly affect this river; and never, perhaps, were the effects more dreadful than in the inundations of 1840. At Lyons, where the Rhone joins the Saone, the most lamentable scenes took place. Not only were the whole of the low-lying lands in the vicinity of the city completely desolated, hundreds of houses overturned, and many cattle swept away, but the waters reached the city itself, bursting into the gas conduits, and thus leaving the people in darkness, and rising to a great height in the streets. The destruction of property, both in-doors and out-of-doors, was immense, and the loss of life appalling. Charitable people and public servants went about in boats laden with provisions, which were sent, at the expense of the magistrates and clergy, to the starving families pent up in their several abodes, where many of them remained in total darkness by night, and under hourly expectation that the foundations of their houses would give way beneath the rushing waters. In fact, numbers of houses, and even whole streets, were in this way sapped and overturned. Some of the people had fled to the heights near the city, at the first rising of the waters, but there they were reduced to the greatest extremities for want of food, and signal shots were heard from them continually. This miserable state of things lasted from the beginning of November until the 20th or 21st of the same month. At the same time the Rhone appeared like a succession of immense lakes from Lyons to Avignon, and from Avignon to the sea. A letter from Nismes, a little to the west of Avignon, thus described the scene:—

“As far as the view extends we perceive but one sheet of water, in the midst of which appear the tops of trees and houses, with the miserable inhabitants perched upon them. At ValabrÈgue, an island on the Rhone, they have hung out a black banner from the church-yard, nearly two thousand persons being assembled in that spot, which is on an elevation. Steam-boats are attempting to carry bread to ValabrÈgue, and other similarly situated places, but can scarcely effect it from the inequality of the ground. For ten days the rains have never ceased. The space covered by the waters near Avignon is calculated at about thirty-six leagues in length and sixty leagues in breadth. Human bodies are seen passing continually on the waters.”

From the 10th to the 20th of November the Rhone fell several inches each day, but always rose again somewhat during the night. It began permanently to decline on the 20th, and in a few days the streets were exposed to view, with about a foot of mud on them. The loss of life and property, through this calamity, are almost incalculable.

A still grander display of the power and extent of inundations is afforded by the American rivers. The mighty waters of the Mississippi, (a river, whose course extends for several thousand miles,) when swelled, and overflowing their banks, present a wonderful spectacle. Unlike the mountain-torrents, and small rivers, of other parts of the world, the Mississippi rises slowly, continuing for several weeks to increase at the rate of about an inch in a day. When at its height, it undergoes little change for some days, and after this subsides as slowly as it rose. A flood generally lasts from four to six weeks, though it sometimes extends to two months. The American naturalist, Audubon, has given a striking account of the rush of waters overspreading the land when once this mighty river has begun to overflow its banks:—

“No sooner has the water reached the upper part of the banks, than it rushes out, and overspreads the whole of the neighbouring swamps, presenting an ocean overgrown with stupendous forest trees. So sudden is the calamity that every individual, whether man or beast, has to exert his utmost ingenuity to enable him to escape from the dreaded element. The Indian quickly removes to the hills of the interior, the cattle and game swim to the different strips of land that remain uncovered in the midst of the flood, or attempt to force their way through the waters until they perish from fatigue. Along the banks of the river the inhabitants have rafts ready-made, on which they remove themselves, their cattle, and their provisions, and which they then fasten with ropes or grape-vines to the larger trees, while they contemplate the melancholy spectacle presented by the current, as it carries off their houses and wood-yards piece by piece. Some, who have nothing to lose, and are usually known by the name of Squatters, take this opportunity of traversing the woods in canoes, for the purpose of procuring game, and particularly the skins of animals, such as the deer and bear, which may be converted into money. They resort to the low ridges surrounded by the waters, and destroy thousands of deer, merely for their skins, leaving the flesh to putrify.

“The river itself, rolling its swollen waters along, presents a spectacle of the most imposing nature. Although no large vessel, unless propelled by steam, can now make its way against the current, it is seen covered by boats laden with produce, which, running out from all the smaller streams, float silently towards the city of New Orleans, their owners, meanwhile, not very well assured of finding a landing-place even there. The water is covered with yellow foam and pumice, the latter having floated from the rocky mountains of the north-west. The eddies are larger and more powerful than ever. Here and there tracts of forest are observed undermined, the trees gradually giving way, and falling into the stream. Cattle, horses, bears, and deer are seen at times attempting to swim across the impetuous mass of foaming and boiling water; whilst, here and there, a vulture or an eagle is observed perched on a bloated carcass, tearing it up in pieces, as regardless of the flood, as on former occasions it would have been of the numerous sawyers and planters with which the surface of the river is covered when the water is low. Even the steamer is frequently distressed. The numberless trees and logs that float along, break its paddles, and retard its progress. Besides it is on such occasions difficult to procure fuel to maintain its fires.”

In certain parts, the shores of the Mississippi are protected by artificial barriers called LevÉes. In such places, during a flood, the whole population of the district is engaged in strengthening these barriers, each proprietor being in great alarm lest a crevasse should open and let in the waters upon his fields. In spite of all exertions this disaster generally happens: the torrent rushes impetuously over the plantations, and lays waste the most luxuriant crops.

The mighty changes effected by the inundations of the Mississippi are little known until the waters begin to subside. Large streams are then found to exist where none had formerly been. These are called by navigators short cuts, and some of them are so considerable as to interfere with the navigation of the Mississippi. Large sand-banks are also completely removed by the impetuous whirl of the waters, and are deposited in other places. Some appear quite new to the navigator, who has to mark their situation and bearings in his log-book. Trees on the margin of the river have either disappeared, or are tottering and bending over the stream preparatory to their fall. The earth is everywhere covered by a deep deposit of muddy loam, which, in drying, splits into deep and narrow chasms, forming a sort of network, from which, in warm weather, noxious exhalations rise, filling the atmosphere with a dense fog. The Squatter, shouldering his rifle, makes his way through the morass in search of his lost stock, to drive the survivors home and save the skins of the drowned. New fences have everywhere to be formed, and new houses erected; to save which from a like disaster, the settler places them on a raised platform, supported by pillars made of the trunks of trees. “The lands must be ploughed anew; and if the season is not too far advanced, a crop of corn and potatoes may yet be raised. But the rich prospects of the planter are blasted. The traveller is impeded in his journey, the creeks and smaller streams having broken up their banks in a degree proportionate to their size. A bank of sand, which seems firm and secure, suddenly gives way beneath the traveller’s horse, and the next moment the animal has sunk in the quicksand, either to the chest in front, or to the crupper behind, leaving its master in a situation not to be envied.”

Mists in the Valley