Would, my dear sir, you had been with me on Thursday, to witness the exploits of this GRIESLY PALMER. Miles up Glensrae, you come--suddenly on the left--in a little glen of its own--on such a jewel of a Waterfall. Not ten feet tall--in the pleasure-grounds of a lowland mansion 'twould be called a Cascade. But soft as its voice is, there is something in it that speaks the Cataract. You discern the Gaelic gurgle--and feel that the Fountain is high up in some spot of greensward among heather-hills. Snow-white it is not--almost as translucent as the pool into which it glides. You see through it the green ledge it slides over with a gentle touch--and seeking its own way, for a few moments, among some mossy cones, it slips, without being wearied, into its place of rest, which it disturbs not beyond a dimple that beautifies the quivering reflection of the sky. A few birch-trees--one much taller than the rest--are all the trees that are there--but that sweetest of all scents assures you of the hawthorn--and old as the hills--stunted in size--but full-leaved and budded as if in their prime--a few hawthorns close by among the clefts. But why prattle thus to you, my dear sir?--no doubt you know it well--for what beautiful secret in the Highlands is unknown to Christopher North? NORTH. I do know it well; and your description--so much better than I could have drawn--has brought it from the dimmer regions of memory, "into the study of imagination." TALBOYS. After a few circling sweeps to show myself my command of my gear, and to give the Naiad warning to take care of her nose, I let drop this GRIESLY PALMER, who alighted as if he had wings. A Grilse! I cried--a Grilse! No, a Sea-trout--an Amber Witch--a White Lady--a Daughter of Pearl--whom with gentle violence and quick despatch I solicited to the yellow sands--and folding not my arms, as is usual in works of fiction, slightly round her waist--but both hands, with all their ten fingers, grasping her neck and shoulders to put the fair creature out of pain--in with her--in with her into my Creel--and again to business. It is on the First Victim of the Day, especially if, as in this case, a Bouncer, an angler fondly dwells in reminiscence--each successive captive--however engrossing the capture--loses its distinct individuality in the fast accumulating crowd; and when, at close of day, sitting down among the broom, to empty and to count, it is on the First Victim that the angler's eye reposes--in refilling, it is the First Victim you lay aside to crown the treasure--in wending homewards it is on the First Victim's biography you muse; and at home--in the Pavillon--it is the First Victim you submit to the critical ken of Christopher-- BULLER. Especially if, as in this case, she be a Bouncer. NORTH.