o'clock. We were up and dressed soon after six, 

 and seven saw us under way driving up the narrow 

 glen by the road which winds along the valley 

 within sight of the beautiful river. The North 

 Esk is always a picturesque object in the land- 

 scape, but on this occasion its aspect was pecu- 

 liarly wild and grand. Twenty-four hours of 

 violent and almost tropical rainfall had occasioned 

 the heaviest flood that I ever witnessed during five 

 years of visits to its neighbourhood, and it had 

 risen more than ten feet, and swept away nearly 

 every foot-bridge along its course ; while stooks 

 and haycocks, whirled along by the turbid torrent, 

 told a melancholy tale of devastation and ruin. 

 The rain was still falling as the dog-cart bore us 

 towards our destination, but breaks in the sky 

 promised better weather later in the day. 



I suppose there are not many now who remem- 

 ber the Lord Dalhousie of that day, who received 

 us at breakfast on our arrival, with old Horatio 

 Ross, the father of my great friend, Edward, the 

 first Queen's prizeman, sitting beside him. Old 

 Dalhousie was crippled with gout, his fingers being 

 swollen and almost distorted ; but he could still 

 make good practice at driven grouse at a short 

 range with a little 20-bore gun and a light charge. 

 He ruled the glen with a rod of iron, and as- 

 serted and exercised rights over his tenants and 

 labourers, the mention of which would make the 

 hair of the politician stand upright in these more 



