162 
THE CABINET OF NATURAL HISTORY, 
mances of times that are passed; and as for “ Sylvan 
Maids,” “bless you child,” as aunty Dina used to say, 
there has not such a thing been heard of for the three last 
centuries; and what have we in their place? I would tell if 
I could: they are ladies, for that is the only polite way of 
speaking their titles; but as to what they are, their “form 
and pressure,” that is ahidden mystery, composed, we timid- 
ly guess, of puffs, stiffenings, and nameless things, supported 
on a frame work, that I have been told is real flesh, and 
all the other matters that constitute the “ noblest work,” 
but differing in that inconsiderable item the heart, that 
obsolete member being, (as the naturalists say,) “wanting 
in this specimen.” I know not, it may be, that my old 
limbs are gouty, my blood cold, and my temper soured 
by the cares and anxieties, not to say the ingratitude of 
life, such as I have experienced, but I do not look upon 
the “gay beings,” the butterfly beauties of the present 
day, with the same feelings that I once loved so well to 
indulge. I could tell you, that in bygone youth I wandered 
where the melody of the brook in broken murmurs stole 
upon my ear, where the song of the wood robin, in its 
loveliest wood notes wild, were heard in the mellow twi- 
light, and tire native honeysuckle shed its richest fragrance 
round, fanned by the fairy wing of the humming-bird; in 
that lone place, and in that sweet hour, I heard the gentle 
breathing of her, who is still so dear to memory, more 
musical than that soft brook, whose voice was far more 
melodious than that tuneful bird’s whose eyes, in the rap- 
ture of my gaze, seemed like stars from the firmament 
above us, in their own mild radiance steeped; that hour 
has passed, those eyes and that sweet voice have returned 
to the heaven, from whence I thought them, in my fond 
devotion, stolen; and methinks even at this late day, when 
th e fall of life is fast closing upon me, shedding its sere 
and yellow leaf upon my path, that I still see those eyes 
in the firmament, and hear that sweet voice in the gentle 
wind of summer: but no, it is the memory, that busy tat- 
tler, who, upon the cold and dreary reality of present ex- 
istence, of’t intrudes with her phantom smiles, to cheer 
for a moment, but to leave too soon the same cold surface 
it had for a moment broken, like the still lake of the 
woods, whose placid bosom is ruffled for a moment into 
lights and shadows by the falling of a decayed limb from 
the enamoured tree that had so long hung over it in fond- 
ness. 
I have been betrayed by reckless memory into forget- 
fulness of the business of the hour, and must before I re- 
sume it, make an apology to the ladies for what has been 
penned in this, to them, dull scrawl; for some one may 
perchance, on a rainy day, try to beguile the hour, by 
looking over the pages of the Cabinet. Now what apology 
can I make? Why truly none, save this: they need not 
heed me, for I am old, and like the oak upon the hill, my 
head has been scathed by the lightnings of many storms, 
my arms like its boughs are withered, and the canker is in 
my heart. “Logan is the last of his name;” that fragrant 
rose bush that stood at my side has died in its young love- 
liness; its pale leaves scented the air at my feet for a few 
short seasons, and now I am alone. Can we who have 
lived so long, see with eyes that youth and its young hopes 
tinge all on which they rest with their own celestial azure? 
No, it is the green of the goggles with which we shade 
our dull vision, that lends its predominant colouring of 
yellow melancholy to all that in youthful fancy is so bright 
and glowing: with this as my apology, let me depart in 
peace. 
“ The merry merry archers” meet often, and well we 
know the pleasures of the bow, and of’t regret that its 
use is not more general; how many and how agreeable are 
the topics that it affords for discussion, reflection, arrange- 
ment and fancy; let us begin with the bow, and give you 
in it, a sample of the variety of matter that it affords for 
agreeable occupation, even before it is bent. 
“Tell me, S**, what wood is your bow made of? 
“Which do you mean, the body or the back? 
“ It’s made of tw T o pieces, is it? 
“Yes, the body is Lemon, a fine elastic wood, buttoobrit- 
tle to bear the strain without a back; this of mine is back- 
ed with lance wood, the toughness of which prevents the 
body from breaking, and you see when the bow is un- 
strung that it has a back-set, which is given it in the 
making. 
“Is it strong? Let me try it. 
“No, you don’t, we never allow a bow to be handled 
by the uninitiated, for this reason; you see the back-set, 
and take it for granted, that the proper mode is to bend 
it in that direction; the effort is made, and in one instant 
the bow is in two pieces. Your apology is, (after being very 
sorry and all that,) that you had no idea that it would 
break so easy; but I had, and so chose to run no risk. So 
particular are practised archers in this respect, that a rule 
is adopted never to draw a bow unless an arrow is nocked. 
Another reason for care is, that the upper and lower 
limbs of the bow are of different strength and length, the 
handle being below the centre, so that the arrow mav be 
discharged from the middle of the string.” 
This conversation is supposed to pass between the adept 
and the uninitiated; the practised archer inquires of his 
companion, 
“ What is the strength of your bow? 
“About fifty-five pounds; I wish itwasnotquiteso strong, 
for I think I could shoot better if it were weaker, especially 
