2. 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 be began to bemoan
himself most bitterly, frequently crying out, "What a 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. How be
it 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
cars, 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.