CHAPTER XV
Twas when fleet Snowball's head was woxen grey,
A luckless lev'ret met him on his way.--
Who knows not Snowball--he, whose race renown'd
Is still victorious on each coursing ground?
Swaffhanm Newmarket, and the Roman Camp,
Have seen them victors o'er each meaner stamp--
In vain the youngling sought, with doubling wile,
The hedge, the hill, the thicket, or the stile.
Experience sage the lack of speed supplied,
And in the gap he sought, the victim died.
So was I once, in thy fair street, Saint James,
Through walking cavaliers, and car-borne dames,
Descried, pursued, turn'd o'er again, and o'er,
Coursed, coted, mouth'd by an unfeeling bore.
&c. &c. &c,
The Park of Saint James's, though enlarged, planted with verdant
alleys, and otherwise decorated by Charles II., existed in the days of
his grandfather, as a public and pleasant promenade; and, for the sake
of exercise or pastime, was much frequented by the better classes.
Lord Glenvarloch repaired thither to dispel the unpleasant reflections
which had been suggested by his parting with his trusty squire, Richie
Moniplies, in a manner which was agreeable neither to his pride nor
his feelings; and by the corroboration which the hints of his late
attendant had received from the anonymous letter mentioned in the end
of the last chapter.
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