horn, which it does at no great distance from Randolph Bridge-the point, our readers may remember, at which we forsook for a while to return to him by and by," The BridgeDestroyer."

Such was-and is though much beauty for the present has disappeared-Relugas. On the evening of Monday the 3d, being roused while at dinner by alarming accounts of the rivers, the family took their way through the garden to their favourite Mill Island. Sir Thomas, anxious for the safety of a little rustic Doric temple, partly constructed of masonry, and partly of unpeeled spruce trees, that occupied an isolated rock above a broken cascade crossed by picturesque bridges, said to the gardener, 66 John, I fear our temple may be in some danger if this goes on.' -"Ou, sir, it's awa else," (already,) was John's reply-and looking upsays Sir Thomas, "The Divie appalled us!"

"It resembled the outlet to some great inland sea, that had suddenly broken from its bounds. It was already 8 or 10 feet higher than any one had ever seen it, and setting directly down against the sloping terrace under the offices, where we were standing, it washed up over the shrubs and strawberry-beds, with a strange and alarming flux and reflux, dashing out over the ground 10 or 15 yards at a time, -covering the knees of some of the party, standing, as they thought, far beyond its reach, and, retreating with a suction, which it required great exertion to resist. The whirlpool produced by the turn of the river, was in some places elevated 10 or 12 feet above other parts of it. The flood filled the whole space from the rocks of the right bank on the east, to the base of the wooded slope, forming the western boundary of the Mill Island, thus covering the whole of that beautiful spot, except where two rocky wooded knolls, and the Otter's Rock beyond them, appeared from its eastern side. The temple was indeed gone, as well as its bridges, and four other rustic bridges in the island. Already its tall ornamental trees had begun to yield, one by one, to the pressure and undermining of the water, and to the shocks they received from the beams of the Dunphail wooden bridges. The noise was a distinct combination of two kinds of sound; one, an uniformly continued roar, the other like rapidly repeated discharges of many cannons at once. 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

enormous stones which the stream was hurling over its uneven bed of rock. Above all this was heard the fiendlike shriek of the wind, yelling, as if the demon of desolation had been riding upon its blast. The leaves of the trees were stript off and whirled into the air, and their thick boughs and stems were bending and cracking beneath the tempest, and groan→→ ing like terrified creatures, impatient to escape from the coils of the watery ser pent."

How fared the beautiful and beloved Mill Island? All its magnificent trees were falling like grass beneath the mower's scythe. Numerous as they were, says the Baronet, feelingly, they were all individually well-known friends. Each as it fell gave one enormous plash on the surface-then a plunge-then the root appeared above water for a moment

then again all was submergedthen uprose the stem, disbranched and peeled and finally they either hurled round in the cauldron, or darted like arrows down the river.

How stood the bridge over the Divie to the north of the house? Here, the river, bounding out from the rocky glen behind the Doune, was fearful. The arch is 24 feet high, and its span from rock to rock, 60 feet. The flood filled more than two thirds of its height-yet all night the bridge stood fast-though the wide body of water which covered the Mill Island, and wrought such devastation there, had all to pass through that narrow chasm. All the servants who lived in the offices had sat up the whole night in dread of the building being carried away. Morning then came-and Sir Thomas thus describes the scene:

"I hurried out. But, prepared as my mind had been for a scene of devastation, how much did the reality exceed my worst anticipations! The Divie had apparently subsided, it is true, but it was more be cause it had widened and disencumbered its course, than from any actual diminu-. tion of its waters. The whole Mill Island was cleared completely of shrubs, trees, and soil, except the hard summit towards the Otter's Rock; and, instead of the space being filled with that wilderness of sweets into which the eye found difficulty in penetrating, one vast and powerful red coloured river, dividing itself into two

branches against the other rocks, flowed in large streams around it, without one single obstacle to its action; with less turmoil than before indeed, but with the terrible

majesty of a mighty conqueror sweeping sternly over the carnage of his recent victery. And well might the enemy triumph! For, besides the loss of the Mill Island, which I had looked for, the beautiful hanging bank, covered with majestic forest and ornamental trees, of all kinds, and of growth so fresh and vigorous, had vanished like the scenery of a dream, and, in its place, was the garden hedge, running for between 200 and 300 yards, along the brink of a red alluvial perpendicular precipice 50 feet high, with the broad remorseless flood, rolling at its base, eating into its foundation, and, every successive minute, bringing down masses of many cubic yards. And then, from time to time, some tall and graceful tree, on the brink of the fractured portions of the bank at either end, would slowly and magnificently bend its head, and launch into the foaming waves below. The whole scene had an air of unreality about it that bewildered the senses. It was like some of those wild melodramatic exhibitions, where nature's operations are outheroded by the mechanist of a theatre, and where mountains are thrown down by artificial storms."

The ruin here described was very much owing to the confinement of the Divie for a great way above the waterfall, and its bursting at once from the gorge below it, called Macrea's Loup, into the wider theatre of its havoc. The height of the flood at Macrae's Loup was no less than 40 feet above the ordinary level! The river from that spot towards the house and offices used to present one of the richest scenes imaginable. But when the water had ebbed away, nothing was to be seen but a dark ravine of sand and gravel, covered with huge rounded lumps of stone. The offices were within a yard of the crumbling precipice of earth! Though they stand if we rightly understand the Baronet-158 feet horizontal from what used to be the

water's edge! The quantity of gravel and stone, indeed, brought down by the Divie was far greater than by any other river. It used to be remarkable for the depth of its pools; but the flood completely obliterated them, and for many weeks afterwards a dog might have walked down its whole course from EdenVOL. XXVIII. NO. CLXIX.

killie Church to the Findhorn, without having occasion to swim one yard! The Swimming Pool at Relugas, was 16 feet deep. It has now 20 feet deep of gravel laid into it, and is converted into a shallow, the bottom of which is 4 feet higher than the former surface of the water!

A branch of the pleasure walks leads down the left bank of the Divie, as you enter the Relugas property from the Dunphail march, for more than two miles, to the point of its junction with the Findhorn. Sir Thomas having had lessons read to him by former floods, had conducted the line at an elevation thought by all to be above all danger.

"The rocks and recesses of the wooded banks, and the little grassy slopes, were covered in a wild way with many thousand shrubs, of all kinds, especially with laurels, rhododendrons, azaleas, lilacs, and a profusion of roses, which were thriving vigorously, and beginning to bear blos soms, whilst the rocks were covered with the different saxifrages, hung with all sorts of creepers, and enamelled with a variety of garden flowers, all growing artlessly, as if sown by the hand of Nature. The path was therefore considered to be not unworthy of the exquisite scenery through which it led. But the flood of the 3d and 4th of August left not one fragment of it remaining, from one end to the other. Not a tree, or shrub, or flower, or piece of soil, nay, or of moss or lichen, is to be seen beneath that boldly and sublimely sketched line of flood, that appears on either side, and from end to end of these rocks, like the awful handwriting of God on the wall."

The point of junction between the Divie and the Findhorn was terminated by a picturesque rock covered with trees, and rendered accessible by a rustic bridge. The waves, at this meeting of the waters, were terrific, tossing themselves 20 feet into the air, and throwing up the drift ́ trees, and other bodies, to a great height. The bridge and the trees on the rock were swept away, and not even a blade of grass or a tuft of moss left.

T

"The damage done at Relugas by the flood, is perhaps not more, in^actual-va-V lue, than L. 1200; yet, when the rocky defences all along this very small property are considered, even this sum is great. But the beauties of nature cannot be estimated in money; and although Relugas

L

place of Randolph Bridge, which was swept away, and that the span shall be 160 feet, which will form the grandest feature of one of the finest possible landscapes.

Hitherto we have seen the flood raging chiefly against plains, woods, rocks, and bridges-but now the Findhorn threatened and endangered human life, and his progress is contemplated with a far deeperwith a tragic interest. Terrific was the discharge of water, wreck, and stones that burst from the pass at the Craig of Coulternose, over the extensive plain of Forres, spreading devastation abroad on that rich and beautifully hedgerowed country. On Monday the 3d of August, Dr Brands of Forres, a gentleman, as it appears, of rare intrepidity, was professionally called to the western side of the river, which he forded on horseback. Before he had crossed the second branch of the stream, he saw the flood come 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. After dinner at Moy, he accompanied Mr Suter, the worthy dweller there, to several cottages, advising the inmates to leave them without delay, and come to Moy-a kind advice, which was taken by all except the family of one Kerr, who, trusting to their great distance from the river, somewhat obstinately refused to move. The house of Moy, by ten at night, was filled with men, women, and children, flying from the flood. "There's twa families yonder wholly surrounded," cried a voice," and as for poor Sandy Smith! Poor Funns! Naebody can ever houp till see him or his family again." This Sandy Smith was an active boatman, commonly called Whins, or, in the provincial pronunciation, Funns, from his residence on a piece of furzy pasture, at no great distance from the river. A far distant gleam of light came from his window." I have often heard of a ray of hope," said Mr Suter, "but this is the first time I ever experienced it in a literal sense." What too was to become of the Kerrs at Stripeside! Here we must record in our pages an incident most honourable to the humanity and courage of Mr Suter:

"But farther consideration for them was extinguished for a time, by the loud screams that proceeded from the gardener's wife and children near the offices at Moy. They hastened thither, and found the flood rushing strongly about the house. It was not yet too deep to wade, but the river was making rapid advances, whilst to be done. I will go myself and save the people were debating what was best

them!' cried Mr Suter. God forbid that ye sould risk yoursell alane, sir!' said an wi' ye. Come along then,madam,' said elderly woman standing by; ' I'll gang he, offering his arm to the old lady, whom he now recognised to be Widow Ross, his washerwoman, who had only a short time before escaped with her children, from her house at Stripeside, with the loss of every thing she had in this world. Come along! we shall try it at all events.' They entered the water, and, after three or four paces, it became deep. They had to pass through a gate, where the current was strong. 'No fear, widow!' said Mr Suter, lean more on my arm.' By this time they were up to the middle in water. Haud mair to that side, sir,' cried the widow, there's a deep well here, and we may fa' intil't.' They reached the cottage door. 'What's the meaning of this de

lay?' demanded Mr Suter. Come, young

fellow,' said he, addressing himself to the gardener's youngest son, and bending his body to receive him, leap upon my back.' The little urchin joyfully obeyed, and, in ten minutes, the whole family were saved."

The stormful blackness of the night made it impossible to assist either the Kerrs or Funns, but Mr Suter said, "Let candles be placed in all the windows of the house, that poor Whins, if yet in existence, may know that he is not forgotten amidst the horrors of this awful night. But, alas! his light no longer burns!" At daybreak Dr Brands hurried down to the offices, and ascended the tower to look out from the top. The prospect was awful-all the extensive plain of Forres being one wide-weltering flood, down to the expanding Frith and German Ocean. The houses of Stripeside were still standing; and he saw too 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. Mr Suter, about seven in the morning, went to his own offices, and there he found one of his servants, Alexander Kerr, son of the old

people in jeopardy in Stripeside, weeping in agony for the inevitable destruction of his parents. As Mr Suter was trying to comfort him, the whole gable end of old Kerr's dwelling gave way, and fell into the raging current. Dr Brands, who was looking intently the while through a telescope, observed a hand thrust through the thatch of the house-it worked busily, as if in despair of life-a head soon appeared-and then the whole body of old Kerr, who began drawing out his wife and niece. They all crawled along the roof, towards the northern chimney. As soon as they had left the roof it fell into the flood -Old Kerr letting himself drop from the thatch of the roof they had reached, 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 building, which was next to the spectators. The brave Dr Brands set off on horseback-and the lad Alexander also in another direction-to endeavour to find a boat. But after many narrow escapes from danger, intrepidly encountered, the Doctor was forced, without having attained his object, to return to Moy. At this time poor Funns, and his family, were thus situated,

"They were huddled together on a spot of ground a few feet square, some 40 or 50 yards below their inundated dwelling. 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 log, one child in her lap, and a girl of about 17, and a boy of about 12 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."

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At last a boat was seen launched from the garden at Earnhill, about a mile below:

"The young man who went in the direction of Kincorth, found that Mrs Crart

had already ordered out a pair of horses to convey the boat to the spot where it was committed to the waves; and it was im. mediately manned by Donald Munro, overseer to Mr Loudon at Earnhill, William, Smith, salmon-fisher, and Tom Fraser, floater, who nobly volunteered to proceed, in the first place, to the rescue of the family of a man named John Smith, who

were in the most perilous situation imaginable, 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 an in-. tervening wood hid it from their view. Again it was seen beyond, making, as it were, for Rodney's cottage, as they hoped with the intention of reaching Stripe. side. But in an instant it dashed into the main stream, and disappeared behind the wood with a velocity so fearful that they concluded its destruction certain. 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 only were visible above the water; so that, by means of the telescope, the gentlemen saw the poor inmates actually 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 mo ther, were safely landed,

"The boat was now again brought up by the Kincorth horses to a point near the bridge over the Moy Burn. There Donald Munro again sprang forward, and Sergeant John Grant, an old pensioner from Findhorn, with David Reat, from Kinteasock, and Robert Dallas, claimed the honour of the Stripeside adventure. After bringing the boat across the flooded bridge, they, with great difficulty, crossed the stream on the south side of it, and pull. ed along the road till the current became so strong that the people, who waded breast de p to meet them, were compelled to haul them up by means of ropes. There was one individual in that boat whose exertions, Mr Suter says, he can never forget. The others were sufficiently active, but he was both physically and morally more energetic than they, and his conduct was so conspicuous, as to call forth the frequent and united plaudits of all present. This was Donald Munro, who, from certain remarkable parts of his dress, was that day called Straw-Hat and Yellow-Waistcoat,-titles under which he gained so much honour, that he may well be proud of them for

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