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 favourite 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. In the thirteenth year of her age, and in defiance of the strange verses just now quoted, Czarina began to breed, and two of her progeny, Claret and young Czarina, challenged the whole kingdom and won their matches. Major, and Snowball, without a white spot about him, inherited all the excellence of their dam. The former was rather the fleeter of the two, but the stanchness of Snowball nothing could exceed. A Scotch greyhound, who had beaten every opponent in his own country, was at this time brought to England, and challenged every dog in the kingdom. The challenge was accepted by Snowball, who beat him in a two-mile course. Snowball won the Mailton cup on four successive years, was never beaten, and some of his blood is now to be traced in almost every good dog in every part of the kingdom, at least in all those that are accustomed to hunt in an open country. The last match run by Snowball was against Mr. Plumber's celebrated greyhound Speed; and, so severely contested was it, that Speed died soon afterwards. A son of the old dog, called Young Snowball, who almost equalled his father, was sold for one hundred guineas.