A WORD FOR AGE. BY THE AUTHOR OF "VOICES OF CHRISTMAS." In heading my paper thus I am not about to attempt a vindication of that which in itself cannot require to be vindicated; but, seeing that there hangs over these two words (Old Age) certain shadowy somethings which are apt to clothe them in the robes of a bugbear to our eyes, I would not shrink from those shadows, but turn the light upon them if I could, in order that we may see them as they are, and not as morbid fancy is wont to paint them. manhood had, to hang about that ceaseless ego. For we know that, if we sow the wind, we must reap the whirlwind; and even in this life we do eat of the fruit of our own actions. We are startled at times, perhaps, to feel that our lightest action cannot be without its consequences; but we do not sufficiently realize the fact, and it is soon forgotten; and though a fit of enthusiasm may stir us up now and then to some great piece of self-sacrifice, which probably, There is no necessity, certainly, for us to if we get no thanks for it, we indignantly wish think at all, in a morbid sort of way, about old undone again, yet the discipline of life is often age; we may never reach it: but as it is just rejected because it lies in little things; for we one of those things which we persist in doing, must acknowledge that it is as difficult often to would it not be better to look at the dreaded fulfil a trifling courtesy as it would be to do circumstances calmly and reasonably, than to some great thing. We cannot be troubled; we smother them up in a mist of gloomy presenti- are tired, or eccentric-which, being interpreted, ments and forebodings, sighing out to ourselves means conceited-or we do not like our neighthat "We suppose we must come to that some-bours; why should we be put out of our way? time"? First, then, there is a sort of proverbial shaking of the head, half mournful, half bitter, over something that we call "crabbed age." To this we would answer that there is no necessity for age to be "crabbed"; and if it be so, then crabbed youth has had a hand in its production. There comes before us in strange contradistinction to such a proverbialism"The hoar head is a crown of glory," with its condition-"If it be found in the way of righteousness." 66 In these days, especially, few will refuse to acknowledge that we are what we have made ourselves"; and there must be comfort to some -warning to others-in the reflection that old age will be what youth and manhood make it. If the whole thought of the boy, the youth, and the man has been self; his whole study the gratification of his own desires, no matter at whose or what cost, he must reap what he has sown. Himself shall help him in his hour of need. What we strive after in real earnest we shall have; therefore if he has made an idol of himself to worship it, it will be all he has when he is old and feeble. He helped none; why should any help him? The widow and the fatherless were nothing to him, and he turned from the prayer of the poor destitute. He loved none but himself; therefore himself alone will love him. Those who were given him to care for, his tyranny drove away, and they shrink from him still; for he has not altered, he is what he has made himself-a miserable, selfish, discontented man. His acquaintance pass by and will not see him, for his querulous talk is still "myself, my ailments, my troubles; how badly I am used"! as it ever was; but now he has lost what little grace his They are nothing to us! Well, then, if we will walk along crabbed paths, we shall bring upon ourselves the crabbed old age; for what we are now we shall be when we grow old, only without the grace to put a decent veil over our sourness. Only let us remember that, if we do come to that, we have ourselves to thank for it; the reverse of the medal is open to us if we would choose it. I do not mean that we are to propose to ourselves happiness on earth as our object in doing our duty. Our aim must be higher than that; nevertheless, we are promised that we shall find pleasure by the way. But then it is so hard to keep the aim always before us, and to be what we ought to be! It is very hard-so hard, that, as the full consciousness of the battle to be fought comes upon us, we are tempted to cry out despairingly, "if I might only be safe and die!" There can be but one answer to that. It is. not to the idle that rest is promised; and if the battle is great, so is the exceeding and eternal weight of glory; and the head that refuses the cross can never wear the crown. Again: it is a common saying that age blunts the feelings and perceptions; that the old are no longer capable of any great enjoyment or happiness. To the first portion of this dogma we are ready, in some degree, to subscribe. When the limbs are stiffened and feeble, and hand and lip grow tremulous, we have no right to expect that the brain can continue in all the vigour of youth: yet we think this a hard saying: we do not like to hear it: we would turn away from it if we could. There seems but little comfort in the reflection, that if our joys are blunted our sorrows will be blunted too. We would rather have both in their intensity—at least we fancy so, in our ignorance. I am not now speaking of the thoughts of very young people. Age looks so far off that it has no terror for them; they do not care to think about it, or to hear of consolation behind the hill which they have hardly begun to ascend, and on which the sun seems to be always shining. I am speaking of those who are not amongst the very young, and who are not yet old-who are tempted to do battle against the years as they come creeping on, and who dread old age with a causeless dread. Youth is not quite past, perhaps, but it is passing, and they cling to it, unwilling to feel that they have reached the hill-top, beyond which there is nothing to look forward to but decline and decay; no more pleasure, no more enjoyment only decay! We may well be reluctant to accept such a sentence as this; and surely there is no reason why we should do so. In the first place no one will say that age is in itself unlovely: bare instinct teaches us to reverence it. It often is, and might always be, very beautiful, when it is the calm sunset of a life spent not in self-seeking, but in earnest study to follow the great Pattern, and in doing good to all men. Besides, we are too apt to reckon up the troubles of a possible future as though they were all to be borne at once, instead of remembering that each unit of the heap will have its unit of time and strength given with it; and when we look so drearily into those years of feebleness and decline which may or may not be in store for us, we forget that we are striving to bear them before they come, and that our frames are not yet capable of feeling them, nor our minds of measuring their effect. In the next place, why should we suppose that age has no capacity for enjoyment? It certainly loses the strong feelings which belong to youth; it has no longer that keen appreciation of youthful pleasures and excitements; nor the brightness of faculty which delighted to busy itself in calculating the affairs of men, but when we look upon this change dismally, and skrink from it, surely we are shortsighted, for in wisdom and loving kindness it is ordained. We know that the young do die, but we know also that they are not looking for death, as the old are. These last not only know that it must come eventually, but that it must be near, even at the door. Think then how it would be with them if there were no change: if the heart were still clinging with the great strength and warmth of its youth to this life and its blessings; to this beautiful world-for it is beautiful-and its pleasures and comforts, while it feels that the parting from all is daily drawing nearer, and cannot possibly be far distant. Is it not a very merciful law that so gradually and gently loosens the hold upon earth, and hides away the beauty of things, earthly, from the spirit which is drawing near to its return! Besides this, we cannot possibly understand yet the nature of that state which we dread by anticipation, any more than our limbs in their full vigour can feel the trembling and uncertain step and the stiffened joints which belong to age. Will the old man, who has lived as he ought, tell us that he has no enjoyment? Does he complain that his affections are dim and cold? We, in our wisdom decide that it is so, and make it a subject for dismay and sorrow; but we do not find that it is a cause of unhappiness to him. If his affection is dull, we do not even know that he is conscious of it. And the mistake may be ours. The love which once clung to earth for the sake of the beloved, may be changed and spiritualized, not lessened; it may be turned into a living and tender prayer for union in the life to come, where parting shall be known no more. And there is one thing which never fails-I mean Hope. Even in youth our happiness was more in the future than the present, because there not be a meaning in this? We know the hope is more beautiful than possession. May beauty of hope-it is with us on earth, and it reaches to things beyond the earth; but we can is accomplished-till "this corruptible shall never know the full glory of possession till hope have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall second to hope in youth, fails and grows feeble have put on immortality." Memory, which is with the years, for earth bounds it; but hope cannot fail. It may change, withdrawing itself more and more from those things which shall pass away, to gather nearer the great centre of all hope; but that change can only purify and brighten it. For my own part, I have seen old age unspeakably beautiful and happy; and I have also making it a bugbear, would it not be better to seen it repulsive and miserable. But instead of think of it-if we must think of it at all-as something which shall grow out of what we are now? that every action of ours is laying in store for it either good or evil-pleasure or pain? Instead of that miserable, vain battle, against it, and the devices to hide its advances, which are common enough amongst us; and the peevish, repining submission when it can be fought off no longer, surely it would be better to accept it readily and lovingly as it creeps on, remembering-and taking comfort in the remembrancethat the future will be what we are labouring to make it; and that it rests with ourselves, with our use or abuse of the present, whether our age shall be, in its degree, happy or miserable. ENOCH READE; OR, THE DEER-STEALERS OF WOLMER FOREST. BY JOHN D. CARTWRIGHT. "Most men are sportsmen by constitution, and there is such an inherent spirit for hunting in human nature as scarce any inhibition can restrain."-WHITE'S "Hist. of Selborne." CHAP. I. ENOCH AND ALICE. you to prison; and yet, somehow, you like him all the while-he's so kind and hopeful, and he hardly ever finds fault. When he said I was suspected, I hid my head in the bush I was "But, Enoch, do promise me that you will pruning, and went on cutting away, the young not go ?" "I didn't say I was going, Alice." "But you said you should like, and didn't say you wouldn't. Oh do, do give me your word that you won't; for I know, I feel something will happen if you do." "Nonsense! I shan't come to any hurt: but there, I-I won't go. I can't abide tears, you know; but I don't see why you should be so frightened." "I have a presentiment." "Tut, Alice, what's a presentiment? I halfbelieve some of those gipsies have been frightening you. I've been to the forest lots of times before, and you were never so fearful. When we're married, Alice-and it don't want so very long to Michaelmas now-of course I shall give up my gun, and never think about the forest except as a pleasant place to go to on a Sunday in the summer. I do think you needn't make such a fuss about it this once, seeing it's the very last time I shall ever think of it." "I can't help it, Enoch, because I know something would happen. They're so strict now they've got this new law, and the rangers are out watching all over the forest. Think of what the Bishop said to you, and don't go. The Bishop is a good man, and likes you; surely you'll not forget what he said ?" "No, I'm not going to forget, Alice: it was very kind of him; and whenever he comes to me as I'm i' the garden, I feel more pleasure than ever in touching my cap to him, for I believe he's about the best man alive." "What was it he said, Enoch ?" " Only as it was rumoured that I'd joined the 'Blacks,' and he hoped it wasn't true, because he couldn't keep me if I took to deer-stealing; and then he told me about the Black Act,* and how they meant to make examples; but it wasn't so much what he said as the kind way he said it in. When he talks to you its worse than if he sent Statute 9 Geo. I, c. 22. wood as well as the old, till he laid his hand on my shoulder, and said I'd better not work while he was talking to me." "And didn't you promise him never to go to the forest again ?" "That would have shown that I had been ; but he would not let me promise anything, and as soon as he'd done speaking walked away." "Well, you won't go after he's been so kind to you? What's the worth of the venison, or the skin and all, when put beside his good word and your own name?" "It ain't the money we go for, Alice; it's the sport. You can't understand that?" "I can't understand what will make you go miles and miles in the night, with a set of bad men, putting yourself in danger, and everybody who loves you in fear." "Well, there, don't cry, Alice; and I'll tell them I can't go to-night." It was a calm autumn evening; the sun was resting on the hills, and filling the valley below with a rich golden light. The voices of children, shouting as they ran to and fro in their mirthful play, mingled with the lowing of kine from the farm homestead, and the sweet chiming of the bells of Winchester Cathedral, calling people to evening prayers. Here and there, across the valley, the corn was still standing in the fields; in others men were busy loading their waggons with the golden grain, and the gleaners were taking their way over the meadows to the villages, with the result of their day's labour poised upon their heads. It was one of those sweet, peaceful scenes so thoroughly English, so happily familiar to thousands of our countrymen. And Enoch Reade and Alice Farnham completed the picture. Broad-shouldered, stalwart Enoch, with his arm round Alice's waist, loitering through the meadows in that pleasant sunset-time, was a sight not to be forgotten. His manly bearing, and fine face and figure, had attracted the admiration of many a man beside the good Bishop Hoadley, and many a pretty girl beside the one who walked at his side. Enoch was known through all the countryside as the best player at bowls, and the swiftest runner, and there was not his match at singlestick or wrestling in any of the neighbouring villages. His dress was careless and open, as befitted the warm evening. He wore no covering for his head-a custom more prevalent a century and a-half ago than now-and his wavy brown hair was pushed back from his square brow in a careless, unconcerned way, just according with the character his figure and features suggested. just the man I wanted to see. Been to take the pretty Alice home-eh? You're a lucky 'un, you are!" And the voice gave a low chuckle. 'Ah, Tom! I didn't expect to meet you," said Enoch, not very comfortable under the other's familiarities. "Didn't ye, though?" said Tom. "I wanted to meet you, and I knew where the hind was the buck would be also-ha! ha!" This was Tom Neville, a leader of the "Blacks." Tom was Enoch's evil genius. He it was who had led him step by step into the evil work that had made himself odious to everybody who knew him, and had already tarnished Enoch's good name. He it was who had first whispered abroad the fact that Enoch had joined the Alice was a pretty village-girl, not a little proud in the possession of Enoch's love, and loving him with her whole heart, as was very" Blacks." It was an evil chance that led him to evident when she put her arm on his shoulder, and raised her face to receive his kiss at the close of the dialogue, saying, "Oh, Enoch, I am so glad you won't go!" There were few people in Winchester more widely known than Enoch and Alice; few subjects of regret more generally acknowledged than that which was experienced when it first began to be whispered about that Enoch was occasionally out with the deer-stealers, who made such terrible havoc among the stately herds of red deer that peopled Waltham Chase and Wolmer Forest. Most of the men who engaged in that unlawful sport were of a very different character to Enoch. They were low, lawless men, who organized themselves into bands that were the terror of the whole county. All the county "was," as White afterwards wrote, "wild about deer-stealing; and the Waltham Blacks at length committed such enormities, that Government was forced to interpose with that severe and sanguinary act called the Black Act." Enoch bade Alice good-night at her own cottage-door, and set off at an altered pace across the fields back to Winchester, to tell his confederates that he would not join them. But the further he receded from Alice the more undetermined he became. The whistle with which he had started died away, and as he vacillated between the desire to gratify his appetite for sport and his fear, not for himself-Enoch Reade was a stranger to fear-but of Alice's and the good Bishop's displeasure, his step became slower, and he climbed steadily over the stiles he had leapt before. Was it not only a foolish fear, that of Alice's? Wasn't it really unkind to deny him this last pleasure? And after all, did he really care so much what the Bishop thought about him? So long as he worked well, what could it matter? And in three weeks he should marry her, and give this sort of enjoyment up for ever? These were the arguments passing through Enoch's mind as he went back across the meadows. He was roused from them by a hand falling heavily upon his shoulder, and a rough voice at his ear-" Good even, Enoch; you're the wavering man, debating within himself between his desire and his duty. Duty had well. nigh triumphed, and Enoch had relinquished the thought of going out that night; indeed, he had determined to go straight to the Bishop's residence, so he might be out of temptation's way. Tom Neville protested that he had a great regard for Enoch; but a man of less open and trusting a nature than Enoch's would have seen through it, and have known that it was but malicious spite because he had come between Tom and Alice-not that she ever liked Tom, but he was pleased to think so, and to believe that it was Enoch who had prevented her from loving him. "And what did you want with me, that you couldn't wait till we met at?" asked Enoch. But Tom did not answer directly. There was some one passing, and they walked on in silence for a few paces. "And is the charmer as pretty as ever, eh?" said Tom. "I shall never forgive you for robbing me of her." "She'd never have had you, if there had been never another man alive," was the reply. There was one subject Enoch could not bear Tom to speak of, and that was Alice. "There now, you needn't be raw about it; I gave the game up long ago." "You didn't give it up; it was she who did that." "Well, as you like," said Tom, affecting a carelessness it was easy to see through. "We don't meet at the old hovel to-night, and that's why I came to look for you, to tell you; so we needn't miss in the dark. They say the watchers are out, and the rangers are wild; that last buck was the king of the forest." "I can't go to-night," said Enoch, with a good determination to keep his word, and save his character from further disgrace. "Can't go?" echoed his companion, incredu lously. "What? frightened at a couple of extra rangers? Well, I will say as I'd never have believed that; no, not if my own brother had told me as Enoch Reade was a-coward, I would not ha' believed him." "I am not afraid; but I can't go to-night," said Tom, his voice wavering; for it did look like cowardice, and, if there was one thing more odious in Enoch's sight or more opposite to his character than another, it was cowardice. "If I had been Alice Farnham's chap, she'd never ha' come between me and what I liked." "Mind what you say about her, or cowardice, Tom, or you'll find I ain't afraid o' you." "I'll wish ye good night, a quarrelsome fellow that ye are. They'll never believe it; not they. Jist on a night when there's a little more danger, and we ought to be strongest, there's Sam falls down and hurts his leg, and Enoch turns- Well, I am deceived!" As Tom finished speaking, he turned away. To desert them just then did look terribly like cowardice. Enoch couldn't do it. "Stop a bit, Tom; I'll go," he said. "Why, give us your hand," said Tom, returning; "I thought ye wasn't the man to desert your comrades and break your word." That last sentence jarred terribly on poor Enoch's ears. He had promised first to go; then that he would not he must break one promise-which ?-the last! Half-an-hour later, when twilight had deepened into darkness, Enoch, with a heavy heart but a light step, was taking his way stealthily across the pastures and by unfrequented roads to Wolmer Forest. CHAP. II. NIGHT IN THE FOREST. As a precautionary measure, the "Blacks," as they were called, went singly and by different paths, to their rendezvous. But although they adopted this precaution, they were as bold and fearless as ever outlaws have been since laws were framed. They for years scarcely attempted to disguise or deny that they hunted in the night; watched the hind to her lair; pared the feet of her calf to the quick, to prevent its escape until it was fat and large enough to be killed, when they would return and bear their prize away. These, and a hundred other similar acts, did these men perform, till their name spread over the country; and Government endeavoured to stop it by awarding sentence of death to the offenders. Enoch was first at the spot fixed upon for the meeting a little dell upon one of the downs that border on the forest. The night was dark, but the moon was rising. The wind had increased after the sun went down, and grey clouds were scudding rapidly overhead. Enoch had not been many minutes in the dell when there was a low whistle, and a man and dog came up to where he stood; and then another, and another, till there were a dozen fearless men grouped together, and nearly as many dogs. But few words of greeting passed between them, and they were soon intent upon blacking their faces. Strive as they might to hide it, anyone used to see them preparing for the chase could not have failed to observe a great change in their manner. They had all heard of the new Act, and this was the first time they had been "out" since it came into operation. Over their ale, at the "Jolly Hunters," they had laughed at it; but here in the dark they did not feel it to be a matter for merriment exactly. There were but four guns among them: these were produced from secret pockets, put together, and carefully loaded all in silence-very unlike their usual custom; for they had been wont to make their way to the forest shouting and laughing fearlessly, and pausing at the ranger's door to sing "just one stanza more" of the hunting-songs of the period. The fear that was weighing on each mind obtained the mastery once, and was very generally expressed; there was an almost deathly stillness on the down that night, and, after everything was ready, but before they moved, it was broken by a low sharp crack, as if a rotten gorse-twig had been trodden on by a stealthy foot and broken. One of the dogs gave a sullen growl. “What was that?" asked half-a-dozen voices: "Quiet, Fleetfoot, quiet!" A night before they would have rushed up the hill to see, instead of asking. As it was, they did not move, and the silence was as intense as before. "Only the rabbits," said Tom Neville. "Come, let us get into the forest; the moon is getting up." They made a vain endeavour, as they passed out on to the open wold, to assume their old fearless bearing. "What's that?-a solitary buck?" "No; it's a man." "Pshaw! it is but the last rotten post of the old gibbet," said Enoch. "Can posts walk out of the light into the shadow of the forest?" "No." "Well, that did. I think there's mischief brewing; we had better-" he hesitated.; "Better what?" "Go back." "I thought you'd more pluck nor that, Jim !" This brought them to the edge of the forest, and they pushed in, Enoch full of doubt and evil forebodings, but keeping his place in the foremost rank. The vague presentiment of Alice occurred to his mind, and the thought of what the Bishop would say to him would come uppermost. But when others quailed Enoch was the man to be bold, and he pushed his way through the bushes and underwood of the forest more fearlessly than the rest. Twelve men like them-strong, and accustomed to hard work that had fully developed their strength-could not have much reason to fear so long as they acted in a body and kept close together; still every dry stick that broke under their foot, every rustle of the leaves on the wind-swept trees, |