The Altyre Gardens—Home Interests—Our Mother’s Death—Early
Influences—The Moray Floods.
“In the silence of my chamber,
When the night is still and deep,
And the drowsy heave of ocean
Mutters in its charmèd sleep,
Oft I hear the angel voices
That have thrilled me long ago:
Voices of my lost companions
Rise around me soft and low.
“Oh, the garden I remember,
In the gay and sunny spring,
When our laughter made the thickets
And the arching alleys ring!
· · · · ·
Oh! the radiant light that girdled
Field and forest, land and sea,
When we all were young together
And the earth was new to me.”
(From “The Buried Flower” in _Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers_ by
PROFESSOR AYTOUN.)
On my birth (26th May 1837), within six hours of that interesting event,
I was sent to Moy to the care of my father’s four unmarried sisters
(generally known as “the Moy Aunts”), because scarlet fever reigned at
Altyre; my brother Walter Frederick and my sister Constance had just
died of it, and Eleanora lay in imminent danger, so a carriage was in
readiness to take away the precious baby and her wet-nurse as quickly as
possible. Thus my travels began early, though thirty years were to
elapse ere opportunity offered for going further afield than Great
Britain. It was to the death of this brother and sister that I owe my
name, CONSTANCE FREDERICA; but though my mother wished to keep both
names, she shrank from using either, and so took the sound of the end of
the second name, and called me EKA, the only name by which I have ever
been known in my own family. It was not till school days that the more
dignified Constance came into use.
My memories of the next five years are necessarily very limited. I
recollect my mother’s glorious masses of hair falling in clustering
ringlets far below her waist. I remember her lovely songs and her joy in
the great beautiful gardens of her own creation, and those stands of
“dusty millers”—large very varied auriculas—which were the gardener’s
special pride, and above all, the greenhouse on one side of the house,
which was the very first greenhouse in Morayshire. Among its delights
was a fragrant mimosa-tree covered with sweet yellow blossom, and a
large white jessamine with shining leaves, clustering round upper
windows, which, looking into the greenhouse, had the full benefit of all
its sweetness.
How she joyed in every new variety of favourite flowers, the splendid
fuchsias, the large blue aquilegia (Brodie Columbine), and the bright
blue salvias, whose store of honey too often proved as irresistible to
her naughty child as to her friends, the bumble bees—a friendship shared
with the fat, ugly toads which the gardeners cherished.
To my mother the staff of under-gardeners were not merely “hands.” She
took the keenest interest in providing them with all the best books on
botany and horticulture, and many successful gardeners scattered over
the world owed their start in life to her encouragement. A conspicuous
example was that of Jamie Sinclair, who, during the Crimean War from
1854 to 1856, was found in charge of Prince Worenzow’s beautiful
gardens, and who rejoiced to tell the British officers of his start from
the Altyre gardens.
I find an interesting reference to him, and to my mother’s care for her
employés, in a paper in _The Cottage Gardener_ (dated about 1856), by
Mr. D. Beaton, head gardener to Sir W. Middleton at Shrubland Park. He
tells how he himself had his earliest training in the gardens at
Beaufort Castle, whence he passed to Altyre. “The collection of plants
there,” he says, “was immense, and I was at the head of them in less
than a twelvemonth. I had access to all the books and periodicals on
gardening.
“Here I first began crossing, budding plants, and bulbs, three favourite
pursuits with Lady Gordon-Cumming, who after many years sent seeds of
her crossed rhododendrons to Shrubland Park at my instance.”
I have a letter to my mother from her second daughter, Ida, telling as a
great secret of her hopes and persevering efforts to obtain a blue
geranium by crossing the wild crane’s bill with a very pure white
pelargonium. The result, however, is not recorded.
Mr. Beaton goes on to say: “The great African lionhunter, Sir William’s
second son, was then learning his lessons in books and horsemanship; he
was the handsomest boy in all Scotland, and so fond of fun and dancing,
that we could have a ball and supper any night in the year, through his
influence with ‘Mamma.’ Jamie Sinclair, the garden-boy, was a natural
genius, and played the violin. Lady Gordon-Cumming had this boy educated
by the family tutor, and sent him to London, where he became well known
for his skill in drawing and colouring.
“Mr. Knight, of the Exotic Nursery, for whom he used to draw orchids and
new plants, sent him to the Crimea to Prince Worenzow, where he
practised for thirteen years. He laid out those beautiful gardens which
the Allies so much admired; had the care of a thousand acres of
vineyards belonging to the Prince; was well known to the Czar, who often
consulted him about improvements, and who gave him a ‘medal of merit’
and a diploma, or kind of passport, by which he was free to pass from
one end of the Empire to the other, and also through Austria and
Prussia. He was the only foreigner who was ever allowed to see all that
was done in and out of Sebastopol and over all the Crimea.”
Throughout her brief, bright life, my mother’s influence was always
exerted for good, as beseemed one who was a reverent student of the Holy
Scriptures. She and most of her sisters were keenly interested in the
subject of prophecy, and eagerly studied every new book that appeared
thereon. Both she and my father were careful to train their children in
reverent love for the “Holy Book,” and in the practice of learning by
heart at least one verse every day. I think the very first which I thus
learnt was the Psalm from which, at the beginning of these “Memories,” I
have quoted a verse in the past tense, which sixty-five years ago she
taught me in the future tense.
When her favourite son, Roualeyn, on his deathbed, surprised us all by
his knowledge of the Holy Scriptures, he told us that through all his
stormy life he had never been parted from the Old Book given him by his
mother, so that his mind was like a well-built fire, ready to respond to
the Divine spark, which at last kindled it so effectually.
Natural as was the worship with which her sons regarded their beautiful
mother, it was doubtless accentuated by her keen personal interest in
all their pursuits; and amongst minor details, I can remember the skill
with which her firm, capable hands tied those beautiful salmon and trout
flies which beguiled so many bonnie fish—an art in which her sons became
equally adept; and no more acceptable gift could reach them from far
countries than gay feathers with which to try new experiments.
Perhaps some fishermen may like to know a little secret confided to me
by my brother Roualeyn, which was, that when the fish were sulky,
refusing his best flies (_N.B._ _Fish_ invariably means salmon) he would
let them rest a while. Then, tying a bit of tackle off a common rook’s
feather on to a common bait-hook, he would let it float down stream, and
almost invariably captured some inquisitive fish which came up to look
at it.
To me, to whom sewing in any form is as hateful as having to do the
simplest sum in arithmetic, it seems somewhat remarkable that,
notwithstanding the very varied occupations of my mother and elder
sisters, they all excelled in needlework, both useful and ornamental.
They would gather a handful of graceful flowers, and then and there,
with coloured silks, reproduce them on red cloth stretched on an
embroidery frame. Some of these are still in the possession of daughters
or grand-daughters, and are so fine that each would seem as though it
must have taken months of toil.
All my mother’s daughters were endowed with much of her own artistic
talent, and delighted in painting both in oil and water-colour, fired
thereto by frequent visits from such artists as Sir Edwin Landseer, Sir
William Ross, Saunders, Giles, and others.
Among the early details which most impressed themselves on the memory of
the “Baby” of the home was the wonderful “Birthday Chair,” which on the
26th of May was always prepared for her use at all meals. Early in the
morning the elder sisters went out and presently returned laden with
boughs of delicious lilac and graceful golden laburnum. Tall
willow-wands, tied to a high wooden armchair, formed the light framework
to which were fastened this wealth of fragrant spring blossoms—a lovely
bower wherein the happy child sat in truly regal state.
This pretty custom was kept up till my ninth birthday, and the lilacs
never failed us. Nowadays I doubt whether a solitary spray would be
found in blossom in the North, just as in those days all the girls
reserved their daintiest muslins to wear at the Inverness Games in
September. Now wisdom and comfort alike demand warm tweeds. And as to
the delicious ripe peaches which we used to gather on the open wall, the
modern gardeners hear of them with polite incredulity. Are we returning
to a glacial epoch?
[Illustration:
_Emery Walker, ph. sc._
_Eliza Maria, Lady Gordon-Cumming of Altyre._
_Painted by Saunders about 1830._
]
Among my vivid memories of about 1840 were certain evenings when my
mother returned from distant expeditions escorted by several gentlemen,
whom I now know to have been Sir Roderick Murchison, Hugh Miller,
Agasis, and other eminent geologists, who at that time were deeply
interested in the newly discovered fossil fish in the Old Red Sandstone
in Ross-shire, on the other side of the Moray Firth. Similar fossils had
just been found in the Lethen-bar Lime Quarries, on the other side of
the Findhorn.[12] These were a source of keen interest to my mother, and
it was to search for more that the geologists were invited to Altyre.
Evening after evening there was great excitement in carefully lifting
from a dogcart the spoils of the day, namely grey nodules which, when
gently tapped with a hammer, split in two, revealing the two perfect
sides of strange fossil fishes, with the very colour of the scales still
vivid. Day by day my elder sisters patiently made minutely accurate
water-colour studies of these, and the best specimens were sent to the
British Museum, where they still remain, and where certain fishes
hitherto unknown, were called after my mother.
The poorer specimens were deposited in rows under the verandah, and
there remained as familiar objects of our early days.
On other evenings there was the home-bringing of various game, furred
and feathered, or of bonnie speckled trout from the Altyre burn, the
Loch of Blairs, or Loch Romach (the latter a curious, long, narrow loch
in a ravine between densely wooded hills); but the special excitement
lay in the silvery salmon caught in the Findhorn by my father, mother,
and brothers, all of whom were skilful fishers. The keepers loved to
tell of one day when my mother caught, played, and landed eight fine
fish to her own rod. Those who know the rocky bed of the beautiful
river, hemmed in by steep banks, can appreciate the difficulty of such
fishing-ground for a lady, especially one of goodly proportions. In
those days it was very exceptional for ladies to venture on salmon
fishing.
On one occasion she had a very narrow escape of being washed away by one
of those tremendously rapid spates which now and then occur after very
heavy rainfall in the upper districts, when the river, without any
notice, comes down in a gigantic flood-wave. She was standing in
midstream, quietly fishing, when suddenly a thunderous roar of waters,
effectually drowning the ordinary sound of the rushing, swirling river,
warned her of something unusual. She leapt from rock to rock, back to
the bank, and had scarcely time to scramble up the steep footpath ere a
seething torrent, more than eight feet in depth, was dashing over the
spot where she had been standing.
Most delightful of all to the little, fair-haired child with the long,
yellow ringlets was the joy of delightful drives, sitting “bodkin”
between the indulgent parents who so patiently endured the bumping up
and down of the odious brat who tried to keep time with the postillion.
At that time postillions were the fashion, and the extra men to be
entertained when the house was full of company (and Altyre always was
full) must have been considerable—and visits were wont to be
indefinitely prolonged. When Colonel (afterwards sixth Earl of Seafield)
and Mrs. Grant of Grant used to come down from Castle Grant they always
had four horses and two postillions, two outriders, valet, and
lady’s-maid. So that entertaining one couple meant also five men, a
maid, and six horses.
Every year there was a season of sore bereavement for us children, when
our parents and older sisters started on the long drive of six hundred
miles from Altyre to London for the season, posting all the way.
Occasionally their journey was continued to Paris, and several large
excellent copies at Gordonstoun of pictures in the Louvre tell of the
special permission to paint there, granted to them by personal favour of
Louis Philippe, in days when such permits were not easily obtained.
Among my treasured relics are several letters to me from my mother,
written during her last absence, when I was just four years old. With
these precious letters there are several locks of exquisitely fine
yellow hair, like spun glass, each folded in the gilt-edged paper, which
was then the correct note-paper. They are marked in my mother’s writing
as being my own hair at three weeks old, and the idolised brother and
sister who died when I was born. One lustrous lock is marked by my
father as that of his beautiful boy “Roualeyn,” “Robh Ailean,” two
Gaelic words of which, curiously enough, no one can tell us the
connected meaning. Robh would be pronounced row, like “to row a boat,”
and “ailean” means white. It is possible that my mother took the name
from Rowallan Castle, three miles from Kilmarnock, which was built about
1270, in the reign of King Alexander III. of Scotland, by the son-in-law
of Sir Walter Comyn of Rowallane. But that would not account for my
father spelling his son’s name as above. It is a grand name, but its
owner was generally known in the family as Zoe.
By the time of my birth he was a beautiful lad, captivating all hearts,
and worshipped by the people, in whose eyes he could do no wrong. I am
not sure, however, that his tutors always shared this view of the case.
One in particular was a young theological student, so exceedingly minute
that when he stepped down from the gig which had been sent to meet him,
and my father perceived the infinitesimal mortal who had come to take
charge of his stalwart sons, he could not resist the joke, but catching
him up in his arms, carried him to the room where my mother and other
ladies were sitting, and set him down exclaiming, “Eliza, here’s the new
dominie!!”
It was scarcely surprising that on the first occasion that the little
man ventured to suggest reporting some of Roualeyn’s misdemeanours, his
pupil took him by the scruff of the neck and led him to his mother,
saying, “Mamma, Mr. M‘Watt wishes to make a complaint about me, so I
have brought him here that he may do so.” It would have been hard indeed
for any adoring mother to assume the correct severity, and certainly
Roualeyn rarely had long to wait for absolution, and leave to forsake
the uncongenial lesson-books, and be off to the river or the woods,
leaving the little “dominie” the more leisure to pursue his own
theological studies.
It is pleasant to add that in after years not only were these
reminiscences dear to the little dominie himself, but also that his
stalwart pupil held him in very affectionate remembrance, and it was for
him he sent to come and visit him when, thirty years later, he lay on
his deathbed in old Fort Augustus.
But in those days sport was the one thought of all my brothers; and I
can just remember the tremendous excitement of stamping out circular
wads of pasteboard and other preparations for the 12th of August, and at
other times that of melting lead in the kitchen to make bullets in
moulds for the roe which were then abundant in the woods. These were the
early stages of that love of sport which subsequently led to Roualeyn
being known as the Mighty Lion Hunter of South Africa,[13] and to those
years of adventure, hitherto unparalleled, resulting in acquiring that
marvellous collection of trophies of his own gun which were exhibited in
London in 1851. This, be it remembered, was in days when breech-loaders
were unknown, and sportsmen (TRUE SPORTSMEN, as all my brothers were)
were largely dependent on their own rapidity in muzzle-loading.
My brother William has recorded some of his most thrilling experiences
in tiger-hunting and training wild Bheel tribes.[14] But my brothers
John and Frank, though quite as skilful and successful in the chase,
have left no record of their prowess, save in the memory of wild tribes
who never forget such bold, brave leaders.
I spoke just now of those few precious letters from my mother which I so
justly treasure. I think I may quote a few sentences from the very last
she ever wrote to her little daughter.
“THE CLARENDON HOTEL,
LONDON, _May 1841_.
“MY OWN SWEET LITTLE DEAR EEKA,—How sorry, sorry Mamma is to hear that
her darling little girl has been ill. God bless you, my own sweet
Pigeon, God bless and preserve you from all harm. Do not forget, my
pretty Babe, to say your little prayer to God, Who loves you, and ask
good Mr. Gregory to teach you a line or two of pretty hymns every day,
to please poor old Papa and Mamma when they come back. I sometimes see
very pretty little girls here, but none that I think half so nice and
dear as my own little Eeka and Nell and Alice, when they are good.
Write a little letter to Mother, my darling, Henry will help you, and
tell me what brother Zoe is about, and if he teaches you funny songs.
I wish you could send me one of the lovely nosegays that you gather
every day in the sweet garden. I think all the beautiful purple
rhododendrons must be coming out now. You must send Mamma one little
flowerie of them in a letter, and kiss it just before you shut it up,
and the flower will bring the kiss to Mamma. I hope you are very good
and obedient to dear Chérie. Give her my kind love.
Your dear papa is quite well, and sends you many kisses. Blessings on
my sweet little one. Your own loving mother,
E. M. GORDON-CUMMING.”
Alas! ere another May came round, this beautiful and gracious mother had
passed away from earth, leaving her home desolate indeed.
On the 28th March another little brother was born—her thirteenth living
child. Some time previously she had been severely injured in stopping a
bolting horse in a gig wherein sat a terrified woman. That injury caused
her intense suffering, and less than a month after the birth of her
beautiful baby she died, in her forty-fourth year.
Never can I forget that lovely morning, 21st April 1842, when I was on
the lawn in the sunshine with Chérie (_i.e._ Julie Périllard, my Swiss
_bonne_). I vividly remember that she was dressed in white, on account
of the heat. I was gathering blue, pink, and white hepaticas for the
dear mother whose strangely laboured breathing we heard so distinctly
through the open window.[15] Presently we were summoned to her room,
where nearly all the family were assembled, and I was lifted up in
loving arms to look for the last time on the dear face. A few minutes
later that bright and blessed spirit had returned to God Who gave
it.[16]
On the 25th all that was mortal was taken away from us. From far and
near crowds assembled, not only “county neighbours,” but the poorest of
the poor who could scarcely crawl came from distant bothies far in the
moorlands, weeping bitterly for their own loss in the going away of the
ever sympathetic friend and generous physician, who in her busy life
always found time herself to visit the sick and suffering, her pony and
her gillie laden with warm clothing, simple remedies, and abundant good
food and wine, which cheered and “heartened” the ofttimes lonely and
dejected one. No wonder that she was worshipped and enshrined in the
hearts of the poor.
A simple service was held at the house by Dr. Mackay of Rafford, the
parish minister, and then from an upper window over the porch we watched
the solemn, sad procession start on the long sixteen miles to
Gordonstoun, near to which, within the park, lies the pretty old Gothic
kirk, St. Michael’s Chapel,[17] where our dead are laid to await the
Resurrection morning—a precious storehouse, wherein and around which
rest many of our very nearest and dearest. There the Rev. Alexander
Ewing met the procession, and pronounced the last solemn words. And so
the awful shadow of death fell on that home, hitherto irradiated by the
presence of one gracious woman.
In the desolation of his grief, my father sought some consolation in the
companionship of his little daughter, not yet five years old. Being
always a very early riser, and knowing how readily children, like birds,
wake with the sun, he took me to sleep in his room, so that in the early
dawn he might, without disturbing servants (especially the old nurse who
had reared us all), take me out to stroll through fields and woods, by
stream and loch. No one ever more deeply loved the song of birds, and
the beauty of changing seasons, and especially the infinitely varied
lights of “the outgoings of the morning and evening,” and as all their
beauties sank into his soul, he would ofttimes murmur, “It is a fair
Creation,” “All Thy works praise Thee, O Lord.”
You see he lived before the days of “scorching” bicycling and motor
cars, and perpetual rush, hurry, and scurry, when men and women walked
on their own feet, and still had time and inclination to drink in the
poetry and all the sweet influences of Nature, as can only be done in
stillness and at leisure. Only to such wooers does she reveal her
treasures of delight.
Specially attractive to the little child was a small birchwood, which in
spring was carpeted with white anemones, and in which lay a cool spring
of purest water. Then a folded leather cup was produced from the
father’s waistcoat pocket, and they drank together from the fairy
fountain. At other times they met the dairymaid returning from her
morning milking, with her heavy pails hanging from a yoke across her
shoulders, and gladly she halted to give “her little calfie” a drink
from the lid of her pail.
One thing never absent from my father’s pocket was a lump of the common
indigo, which then was always used in laundries, and which was very
efficacious in counteracting the pain of wasps’ stings, from which his
woodmen suffered very frequently, the woods being infested by the wasp,
which builds its curiously-constructed nest like layers of grey paper,
forming a ball, ranging from the size of a small plum to that of an
average football. These hang from the branch of some shrub or tree, and
an incautious shake brings out an angry horde. One of the minor joys of
my brethren used to be the nocturnal smoking of these “wasps’ bykes,”
and I think that this systematic destruction has reduced their numbers.
I also think there are now fewer of the very high anthills, which used
to be so numerous in the fir-woods among the dry needles which covered
the ground, and which we were sometimes unkind enough to disturb
cautiously, in order to see the amazing activity of the ant-colonies.
Sir William always had a kind, cheery word for every one he met, and all
the people loved him. If he came suddenly on a group of old women from
the town, who had ventured too far into his woods in search of firewood,
they knew very well that the laird would be quite ready himself to give
them a helping hand in shouldering their heavy burdens—even if they
chanced to be adorned with sprays of his recently planted rhododendrons.
When unsympathetic persons occasionally expressed surprise at his
refusing to put up notices to warn off trespassers, he replied that the
only notice to which he could consent would be one requesting the public
to preserve what was thus given for public enjoyment.
I remember the dismay of a large party of young folk who had wandered up
one Sunday afternoon through the pleasant woods till they came to a
large outlying fruitgarden, more than half a mile from the house, and
found the splendid crop of ripe gooseberries irresistible, when suddenly
the laird himself appeared. Naturally they were about to run off in
great confusion, when they were arrested by his kind voice, telling them
to stay and enjoy themselves; “only,” he added, “be sure you don’t tell
the people in Forres how good they are!”
Between that garden and the sweet Altyre burn there stood (and happily
still stand) some of the finest old trees on the estate, and beneath
these, all round a little pond, snowdrops and daffodils had been planted
so lavishly that in early spring the ground was first white and then
gold, delightful to see and to gather; and a little further down the
burnside they grew in rank profusion all around the ivy-covered ruins of
an old kirk and quiet kirkyard.
How strangely some small things take root in our memories, when greater
are forgotten. One of the things which my father impressed on me by word
and example was always to kick aside any loose stone on the road which
might possibly cause a horse to stumble. To this day I never see such a
stone anywhere, without a well-nigh irresistible instinct to obey the
instructions given more than threescore years ago. And the teaching
holds good in regard to other fellow-creatures as well as horses.
Yet one more detail concerning those early days, which almost seems as
if it might have influenced my later years, namely, that in my father’s
dressing-room were stored the large illustrated editions of _Captain
Cook’s Voyages in the South Sea Isles_ and various other books of
travel.
The pictures in these could not fail to interest any one; but they were
fascinating indeed in comparison with the wretched woodcuts which alone
illustrated books specially intended for children. Nevertheless we loved
those ugly, and often very prosy books, and read and re-read them, as no
modern child ever seems to do the beautiful books so profusely lavished
on it.
A good story does not lose by repetition, and many a happy hour we
children spent with our quaint old Northumbrian nurse, when (having
carefully suspended several fine large apples from a row of nails in her
wooden mantelpiece, and placed a plate beneath each to catch the drip,
mingled with cinders), we settled down (with one eye on the apples) to
thoroughly enjoy one of her somewhat limited stock of stories. Certainly
at least once a week the petition was, “Please, Nan, tell us the story
about the Fatted Calf.” Such was our rendering of the return of the
Prodigal Son.
Old Nan, who even then appeared to us quite antediluvian (with a face
like a very wizened apple, and a huge lace cap with large bows of
ribbon), lived to receive a home in my brother Henry’s family, and was
eventually buried beside the old parish church of Mortlach. And Chérie,
the Swiss _bonne_, who had been with my mother before her marriage,
lived with my eldest sister and her children, till she likewise was laid
to rest beside the ancient church of Bewick in Northumberland.
She was endowed with a very hasty temper, and her short method of
dealing with youth was simple and rapid. About the third mistake, came
the invariable thump in the small of the back, which sent us gasping to
the other side of the room, where we were occasionally overtaken by a
substantial brown Bible—a handy missile, and effectual when hurled by a
strong Swiss arm. It was an external application of spiritual truth with
which we would gladly have dispensed; nevertheless the fine old lady
held her ground with her pupils, and I believe we honestly preferred her
hot temper to the sugar and water of some of her English colleagues, and
with the curious loyalty of children, it never occurred to us to report
to our parents how many thumps we received. But my eldest sister,
remembering her peculiarities, kept them well in check when under her
control, so that her children of the third generation were reared on a
strictly protected system.
The Biblical knowledge which we acquired from our varied teachers was
apt occasionally to blend with more recent events, especially details
relating to the Flood, inasmuch as all manner of events were dated as
having happened before or after the Flood, _C’était avant le Déluge_.
The catastrophe referred to was locally known as “the Moray Floods,”
which occurred in 1829, just eight years before my birth. After a summer
of exceeding heat and prolonged drought, an unprecedented deluge of rain
commenced on August 2nd and continued without intermission for two days,
accompanied by a hurricane from the north-east. All the rivers and every
streamlet were quickly transformed to raging torrents—the Dee, the Spey,
the Lossie, the Nairn, Findhorn, Dorbach, Devie, and (what chiefly
affected my home), the usually half-dry Altyre burn. The Findhorn, pent
in between steep crags, actually at one point rose fifty feet above the
usual level, and at its junction with the Devie fully forty feet—a brief
inscription on the rock above one of the lovely paths marks the flood
line.
A very graphic description of the whole scene was written by our
neighbour, Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, who, having married Miss Cumming, the
owner of lovely Relugas, just above the said meeting of the waters, had
a full view of the spate, and records the deafening roar of the flood,
rolling huge boulders over the rocky bed of the river, and the crashing
of trees and shrieking of the wind.
Throughout the district scarcely a bridge was left standing except the
single arch stone bridges, founded on rock and high above the streams.
One at Fochabers, which only twenty-five years previously had cost
£14,000, was swept away by the raging Spey. That across the Findhorn
near Forres, and the Lossie Bridge at Bishopmill, shared the same fate.
My uncle’s newly-built house of Dunphail escaped almost miraculously,
the high bank on which it stands having been undermined, so that it fell
within three feet of the east tower. It cost £5000 to repair the damage
on that estate. Lord Cawdor’s loss was upwards of £8000; the Duke of
Gordon’s was over £16,000.
As to the farmers and poorer people, many were absolutely ruined, for,
of course, where the waters had room for expansion, they overspread the
whole low country, and around Forres formed a lake covering fully twenty
square miles, carrying houses, timber, crops, even the very soil, out to
sea, and leaving pitiful ruin and desolation in every direction—all
gardens and fine arable land being covered with gravel and boulders.
Near Elgin, the river Lossie broke all bounds, and resuming its ancient
channel through the Loch of Spynie, swept away the sluices and bulwarks,
which had been created at great cost to separate it from the sea, which
consequently once again submerged the valuable reclaimed land,
converting it into a salt marsh.
A “Flood Fund” was raised to give immediate relief to upwards of three
thousand of those who were left most destitute, but in most cases the
suffering and loss were irreparable. Some poor folk were rescued after
they had clung for many hours to the rafters of their ruined cottages.
One young woman was sitting up to her neck in water, holding in her arms
the dead body of her old aunt. Various other people were drowned. So the
Moray Floods hold a very distinct place in the annals of the province,
and figured largely in the nursery talk of my own early days, especially
such details as the flooding of the lawn at Altyre, and how my brothers
had caught trout from the windows.
NOTE.
Although some of our relations on each side of the family have attained
to threescore years and ten, very few have gone much beyond that term. A
few have attained to fourscore years, and my uncle, Charles
Cumming-Bruce, born in 1790, lived to the ripe age of eighty-four; but
they were exceptional. The excellent machines entrusted to our care have
generally been worked at high pressure, and consequently have worn out
before their time. Certainly our race as a whole has not proved
long-lived, and sometimes I marvel how so great a mark has been made in
so brief a period.
Thus my beautiful mother was not forty-four when she died.
My sister, Seymour Baker-Cresswell, died at forty.
Ida (Adelaide Eliza Baker-Cresswell), died at forty-five.
Alice Jenkinson was but thirty-two.
Eleanora Grant lived to be fifty-nine and a half.
My half-sister, Jane Eliza, was fifty-two.
My sister, Constance, about twelve.
My brother, Walter, about five.
My father lived to be sixty-seven.
His eldest son, Alexander Penrose, died at fifty.
Roualeyn was only forty-six.
Henry lived to be sixty-five.
John died in Ceylon, aged thirty-nine.
Others died in their prime from accidental causes. My brother-in-law,
Oswin Baker-Cresswell, who seemed to be as mighty in strength as in
stature, passed away, after three days’ illness, at thirty-six, and his
eldest son at forty-one. My other brother-in-law, William
Baker-Cresswell, passed away in his early prime, aged about twenty-nine.