CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN DAY

“Was that the vind, or a dream?” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks starting out of his sleep at something like thunder over-head—rumble, rumble, tumble, went a stack of chimneys, and Mr. Jorrocks was on the floor in an instant. Blast went the wind, and in came his window. —“Vot next? as the frog said when his tail dropped off,” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, wondering what was going to happen—over went the looking-glass, which was dashed to atoms, two five-pound notes were whisked about the room, and the clothes-horse came clattering among the jugs.

“It’s a confounded wind,” said Mr. Jorrocks, running after the five-pound notes, “wonder wot’s the meanin’ of it all—fear th’ ’ounds will be werry wild,” recollecting that they were to meet at the “World Turned Upside Down,” on the Hookem-Snivey road.

It was a terrific morning—the wind blew a perfect hurricane—chimneys were toppling and tumbling, slates falling, tiles breaking, and here and there whole roofs taking flight—family washings were whisked away, or torn to tatters on the drying lines—children were lifted off their legs, and grown-up people knocked against each other at the corners of the streets.

“This is summut new at all ewents,” said Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing a large laurel torn up by the roots in the garden, “that tree never had such a hike afore in its life,” and as he looked the back door flew open with a crash that split it from top to bottom.

“Wish there mayn’t be mischief,” said he, huddling on his dressing-gown and running down-stairs, recollecting there was something about repairs in his agreement. Here he found the soot covering the drawing-room carpet, and the kitchen floor strewed with bricks and mortar—“Oh, dear! oh, dear,” exclaimed he, “here’s a terrible disaster, five punds worth of damage at least, and, ord rot it! there’s my Jerry Hawkins mug broke:” gathering the fragments of a jug representing that renowned Gloucestershire sportsman.

The wind was cuttingly keen, and swept up and down with unrestrained freedom. There was not a fire lighted, and the whole place smelt of soot, and was the picture of misery.

“Shall never get to the World Turned Upside Down to-day,” said Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing the scene of desolation, and wishing what he saw might be the extent of the mischief. “Pity to lose a day too,” added he, thinking it might only be a squall.

He now sought the refuge of the parlour, but oh! what greeted him there!—the window wide open — chairs huddled in the centre of the room, the table in the corner, and Betsey with up-turned gown, scrubbing away at the grate.

“Now blast it, Batsay,” roared Mr. Jorrocks, as a gust of wind swept a row of china off a chiffonnier. “Now blast it, Batsay, vot in the name of all that’s hugly are you arter now?”

“Only polishing the grate!” exclaimed Betsey, astonished at seeing her master walking about in his night-cap and dressing-gown.

“But vot in the name o’ badness are you workin’ with the winder open for?”

“To air the house, to be sure!” replied Betsey tartly.

“Hair the ’ouse!” screamed Mr. Jorrocks, whisking his dressing-gown round as he spoke, “Hair the ’ouse, it’s hairy enough already!—ord rot it! you ’ousemaids have no sort o’ compassion about you—the colder the day, the hairier you are! See vot you’ve done now; Belinda’s pet-lambs, your misses’s Cupid, and my model of the Saracen’s ’Ead on Snow ’Ill, all dashed to spinnage! Enough to make the Harchbishop o’ York swear!” saying which, Mr. Jorrocks whisked his dressing-gown the reverse way, and bounced out of the room, lest he might be tempted into the indiscretion of an oath.

Our master ran up-stairs, but little consolation greeted him there. His dressing-table was covered with blacks—his looking-glass was on the swing—his soap was reduced to a wafer—there was nothing but cold water to shave with, and his beard being at all times rather untractable, rough enough to light a lucifer match upon, he inflicted sundry little gashes on his chin, as he jagged a blunt razor over the stubborn stubble; altogether his toilette was performed under most discouraging, disheartening circumstances. Still he dressed for hunting, the hounds being advertised, and there being a possibility of the wind lulling.

Batsay had got the parlour “haired” before he made his second appearance, but she had had to borrow a neighbour’s kettle, and was making some toast in the room when he entered. The wind having abated, Mr. Jorrocks thought he might as well make up with her, as a sort of peace-offering to Æolus.

“Now, Batsay,” said he, in a mild and agreeable tone, “I’ve never had cause to find fault with you afore, but really on a vindy day like this, it does seem rayther unkind lettin’ old Boreas take the run o’ the ’ouse in—”

“It warn’t old Borus,” replied Betsey, colouring brightly.

“Oh, dash my vig!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, hurrying out, “that confounded young carpenter’s been here again! That’s the way they hair one’s ’ouse.”

Whish—Wha-s-s-sh—blash—roar went the wind, as Mr. Jorrocks left the room.

Stobbs wouldn’t get up, and Mr. Jorrocks got through breakfast alone under very chilly, disheartening, uncomfortable circumstances. The kettle had only half boiled, and the tea was little better than water—blacks floated on the cream, and the butter was similarly ornamented—the eggs were cold in the middle, and the sausages only done on one side, added to which, the baker’s oven was blown down, and there was nothing but stale rolls; altogether, it was a very sorry affair. “Well, better luck next time,” said Mr. Jorrocks to himself, hurrying away from the scene of discomfort.

“Can we ’unt, think you, Pigg?” inquired he of James, whom he found turning the horses round in their stalls, preparing for a start.

Pigg.—“Yeas, ar should think we may, towards noon; the wind’s uncommon kittle now, though,—maist had mar head smashed with a pantile comin’ past ard Tommy Trotter’s Biar.”

“It’s werry cold,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, thumping his right hand across his chest. “Now, Binjimin, wot’s happened to you?” looking at the boy all bathed in tears.

“So-o-o cold,” drawled the boy.

“Cold! you little warmint!” repeated Mr. Jorrocks briskly; “wot business have you to be cold?—Think o’ ginger. I’m froggy myself, but I doesn’t cry! Think o’ ginger, I say”

The boy still went on blubbering, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands, imparting a little of their dirt to his face.

It was ten o’clock before they got started, and the wind still blew with unabated fury. Pigg and Benjamin turned their caps peak backwards, and Mr. Jorrocks shortened his string two holes. The hounds set up their backs, and the horses shied at every thing they came near—indeed, they were not wholly without excuse, for the broken and uprooted trees, the prostrate walls, demolished barns, and flying stacks, they encountered in their progress, were enough to startle less observing animals than they are. Here was half an elm tree rolling about the country—there a thrashing-machine lifted to the skies. Our party made slow progress in their journey. The wind veered about, now catching their coats, now taking them in the rear, and now nearly blowing them over their horses’ tails. The hounds, too, took advantage of the scrimmage; some cut away home, while others hung back, or hurried before the horsemen. Had Mr. Jorrocks guessed it was any thing but a high wind, he would never have gone.

There were few people astir, and the Borrowdale Turnpike-gate was still shut. “Gate! gate! gate!” roared Pigg. “Gate! gate! gate!” shouted Mr. Jorrocks, but the wind scattered their voices in all directions. They were kept there for ten minutes at least, when Mr. Jorrocks had recourse to his horn, and gave it a twang that brought Tom Taketicket out in a hurry.

“Bliss me heart!” exclaimed he; “is it you, Mr. Jorrocks?—I thought it was the mail. Sure-lie you arn’t goin’ to hunt such a mornin’ as this?”

“But I am,” replied Mr. Jorrocks; “and I’ll thank you to hopen the gate.—Kept’me here quite long enough. —Got to meet at the World Turned Hupside Down, and been bellerin’ here for ’alf an hour and more. Here, take your pay; I harn’t got no copper, but there are three postage stamps instead.”

Having got his stamps, Tom turned the key in the lock, and a blast blew the gate against the post with a crash that shivered it to splinters.—The party then jogged on.

The “World Turned Upside Down” was one of those quiet wayside inns out of whose sails the march of railroads has taken the wind. It was a substantial old stone mansion, standing a little off the road, approached by a drive round a neatly cultivated oval-shaped garden, where, amid well-rolled gravel walks, and fantastically out yews, swung a blue and gold sign bearing its name —“The World Turned Upside Down.” A clustering vine covered one end of the house, and reached nearly up to the latticed windows in the stone roof, while luxuriant Irish ivy crept up to the very chimney-pots on the other; rose-bushes and creepers were trained upon trellises in front, and altogether it was as pretty an auberge as any in the land.

It was a posting-house, though not exactly a first-rate one, inasmuch as the stage on either side was short, and four-horse people generally went through; but it was a favourite resort for newly-married couples, and was equally esteemed by stage-coachmen, who always made an excuse for pulling up at its honeysuckled porch. Its charges, too, were quite within comfortable compass, and one set of visitors recommended another set, instead of flying to the columns of the Times for consolation under the infliction of spurious, unrequired wax, and other enormities. Venerable elms sheltered the ends of the house, and the side from the road opened into a spacious garden overlooking rich meadows sloping away to a smoothly gliding stream, while distant hills closed the scene in circling greyness of romantic form.

That was its summer aspect. On this eventful day things wore a different garb. As the hounds approached, Flash Jim’s swell Talliho coach was seen resting against the bank, while the purple stream of life was fast flowing from a dying horse. The huge elms at the east end of the house were all uprooted, while one on the west had fallen with destructive crash upon the house, bearing down a whole stack of chimneys, and stripping the ivy off the wall.

The blue and gold sign creaked and flapped in the wind, while the pride of the road, a yew-tree equestrian, was torn up by the roots, and dashed against the railing beyond.

“Bliss my ’eart!” exclaimed Jorrocks, eyeing the fallen horseman, “that’s too bad! Those great helms I wouldn’t care about, but to ruin such a triumph of the h’art is too bad—cruel in the extreme.” A cutting sleet came on, and a passer-by put up an umbrella, which was immediately turned inside out, and carried over the house-top. Mr. Jorrocks’s horse swerved, and nearly capsized him.

“Let’s get shelter,” said he, making for the yard, “or ther’ll be mischief, I’m blow’d if there won’t.”

“Mine host,” Jammy Lush, or the “Old World”—as he was familiarly termed—was almost frantic. He, poor man, had retired to rest early, and almost the last thing he did, was to arrange some twigs in the yew-tree horsetail, and train a couple of shoots at the rider’s heels for spurs. For twenty years the “Old World” had loved and nursed that tree; it was the pride of the country! Not a stage-coachman passed, but jerked his elbow at it; and its image was engraven on the minds of hundreds of husbands and wives, now cultivating little olive-branches of their own, who had admired its symmetry in connexion with each other.

“Oh, Mr. Jorrocks!” exclaimed Jemmy, waddling out of the house in his shirt-sleeves, his tapster’s apron flying up to his bottle nose, displaying the substantial form of his garterless legs, and his breeches open at the knee; “Oh, Mr. Jorrocks, I’m ruined, sir!—I’m ruined!—I’ve lost my bush!” and the poor man put his hand before his eyes to avert the sad calamity.

“Never mind, old cock!” replied Mr. Jorrocks, cheeringly grasping his hand as he spoke, “plant another, and I’ll warrant you’ll see it grow.”

“Never! never!” responded the “Old World,” sobbing as he spoke. “That man and hoss—” and here his feelings choked his utterance. He would have said that Mrs. Jemmy and he planted it on their wedding-day, and had long regarded it as their first-born.

The wind blew, the hail beat, the trees creaked, and seemed inclined to follow their leaders, and our party, half benumbed, gladly sought the shelter of the “Old World’s” barn. The poor hounds shivered, as if in the last stage of distemper; and the horses’ coats stared like Friesland hens’ feathers.

“Surely no man in his senses will come to ’unt such a day as this,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, slackening his horse’s girths as he spoke; “would deserve to have a commission of lunacy taken out agin him for his pains if he did.”

Leaving Benjamin in the barn, Mr. Jorrocks and Pigg sought the shelter of the house. The wind had stove in the back door, and a venerable elm was prostrate before it. Scrambling through the branches, they at length gained admission, but the inside was almost as cheerless as the out. No fire—no singing kettle, for hot stopping, as was wont, and the elder-wine bottle remained in the cupboard. Bricks, soot, lime, dust, and broken furniture strewed the house, and the “little Worlds” were huddled together in a corner, not knowing whether to be frightened or pleased.

The “Old World” had thrown himself into an easy-chair in the parlour, having taken the precaution of wrapping his wife’s red petticoat about his shoulders to prevent his catching cold. “I shall never get over it,” exclaimed he, as Mr. Jorrocks entered, whip in hand; “ruined, sir!—beggared!—nothing left for me but the onion—the bastille!”

“Vy the vind has certainlie paid you a hawful wisit,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, looking at the trees lying across each other outside; “but it would have been worser if it had broke them.”

“Oh, it’s not them I cares about,” exclaimed Jemmy, pulling the petticoat about his ears; “it’s not them, nor the great oak at the bottom of the field—kept the sun off the grass; those are my landlord’s. It’s my bush I’m bad about,” and thereupon he pulled the petticoat up to his bottle nose, and burst into tears.

“What ails the oull man?” inquired Pigg, with a fine stream of tobacco, all clotted with dust, running from his mouth.

“It’s his beautiful bush,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, in a whisper. “Didn’t you see that the yew-tree ’oss and rider were torn up by the roots? The ‘Old World’ loved that bush.”

Pigg.—“Ord sink! what’s the use o’ blubberin’ about that? there are plenty o’ bushes left. There be twe fine hollins, he may cut into what he likes, shot towers, steeples, or ought,” saying which, Pigg left the room.

“Come, cheer up, old buoy,” said Mr. Jorrocks soothingly, “and let’s have a drop o’ comfort. I declare I’m perfectly perished. Let’s have bottoms o’ brandy. ’To with—”

At the word brandy, the “Old World” brightened up. He dived into his apron pocket, and ringing the bell, ordered his missis to bring glasses and the bottle.

Drink brings comfort to some minds, and Jemmy Lush’s mind was of that description. With the first glass he said little; the second, not much more, but the petticoat began to droop from his ears; and at the third, he had it upon his shoulders.

“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” at length observed he, with a sigh. “That great oak at the bottom of my meadow has been an eyesore to me these twenty years. Its great ugly branches covered half an acre of land, and our squire never would have it lopped or cut down. Said he, ‘There’s the finest view in the country from it—you see the river, and the ruins of the abbey, and the Gayhurst hills in the distance,’ and I don’t know what; the silly man forgetting, all the time, that he would see just the same things whether the tree was there or not; and it spoiled as much grass as would have kept me a calf.”

“Great humbrageous beggar!” observed Mr. Jorrocks; adding, “I s’pose the tree would be worth summut?”

“No doubt,” replied Jemmy. “But nothing like so valuable as my bush;” and thereupon he heaved a sigh, and pulled the petticoat about his ears.

Just then a man passed the window, with a couple of horses, and Mr. Jorrocks ran to look at him. He was dressed in a very old hat, with a new cockade in it, a faded green neckcloth, a stained red waistcoat, a fustian frock and trousers, with thick shoes and worsted stockings, and wore moustachios. He rode a weedy chestnut, and led an unhappy-looking grey, the latter decorated with a running martingale and a noseband, and sundry rings and contrivances.

“Whose be those?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks, with great importance.

“Captain Smith and Lieutenant Brown,” replied the soldier-groom, saluting him.

“Foot-captins, I presume?” replied our master, looking at their horses.

“Grenadier company,” replied the man.

“It’s all the same to me,” replied Mr. Jorrocks.“They don’t expect I’m agoin’ to ’unt sich a day as this —do they?”

“Don’t know,” replied the man; “got my orders last night, and in course I came on.”

“Then you’d better cut away and meet them, and say that unless good payin’ subscribers, to the amount of £30, cast up, I shalln’t cast off;” adding, as he wheeled about, “Don’t think any man with thirty pence he could call his own would turn out such a day as this.”

Mr. Jorrocks returned to the parlour, and was beginning a dissertation upon hunting, when Pigg entered the room, with a spade over his shoulder, and addressed Jemmy Lush with—

“Now gan and water your buss with your tears, ’ars gettin’ it oop again.”

“No!” exclaimed Jemmy, running to the window; sure enough it was up, and two horse-keepers were busy securing it with ropes and strong posts.

Jemmy Lush was half frantic. He threw the petticoat into the corner, and ran to the garden to embrace his old friend. Little mischief had ensued from its excursion. The rider’s hat had got a cast on one side, and the bit of the horse’s bridle was broken; but there was nothing that Jemmy’s fatherly care would not easily rectify.

Great was Jemmy’s gratitude. He placed all the cold meat in his larder at Pigg’s disposal, and as the storm abated and the party were about to set off, he insisted upon putting a bottle of brandy into each of Pigg’s pockets. One of them, we are sorry to say, was broken on its journey home, by bumping against the back of his saddle.

The “Paul Pry” of that week contained a long list of damage and disasters, and Mr. Jorrocks learnt from the heading of the article that he had been out in a “terrible hurricane.”

In his mem. of the day’s doings in his Journal, he adds this passage from his friend Beckford:—

“Take not out your ’ounds on a werry windy day.”