Sir Wycherly had once been a member of Parliament, and only once.

In his youth, he had been a fox-hunter; and a small property in Yorkshire had long been in the family, as a sort of foothold on such enjoyments; but having broken a leg, in one of his leaps, he had taken refuge against _ennui_, by sitting a single session in the House of Commons, as the member of a borough that lay adjacent to his hunting-box.

This session sufficed for his whole life; the good baronet having taken the matter so literally, as to make it a point to be present at all the sittings; a sort of tax on his time, which, as it came wholly unaccompanied by profit, was very likely soon to tire out the patience of an old fox-hunter.

After resigning his seat, he retired altogether to Wychecombe, where he passed the last fifty years, extolling England, and most especially that part of it in which his own estates lay; in abusing the French, with occasional inuendoes against Spain and Holland; and in eating and drinking.

He had never travelled; for, though Englishmen of his station often did visit the continent, a century ago, they oftener did not.