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.
[Picture: 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.
[Picture: 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.
[Picture: 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 Valabregue, 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
Valabregue, 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 Levees. 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."
[Picture: Mists in the Valley]