a
brigandine, or a little cote of plate, a skull or hufkyn, a mawle of leade
of five foote in lengthe, and a pike, and the same hanging by his girdle,
with a hook and a dagger; being thus furnished, teach them by musters to
marche, shoote, and retire, keepinge their faces upon the enemy's. Sumtyme
put them into great nowmbers, as to battell apparteyneth, and thus use
them often times practised, till they be perfecte; ffor those men in
battel ne skirmish can not be spared. None other weapon maye compare with
the same noble weapon."

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