From these canons of criticism, presumptuous of course, however well founded, pass we now to a more grateful theme. Let us allude to the extraordinary and wide-spread enthusiasm for this graceful, health-giving exercise, which has possessed most of our well-born, well-educated women at the present day. In perfect harmony with this amiable furore is their undoubted skill, for the scores of these fair rivals for fame, published in the “Archers’ Journal,” sometimes exhibit their masculine competitors as “nowhere” in comparison with their own shooting. At a recent Grand National Annual Archery Prize Meeting, ten ladies, Mesdames Atkinson, Turner, Horniblow, Litchfield, Lister, Malet, Hare, Edmonstone, Greyson, and Dixon, scored to the tune of between three and four thousand, at what used to be considered “good rifle distance,” viz., sixty yards, and carried away about £150 out of the £500 subscribed as prize money. So much for their science, and the “solid pudding” resulting from it, which is all we can vouch for. How many hearts then and there were transfixed by another description of little shafts, of very, very deadly aim, although they don’t count anything on the target card,
They best can paint it who have felt it most.
Notwithstanding the marks are fabricated of hard twisted straw bass, full two inches thick, and covered with tough painted canvas, a combination making as good body armour as any Royalist cavalier’s buff coat, the ladies’ arrows not only penetrated, but showed their steel points some three or four inches at the reverse side. It follows, of course, that these redoubtable Amazonian dames—Amazonian only in their exquisite skill—with the same bows would, in mortal conflict, have pierced an equal amount of flesh and blood from breast to back.
The bold Penthesilea durst
The Danish fleet oppose;
And from her bows sharp arrows sent,
To gall her harnessed foes.
No sooner was the battle done,
Her golden helm laid by,
Than those by arms she could not take
She slaughtered with her eye.
And what is the result? This exercise, in itself all gracefulness, seems to invest the fair toxophilites with mystic fascinations beyond even the legitimate influence of laughing een and cherry cheeks. The result is too obvious to escape remark. Recommence acquaintance with a bevy of these enslavers after a few season’s absence, and mark what a change comes o’er the spirit of your dream. Worse than Babel confusion of titles, the name that once knew no longer knows them—matronly graces; while, in addition to our friend Buchanan’s burnished shafts, which as vivacious spinsters they handled so deftly, many a comely arrow besides, to which the Psalmist so beautifully alludes, “happy are they who have their quivers full of them, they shall not be ashamed when they speak with their enemies in the gate.” It has been repeatedly remarked how, at most archery gatherings, the matrons far exceed the misses, in number as well as in skill. Verbum sat sapienti, “a hint to the wise is sufficient for her.” Doubtless, the attractions are, and ever have been, reciprocal; at least, we are not left in ignorance that four centuries ago your bowman was the truest, most loyal, and most chivalrous of lovers. “Thomas Boyd, Earl of Arran,” says John Paston, in a letter to his brother, dated about 1470, “is one of the lighterest, deliverest,[1] best spoken, fairest archer; devoutest, most perfect, and truest to his lady of all knights that ever I was acquainted with. So, would God, my lady liked me as well as I do his person and most knightly condition.”
A very clever modern bowman thus cheerily paints these festive gatherings, at which he is constantly a visitor:—”Everybody looks pleased and satisfied with a well-spent day, especially with the achievements of the lady archers, for with them lie the real beauty and charm of our weekly assemblies. On the level, smoothly-shaven lawn, whose cool verdure contrasts pleasingly with their flash and glitter, appear the broad faces of twelve pair of targets, resplendent with circlets of gold, crimson, and azure; and behind each—standing, sitting, or reclining on the turf, in knots of five and six—a long line of England’s fairest daughters, in all the witchery of modern costume—coquettish hats, feathered plumes, flower wreaths, and the proud distinction of prize-medals, the green archer’s meed. Thus they remain, blooming, laughing, and discoursing liquid music, till, at a bugle note, they step forth in front of their butts, like a crowd of brilliant skirmishers thrown forward in advance. Anon the bow is elevated, and one figure, graceful as Dian, lets fly her shafts[2] and instantly retires, to give place to the others. Then follows a whole storm of missiles, ‘iron sleet of arrowy shower,’ and the echoing thud! thud! thud! upon the target face—a sound so pleasant to the shooter’s ear—intimates that the two grand conditions, viz., shooting straight and keeping a length, have not been essayed in vain. And now each quiver being emptied, ‘Over!’ shouts their