Chapter ii.

In which, though the squire doth not find his daughter, something is

found which puts an end to his pursuit.

The history now returns to the inn at Upton, whence we shall first

trace the footsteps of Squire Western; for, as he will soon arrive at

an end of his journey, we shall have then full leisure to attend our

heroe.

The reader may be pleased to remember that the said squire departed

from the inn in great fury, and in that fury he pursued his daughter.

The hostler having informed him that she had crossed the Severn, he

likewise past that river with his equipage, and rode full speed,

vowing the utmost vengeance against poor Sophia, if he should but

overtake her.

He had not gone far before he arrived at a crossway. Here he called a

short council of war, in which, after hearing different opinions, he

at last gave the direction of his pursuit to fortune, and struck

directly into the Worcester road.

In this road he proceeded about two miles, when he began to bemoan

himself most bitterly, frequently crying out, “What pity is it! Sure

never was so unlucky a dog as myself!” And then burst forth a volley

of oaths and execrations.

The parson attempted to administer comfort to him on this occasion.

“Sorrow not, sir,” says he, “like those without hope. Howbeit we have

not yet been able to overtake young madam, we may account it some good

fortune that we have hitherto traced her course aright. Peradventure

she will soon be fatigated with her journey, and will tarry in some

inn, in order to renovate her corporeal functions; and in that case,

in all moral certainty, you will very briefly be _compos voti_.”

“Pogh! d--n the slut!” answered the squire, “I am lamenting the loss

of so fine a morning for hunting. It is confounded hard to lose one of

the best scenting days, in all appearance, which hath been this

season, and especially after so long a frost.”

Whether Fortune, who now and then shows some compassion in her

wantonest tricks, might not take pity of the squire; and, as she had

determined not to let him overtake his daughter, might not resolve to

make him amends some other way, I will not assert; but he had hardly

uttered the words just before commemorated, and two or three oaths at

their heels, when a pack of hounds began to open their melodious

throats at a small distance from them, which the squire's horse and

his rider both perceiving, both immediately pricked up their ears, and

the squire, crying, “She's gone, she's gone! Damn me if she is not

gone!” instantly clapped spurs to the beast, who little needed it,

having indeed the same inclination with his master; and now the whole

company, crossing into a corn-field, rode directly towards the hounds,

with much hallowing and whooping, while the poor parson, blessing

himself, brought up the rear.

Thus fable reports that the fair Grimalkin, whom Venus, at the desire

of a passionate lover, converted from a cat into a fine woman, no

sooner perceived a mouse than, mindful of her former sport, and still

retaining her pristine nature, she leaped from the bed of her husband

to pursue the little animal.

What are we to understand by this? Not that the bride was displeased

with the embraces of her amorous bridegroom; for, though some have

remarked that cats are subject to ingratitude, yet women and cats too

will be pleased and purr on certain occasions. The truth is, as the

sagacious Sir Roger L'Estrange observes, in his deep reflections,

that, “if we shut Nature out at the door, she will come in at the

window; and that puss, though a madam, will be a mouser still.” In the

same manner we are not to arraign the squire of any want of love for

his daughter; for in reality he had a great deal; we are only to

consider that he was a squire and a sportsman, and then we may apply

the fable to him, and the judicious reflections likewise.

The hounds ran very hard, as it is called, and the squire pursued over

hedge and ditch, with all his usual vociferation and alacrity, and

with all his usual pleasure; nor did the thoughts of Sophia ever once

intrude themselves to allay the satisfaction he enjoyed in the chace,

which, he said, was one of the finest he ever saw, and which he swore

was very well worth going fifty miles for. As the squire forgot his

daughter, the servants, we may easily believe, forgot their mistress;

and the parson, after having expressed much astonishment, in Latin, to

himself, at length likewise abandoned all farther thoughts of the

young lady, and, jogging on at a distance behind, began to meditate a

portion of doctrine for the ensuing Sunday.

The squire who owned the hounds was highly pleased with the arrival of

his brother squire and sportsman; for all men approve merit in their

own way, and no man was more expert in the field than Mr Western, nor

did any other better know how to encourage the dogs with his voice,

and to animate the hunt with his holla.

Sportsmen, in the warmth of a chace, are too much engaged to attend to

any manner of ceremony, nay, even to the offices of humanity: for, if

any of them meet with an accident by tumbling into a ditch, or into a

river, the rest pass on regardless, and generally leave him to his

fate: during this time, therefore, the two squires, though often close

to each other, interchanged not a single word. The master of the hunt,

however, often saw and approved the great judgment of the stranger in

drawing the dogs when they were at a fault, and hence conceived a very

high opinion of his understanding, as the number of his attendants

inspired no small reverence to his quality. As soon, therefore, as the

sport was ended by the death of the little animal which had occasioned

it, the two squires met, and in all squire-like greeting saluted each

other.

The conversation was entertaining enough, and what we may perhaps

relate in an appendix, or on some other occasion; but as it nowise

concerns this history, we cannot prevail on ourselves to give it a

place here. It concluded with a second chace, and that with an

invitation to dinner. This being accepted, was followed by a hearty

bout of drinking, which ended in as hearty a nap on the part of Squire

Western.

Our squire was by no means a match either for his host, or for parson

Supple, at his cups that evening; for which the violent fatigue of

mind as well as body that he had undergone, may very well account,

without the least derogation from his honour. He was indeed, according

to the vulgar phrase, whistle drunk; for before he had swallowed the

third bottle, he became so entirely overpowered that though he was not

carried off to bed till long after, the parson considered him as

absent, and having acquainted the other squire with all relating to

Sophia, he obtained his promise of seconding those arguments which he

intended to urge the next morning for Mr Western's return.

No sooner, therefore, had the good squire shaken off his evening, and

began to call for his morning draught, and to summon his horses in

order to renew his pursuit, than Mr Supple began his dissuasives,

which the host so strongly seconded, that they at length prevailed,

and Mr Western agreed to return home; being principally moved by one

argument, viz., that he knew not which way to go, and might probably

be riding farther from his daughter instead of towards her. He then

took leave of his brother sportsman, and expressing great joy that the

frost was broken (which might perhaps be no small motive to his

hastening home), set forwards, or rather backwards, for Somersetshire;

but not before he had first despatched part of his retinue in quest of

his daughter, after whom he likewise sent a volley of the most bitter

execrations which he could invent.