Cup, it should make his performance the greatest of the two. That both greyhounds are wonders cannot be denied, and there is no doubt Master M'Grath is the fastest dog that was ever slipped, and as clever with it. Over Altcar he is no doubt invincible; and on the downs of Amesbury or Ashdown it would be worth going a long journey to see him run, but he is not likely to show at either of those meetings, for he will not run again until the Waterloo, 1870. After that he will be put to the stud, and will command as good a price as Bedlamite, who the first year served bitches at twenty guineas each.

It is worthy of note that Lobelia, who won the Waterloo Cup in 1867, met Master M'Grath both this as well as last year in the fourth ties, and was beaten by him. To Walsh, the trainer of Lord Lurgan, and who is the son of one of his tenants, and a pupil of young Gill, the trainer of Neville, too much praise cannot be given for the skill and perfection with which he brought Master McGrath to the slips.

In conclusion, we may say that Lord Lurgan has set a good example to Coursers in general by running his own dog in his own nomination; and the congratulations he received on all sides on his double consecutive victory, must have consoled him for the short price he was obliged to take about his favourite, which afforded a strange contrast to the tactics pursued with his Scotch opponent. And we will only add that Lord Lurgan holds the same place in the affections of the Coursing World that the late Lord Eglinton did among racing men, and this distinction he has acquired by pursuing the same honourable course of conduct in the pursuit of his sporting recreation, which affords sport to all classes of the community, and the highest honours of which are alike as open to the poor man with a solitary dog, as to the noble proprietor of the largest kennel in the kingdom.

LORD GLASGOW,

DIED MARCH 11, 1869.

BEYOND the tumult of the crowded Ring,
Beyond the tocsin of the saddling-bell,
O'ertaken, beaten by the grisly king.

He sleeps beneath the Turf he loved so well.

The soul of honour-nobly had he won,
And bravely kept, though fall'n on evil days,
The name of SPORTSMAN; his declining sun
Shone with the glory of its rising blaze.

Like some bright orb, which cleaves its steadfast way
Across the pathless tracks of falling stars;
Nor heeds impetuous meteors where they stray,
Nor comet's blaze, nor elemental wars.

So, mid the jarring and discordant host,
He kept unstain'd his purity of soul;
Serenely stern; Honour his starting-post,
Justice his course, and Probity his goal.
How many had he seen, in life's long span,
Bright gaudy flies, the creatures of a day,
Taste and defile, as only insects can,

The flowers of sport, then pass unseen away.

Where shall we find his peer? on whom shall fall
His mantle? Who, without reproach, shall bear
The white and crimson banner known to all,
To all a star of honour bright and fair?

For still upon its folds of ancient fame

The well-assorted symbols men might trace;
White showed the honest purpose of his aim,
And crimson true nobility of race.

Heedless alike of sycophants' applause,
Or venomed poison of vindictive pen;
Preferring to his own the common cause,
And ever dealing as a man with men ;
Scorning to make a profit of the dead,

Or milk the quick; disdaining to forestal,
Or start his champion with unloosen'd head,
Then plead anticipation' for his fall;
Loving the sport for its dear sake alone,
Hating the base defilers of its fame;
Winning unmoved, losing without a groan,
Equal to either fortune' of the game.

Such was the man-a pillar of the Turf:
Like some proud rock deep set in Ocean's bed;
Whose base is whitened by the lawless surf,
Yet bears the beacon star upon its head.

Ask ye his failings? Fickle, obstinate,
Impetuous, headstrong, of impulsive will;
Prone to suspicion, violent in hate,

Though oft forgiven, unforgiving still ;
By hasty tongue and ill-considered speech
Marring the sterling temper of his mind;
Needing the oily tact to heal the breach,
And leaving yet a greater gulf behind

Which pride would not bridge over: still his faults,
Virtue's exaggerations, did but prove

His love for what ennobles and exalts-
HONOUR, on whose behalf he ever strove.

Upright, amid the fallen of his race;

True, where the greatest virtue were deceit;
The evil-doer quailed before his face,

The abject toady trembled at his feet.

Gone! with the virtues all his friends approved;
Gone! with the foibles all his foes forgave;
Oh! fondly wrap his bones the Turf he loved,
Peace rest his soul, and honoured be his grave!

AMPHION.

THE TROUT AND SALMON FISHERIES OF NORTH WALES.

FROM time to time in a daily evening newspaper, claiming to be one of the leaders of educated opinion, have appeared very wellwritten articles on subjects which more particularly appertain to sportsmen. The last is Winter in Wales,' in the main points of which I cordially agree; at the same time I must dissent from the talented writer's suggestion that in winter, instead of a rod a duckgun for the wild fowl, and a breech-loader for the woodcocks in the covers on the hills, will find the tourist sufficient employment.' I would here, like Mr. Chucks, the boatswain, just hint in the most delicate manner in the world' that game preservation and the law of trespass exist in the Principality as well as in England; and that if we are to have, in addition to our own standing army of poachers, battalions of tourists, armed with duck-guns and breechloaders, launched upon us, it is very probable that there may be some displeasancies.'

As it is possible that some of the readers of Baily' may also be readers of the Pall Mall Gazette,' I will, so far as space allows, give such a short account of the Welsh fisheries as may be useful to them, if tempted by the eloquence of the newspaper essayist to venture into Wales.

I will here premise that I write for fishermen, not for those deluded cockney's whom every season' lets loose upon us in hordes, fishing-rod in one hand and guide-book in the other, and who in a blazing sun may be seen flogging away at every brook, though the utmost they can hope for must be to howk out two or three sprats of the length of their little finger; but these men are not readers of 'Baily.' And here let me emphatically and dogmatically assert that there is not one Guide-book for Wales' worth the paper it is printed upon, so far as its fishing information goes.

In the limited space of a magazine article it will only be possible to indicate in the most summary manner the best places for trouting (leaving salmon for the present), and begin with the Dee in the north. In this river there is no sport until we come to the Glyn Dyfrdwy or Berwyn Association water, a length of abo it eight miles above Llangollen. This is only fishable in a coracle, but it is very good—

25 or 30 lbs. of trout are often killed by one rod in a day. Daily ticket, coracle, and man to manage it, can be obtained at Llangollen at a cost of 10s. per diem. At Corwen a similar association is formed, called the Owain Glyndwr ;' the fishing is not so good, but no coracle is required. Above Corwen the Alwyn joins the Dee, and it is pretty good, only very woody. The Ceirio falling into the Alwyn used to be excellent; it is now worthless. Keeping up stream, the Dee is here and there preserved (i. e., as against the fair angler), but the whole river is, in this district, frightfully poached. Ere we quite reach Bala Lake the Hirnant falls into Dee from the Berwyn side, full of capital trout, though small. To fish it, permission must be had from Mr. Richardson, of Aberhirnant, of 'Challenger life-boat' celebrity. On the other side the Treweryn comes in, but the trout are utterly worthless. Bala Lake is the exclusive property of Sir Watkin,' but who allows boats under certain restrictions. The fishing here is excellent, whether for pike, perch, or trout. When the May fly comes out, which it does about the 20th of June, capital sport may be had by using an artificial May-fly point and an alder fly and a cochabondu, first and second droppers. The trout run large: the largest I ever saw taken with afy was 5 lbs., and they are of most excellent quality. The perch, too, are very fine: in 1861 I saw one caught 4 lbs. The pike unfortunately are very numerous (they were put into the lake either by the late Sir Watkin or his father), but very good sport is to be had in trolling for them, by those who like it. One bright hot day I had taken my hounds to swim in the shallows under Llanycil Church, when I saw what appeared to be great brown sticks almost between my horse's legs. On looking again they proved to be pike, not by ones and twos, but in dozens, lying on the gravel quite at the edge of the water. I cut off home, put my hounds up, got a gun, and hurried down again, intending to kill a few head; but in the meantime a breeze had sprung up, and they had gone. I have no respect for pike; they eat better fish than themselves, and in my opinion are poor food, and their bones are a cross between a bayonet and a pitchfork. Llangower river falling into the lake on the east side holds many small trout, and after a fresh some of the good lake-trout may be taken in it. The Lavar, the Llew, the Twrch, and the Dee falling into the lake at the top end are preserved by Sir Watkin, and are not fishable by the public until high in the mountains. About four miles from the head of Bala Lake is Llyn Aran, a small lake in which good sport may be had with an east wind. I was once there on a fine still morning with a pack of otter hounds, and the water was literally alive with good fish. 'Harking back' to the north-west we come to the Clwyd and its tributary the Elwy. These rivers have long been given up to poaching in all its ramifications, and are utterly worthless to the angler. Even the riparian proprietors seem to consider fish as their natural enemies. There is a little good water at the head of the Elwy, at Llangerniew, but it is closely preserved. Still turning our faces

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'towards the setting sun,' we reach the Conway, to be considered more particularly as a salmon river; as a trout stream it is very poor until we come to the Pentrevoelas water (Mr. Wynne's, of Lyma), which is strictly preserved, but above this we arrive at a length which any one may fish by staying at the Pentrevoelas Hotel, and this is perhaps the best bit of brook-trouting in North Wales. The trout are large and good, and rise freely. The river is deep and still, with water-lilies in it, and runs through Cernioge bog. Prior to 1855 or 1856 the May fly was unknown in these parts, but about that time it made its appearance on this water, to the astonishment of the aborigines. I was fishing here one day in 1859 with little luck, when-could I believe my eyes-about three o'clock one stormy afternoon I saw a veritable May fly, cadew, green drake, what you will, flapping on the water; presently a flop, and fate in the shape of a good trout was upon him. I took the hint and fished out of my fly-book a long-neglected copy, put him on point, and a cochabondhu as dropper, and by six o'clock had 15 lbs. of good trout in my basket.

The appearance of this fly on these high and exposed tracts certainly points to the gradual amelioration of the climate, to whatever cause owing. The Llugwy falling into the Conwy at Bettys y Coed, after forming a junction with the river from the two lakes at Capel Curig, is not worth fishing, or the lakes either. The Lleder, also falling into Conwy, a mile higher up, was formerly an excellent troutstream, but it is now poached to the last fish, at least it was when I fished it some eight years ago. Llyn Elssy, a small and lovely lake, a mile above Bettws, contains the best trout in Wales. There is only one other lake that can compete with this in the quality of its fish, and that is Morwynion, or the Maiden's lake, three miles from Festiniog. In both these lakes the trout are very shy risers, and four to six fish may be considered a very good bag: what cricketers term a duck's egg would oftener mark the score. They require an artist to catch them, but when brandered (it would be mortal sin to cook them in any other way) are worthy of the immortal gods.

In Llyn Conwy the trout are large, good, and free risers, but it is the property of Lord Penrhyn, and inaccessible to the public. In coming up the Conwy we have passed on its right or Carnarvonshire bank Llyniau Gerionydd, Cowlid, Crafnant, Llyntal Llyn, Bogynwyd, and Bychan, but these are persistently 'lathed' by the peasantry and professed poachers to supply the hotels: there are no boats on them, and the angler has no chance. Following the Chester and Holyhead Railway, we come to Aber Station, and at the head of the stream which there comes down is a small lake where I have

killed good trout ten or a dozen years ago. There was a rickety punt upon it then, that nothing but the fish rising well would have tempted me to trust my life upon-you had to fish with one hand and bale with the other. Still westward, and we arrive at the Ogwyn, a poor stream for trout, but it falls out of the famous lake. This was, twenty-five years ago, the very paradise of trouting,