Chapter 15

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.

There was a considerable number of company in the Park when he entered
it, but, his present state of mind inducing him to avoid society, he
kept aloof from the more frequented walks towards Westminster and
Whitehall, and drew to the north, or, as we should now say, the
Piccadilly verge of the enclosure, believing he might there enjoy, or
rather combat, his own thoughts unmolested.

In this, however, Lord Glenvarloch was mistaken; for, as he strolled
slowly along with his arms folded in his cloak, and his hat drawn over
his eyes, he was suddenly pounced upon by Sir Mungo Malagrowther, who,
either shunning or shunned, had retreated, or had been obliged to
retreat, to the same less frequented corner of the Park.

Nigel started when he heard the high, sharp, and querulous tones of
the knight's cracked voice, and was no less alarmed when he beheld his
tall thin figure hobbling towards him, wrapped in a thread-bare cloak,
on whose surface ten thousand varied stains eclipsed the original
scarlet, and having his head surmounted with a well-worn beaver,
bearing a black velvet band for a chain, and a capon's feather for an
ostrich plume.

Lord Glenvarloch would fain have made his escape, but, as our motto
intimates, a leveret had as little chance to free herself of an
experienced greyhound. Sir Mungo, to continue the simile, had long ago
learned to run cunning,