As to the destiny of the poor animal in his ninth year, we differ from the author; but it cannot be denied that few dogs retain their speed beyond the eighth or ninth year.
There can scarcely be a better description of the greyhound of the present day; but it would not do for the antagonist of the wolf. The breed had probably begun to degenerate, and that process would seem to have slowly progressed.
the close of the last century, Lord Orford, a nobleman enthusiastically devoted to coursing, imagined, and rightly, that the greyhound of his day was deficient in courage and perseverance. He bethought himself how this could best be rectified, and he adopted a plan which brought upon him much ridicule at the time, but ultimately redounded to his credit. He selected a bull-dog, one of the smooth rat-tailed species, and he crossed one of his greyhound bitches with him. He kept the female whelps and crossed them with some of his fleetest dogs, and the consequence was, that, after the sixth or seventh generation, there was not a vestige left of the form of the bulldog; but his courage and his indomitable perseverance remained, and, having once started after his game, he did not relinquish chase until he fell exhausted or perhaps died. This cross is now almost universally adopted. It is one of the secrets in the breeding of the greyhound.
Of the stanchness of the well-bred greyhound, the following is a satisfactory example. A hare was started before a brace of greyhounds, and ran by them for several miles. When they were found, both the dogs and the hare lay dead within a few yards of each other. A labouring man had seen them turn her several times; but it did not appear that either of them had caught her, for there was no wound upon her.
A
bitch of this breed was Czarina, bred by Lord Orford, and purchased at his decease by Colonel Thornton: she won every match for which she started, and they were no fewer than forty-seven. Lord Orford had matched her for a stake of considerable magnitude; but, before the appointed day arrived, he became seriously ill and was confined to his chamber. On the morning of the course he eluded the watchfulness of his attendant, saddled his favourite piebald pony, and, at the moment of starting, appeared on the course. No one had power to restrain him, and all entreaties were in vain. He peremptorily insisted on the dogs being started, and he would ride after them. His favourite bitch displayed her superiority at every stroke; she won the stakes: but at the moment of highest exultation he fell from his pony, and, pitching on his head, almost immediately expired. With all his eccentricities, he was a kind, benevolent, and honourable man.
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