Even in Elizabeth’s reign the bow was thought to be more advantageous than the musket; because the latter was at that period very cumbrous, and unskilful in contrivance, while archery had been carried to the highest perfection.  Mr. Grose tells us that an archer could formerly shoot six arrows in the time necessary to charge and discharge a musket; and, as a specimen of the aim to be taken, even in modern days, a practised bowman has been known to shoot twelve arrows in a minute, into a circle not larger than the circumference of a man’s hat, at the distance of forty yards.

[1] Notes by Mr. Grose, the antiquarian, in Selections from Gentleman’s
    Magazine, vol. i.  In the Archaeologia. vol. vi. we find it stated
    that “Artillery (artillerie) is a French term signifying Archery,
    as the king’s bowyer is in that language styled artillier du roy;
    and from that nation the English seem to have learnt at least the
    cross-bow archery.”

[2] Grose.

[3] Grose.

[4] Hist.  England, by Sir James Mackintosh, vol. i.

[5] Dated from Clarence-terrace, Regent’s-park.

[6] Vide Grose on Ancient Armour.  D’Alembert, Encyclopedie.  Art.  Arbalette.

[7] Maitland’s London.

* * * * *

THE GIPSEY FORTUNE-TELLER.

(For the Mirror.)

  Augur only happy days,
    Gipsey, when thy glancing eye,
  Fain would dart its piercing rays,
    Through her future destiny.

  Life is yet without a shade,
    She has gathered flowers alone;
  Tell her not, that roses fade,
    When the ardent summer’s gone.

  Sully not her early dream,
    With reality’s cold hue,
  Let her morning brighter seem,
    Glittering with the early dew.

  Tell her not, that clouds o’ershading,
    Rainbows bright will darkly cover;
  Tell her not, that quickly fading,
    “All that’s bright!” ere noon is over.

  Tell her not of memory’s tear,
    And affection’s broken chain;
  Tell her not, that every year,
    Brings but sorrow, care, and pain!

  Soon the mist will roll away,
    And the soft enchantment fly: 
  Gipsey, hasten on thy way,
    Ne’er unrol her destiny!

  Tell her, if thou wilt, that never,
    ’Neath the skies may be her home,
  And if thou that hope hadst ever,
    Tell her of a world to come!

Kirton, Lindsey.

ANNE R.

* * * * *

FINE ARTS.

THE BRITISH INSTITUTION.

(From a Correspondent.)

The admirers of modern painting invariably anticipate much delight prior to the opening of the Exhibition at this institution, and their hopes in the present instance have not been disappointed, as there certainly is a fine display of talent in almost every department of the art.  There are nearly six hundred works.