have let you have it, from Habbie's Howe, the
true Pentland elixir, for five shillings the pint; for during this
season both the heather and the clover were prolific of the honey-dew,
and the Skeps rejoiced over all Scotland on a thousand hills.

We could tell many stories about bees, but that would be leading us away
from the main argument. We remember reading in an American newspaper,
some years ago, that the United States lost one of their most upright
and erudite judges by bees, which stung him to death in a wood while he
was going the circuit. About a year afterwards, we read in the same
newspaper, "We are afraid we have lost another judge by bees;" and then
followed a somewhat frightful description of the assassination of
another American Blackstone by the same insects. We could not fail to
sympathise with both sufferers; for in the summer of the famous comet we
ourselves had nearly shared the same fate. Our Newfoundlander upset a
hive in his vagaries--and the whole swarm unjustly attacked us. The buzz
was an absolute roar--and for the first time in our lives we were under
a cloud. Such buzzing in our hair! and of what avail were
fifty-times-washed nankeen breeches against the Polish Lancers? With our
trusty crutch we made thousands bite the dust--but the wounded and dying
crawled up our legs, and stung us cruelly over the lower regions. At
last we took to flight, and found shelter in the ice-house. But it
seemed as if a new hive had been disturbed in that cool grotto. Again we
sallied out, stripping off garment after garment, till, _in puris
naturalibus_, we leaped into a window, which happened to be that of the
drawing-room, where a large party of ladies and gentlemen were awaiting
the dinner-bell--but fancy must dream the rest.

We now offer a set of _Blackwood's Magazine_ to any scientific character
who will answer this seemingly simple question--what is Damp?
Quicksilver is a joke to it, for getting into or out of any place.
Capricious as damp is, it is faithful in its affection to all Cottages
ornees. What more pleasant than a bow-window? You had better, however,
not sit with your back against the wall, for it is as blue and ropy as
that of a charnel-house. Probably the wall is tastily papered--a
vine-leaf pattern perhaps--or something spriggy--or in the aviary
line--or, mayhap, haymakers, or shepherds piping in the dale. But all
distinctions are levelled in the mould--Phyllis has a black patch over
her eye