Flaxius

It was in the very old time of merry England. In the days when there was so much merriment among those who were above the line of safety, and so much misery for those who were below it as would have appalled a modern sociologist. When a man who was out of prison, and not positively starving to death, contrived to be happy. When, according to the testimony of all writers from Caedmon down very nearly to Chaucer, there was such suffering from all kinds of oppression among the poor as to make the heart sick to think of it. Out of which very time there has come to us such gay and festive song and chording of harps, twanging of citterns, ringing of goblets, gay hurrahing, archery, dancing round maypoles and valentining as to make one thrill with joy to think of it. For the only rule of life then was:

‘Eat, drink, and be merry while ye can,
For to-morrow we’ll perish, be sure, my man;
Make the most of what fate will lend you,
Then go wherever the priest may send you!’

And it was in the north, at a time when Anglo-Saxon and Danish-Icelandic were beginning to be English, and there was still much sound old heathenism in men’s hearts, and witches rode over the midnight sky, while fairies danced in moon-lit rings below—then it was, I say, that the immortal Flaxius paused one fair day on his pedestrian path in Northumberland.

‘A tall spreading forest there he found,
With a woodman at work mid oak-trees near,
The strokes of his axe broke the silence round,
Till the traveller called aloud, “Come here!”’

And he that was called came, and Flaxius looked at him steadily ere he spoke, but with evident approbation and interest. He was a young and lithe but strong and vigorous man, handsome, almost to beauty, in face, with a straight nose and a keen, dark eye, in which there was indeed naught repulsive, but something strange, such as one sees in the glances of uncanny folk who know things of which they do not speak to their neighbours. His dress was but little superior to that of the ordinary peasant, but there was something in the manner in which it was worn, as well as in the bold mien, and almost graceful bearing of the youth, which indicated rank or ‘birth.’

‘God be with ye!’ said Flaxius to the woodman. ‘I would fain rest here a while and chop a few words with thee, so thou be not too busy with thy chopping of wood.’

‘Nay,’ replied the youth, with a quaint pursing of the mouth, ‘many strokes fell great oaks, and many words bring merry jokes; while as for the resting never yet saw I the time when I would not pause to listen to those who are wiser than I am:

“He who listeneth to eld,
Himself shall be in honour held.”

As my grandfather was wont to teach me with many a brave tale to prove it.’

‘Thy grandfather,’ replied Flaxius, who had meanwhile studied his face more attentively, ‘was Aeolfric Adelwit, whom men called the learned and the traveller.’

‘By Freia!—I mean the Holy Virgin!’—exclaimed the youth astonished and delighted, ‘thou art either a wizard or one who knew him, and it may be,’ he added, lowering his voice and looking round suspiciously, ‘perhaps a bit of both, for my grandfather who is now, I trust, in Valhall among the heroes and sages—I mean in heaven among the saints—was called a sorcerer by the fools hereabouts.’

Flaxius smiled. Each looked at the other with one eye closed; the Sage shutting the right, and the youth the left, which is the sign by which the initiated of all grades recognise one another, and the one generally used by Mahatmas and others in the Karma business—as it was by the augurs of yore—when there were true believers present or under discussion.

‘I was even about to take my noon-day rest,’ said the woodman, ‘and if it please you to partake my poor meal—thin cider and bread and bacon—I would it were for your sake wine and a capon!’

‘Knowest thou, O Eadward, grandson of Aeolfric,’ said Flaxius solemnly, ‘that whoever made a wish in that moment past—at that special position of the planets—but unwittingly—obtained it. Behold!’

And saying this he opened the basket which the youth had taken from under a thicket, and opening it drew forth a large cold roasted capon, a manchet of bread, and a mighty flask, with fruit.

‘By the divine banquet of the boar Sahrimnir!—I mean the Holy Supper!’—cried the youth, ‘thou hast come in a lucky hour to get a snack, O blessed traveller!’

‘Therefore,’ exclaimed Flaxius, producing a great silver goblet from his pack, which he filled from the flask, ‘therefore, O my son, drink!’ And just then the sunlight catching the stream awoke in it a wide-spreading, ruddy gleam, and his whole face, yea his very form, seemed to be bathed and steeped in ruby, ruddy light, as a piece of red glass in a cathedral window. And so he looked more like a glorious Bacchus, or merry Jupiter, transfigured and idealised into a gay glory in a sun-set sky, wherein the early stars were piping merrily a roundelay for vespers, and the clouds like fauns did cluster round to hear.

‘I have seen my grandfather, by Saint Eadward!’ said the youth, for once getting in a Christian swear successfully, ‘draw good ale from a hole bored in a beech-tree, which was thought to be a wondrous sorcery—I meant miracle—by the folk hereabout. But he never managed such a tap as this,’ he exclaimed, as he took a pull, which might have half emptied the Gialahorn, and would have excited the envy of the Hornbruderschaft, or Hard-Drinking Brotherhood, founded by the great Bishop Johann von Manderscheit in the castle of Hoh-Barr.

‘And by Odin who was fed on wine alone!’ (here he balanced the religious equation), ‘and like his holy cup, it refills itself!’

‘I bestow it on thee, Eadward, grandson of Aeolfric, for thy grandsire’s sake,’ said Flaxius; ‘and it shall remain full, I swear, so long as thou remainest an honest man, a true kind heart, friendly to those in need, and a good, valiant, joyous drinker and bon compagnon. Waes hael!’ he added, taking a draught which was indeed pari passu with that of Eadward’s:

‘Like and like do gladly greet,
Same with joy the same doth meet,
One good turn deserves another,
Therefore drink with me, O brother;
Even as in days of yore,
Commodus, Rome’s Emperor,
Drank his boon companions dumb:
Exsuperantissimum!’

‘Trinc hael!’ replied Eadward, with a look of deep, steadfast, honest gratitude. ‘And as I cannot speak my thanks, O my greatest benefactor, therefore do I drink them!’

Nor was the young Norse-Saxon, as he said this, far unlike a jolly troll or faun himself, for the glowing golden red of sun- and wine-light shone over him and glinted in his hair, which was like waves of topaz, hanging over his eyes and rolling down his shoulders like a tufted oriole or aureole.

‘When autumn browneth wood on hill,
And the nights are growing chill,
Then upon ye wagon strong,
Ye see caskés borne along,
Black and foul without as sin,
Full of wine and ale within;
Red fire wine and golden ale,
Where from many drinken hale,
With merry song and minstrelsie:
As I do drink, all-heart, to thee!’

And he who had peeped into that shady dell on that summer day and seen the pair, amid green leaves gay, with the wondrous wizard aura or rich flood of wine-light all round them, as they caroused and sang, would have verily believed he saw two joyous pagan sylvan gods who, hidden well away behind the age, had met to live the gay old times again.

‘And now tell me, Eadward,’ said Flaxius, ‘to a hair, how it goes with thee in life?’

‘My grandfather, as thou knowest,’ replied the youth, ‘was learned, and had travelled in many lands. He went to Norway, whence he never returned. It was said that when King Olaf Tryggvason assembled all the wise men in the old heathen religion in a house to which he set fire, and in which they were burned alive, my grandsire also perished. And it was a cursed deed, whoever did it. Something of Latin and other lore I learned from my grandfather, who bade me keep it ever a secret, saying that “he is a fool who shows his lore to any save to his superiors therein.” But what land my grandsire left, my father lost, so that all I have now is a field and a wood and mine own arms. Yet with some wit, and selling and trading cattle, I keep my home, truly in no great style.’

Flaxius mused and said, ‘I knew thy grandfather, and though he was not far advanced as a magian, yet he had fairy blood from distant strain, and he was, above all things, a good and honest man. And it is among us a duty to aid the descendants of all such men, when they are deserving. Now I will help thee to help thyself; but note well, Eadward, never in thy life didst thou so need every virtue as thou wilt need them now to succeed. For this is the usual secret of rising to Fortune. Some friend puts our feet on the first step of the ladder, or guides us to it, but we must climb the rest ourselves.’

‘Something like this,’ said Eadward, ‘did I once hear from my grandfather:

‘“Look well round thee with thine eyes,
Where’er thou art, if thou wouldst rise;
It is not by a single flight,
But step by step we gain the height.
So up the tree the emmet goes,
Even as Rolf the Giver rose.”’

‘Well sung,’ quoth Flaxius, ‘and pass the cup! Now take this dried leaf.’ He gave to the youth a doubled strip of parchment, like a thin book, in which was indeed a leaf.

‘To-night or to-morrow go, bathed and fasting, to bed. Then eat this leaf and note what thou shalt dream. Do exactly to a hair what thou mayst be told to do—nothing more nor less. After that all will depend on thy own good sense, courage, and kindness. And when one year shall have passed by thou wilt see me again, to render count of all that thou hast done.’

So they parted with kind words, the youth to try his fortune, and Flaxius, like Odin, ever onwards to the North.

---

A year had passed, and the Immortal Sage sat in a wild and adventurous-looking place, deep buried amid lonely woods and cliffs, by a headlong torrent, before the Odin-stone, a strangely shaped rock, seeming like a Druidic megalith, through which there was a hole of a foot in diameter. It was a striking object, and Flaxius well knew it had a tale. For he had been there and then.

He heard the trampling of a horse in the woods. He looked up and saw a magnificent steed, on which sat a knight in splendid attire. The rider dismounted; it was Eadward; and the two embraced.

‘Yea, I have the flask, and it has never run dry,’ said the youth, producing it.

‘That tells a good tale,’ replied Flaxius. So they filled and drank. ‘And now let me hear the details.’

‘Make spede is a good rede,’ replied the knight. ‘This is the story which I set before ye.

‘As you bade, I ate the leaf, and went to bed. And in a dream there came to me a white lady or a Norna. Such beauty did I never see before. And she said, “Eadward, grandson of Aeolfric, go to-morrow to the Odin-stone, even where we now are, and watch for one hour. Then do as thou wilt.” Word no more spake she, but vanished, and I awoke.

‘So I went with my cross-bow and knife to the stone. And here I watched for one hour, yet I saw nothing. Then, as I was about to go, I saw a strange thing. For there came creeping through the hole in the stone a fox. And such a fox I never saw before, for it was of a beautiful tawny, soft, golden colour; and on it was a large black cross. And though I was in awe, something—it seemed like a voice—bade me slay it. I did so, and skinned it, and wrapped the skin and put it in my bag, and went my way.

‘Now there is—it may be half a day’s walk from here—a rock on which Ulf the Dane, in olden time after a great battle, had carved the image of a wolf, with runic knots and letters, very curious to behold, and there I paused a while to rest. And, anon, there came to me a man, an outlander, as I weened; but he pleased me, and we held discourse. He was not rich of apparel, but he had this horse here, and a better I never saw; for truly, by Sleipnir!—I mean by the White Steed of Death seen by Saint John!—there is not its like in all the land.

‘So we talked, and I gave him of my wine. And we spake of elves and wizards and dreams. And then he said, “I will tell thee a strange tale; for indeed it was a dream which brought me hither, but, I fear, to little purpose and no good, as the troll said of the long talk which ended by his being turned to stone.

‘“And this,” he said, “is sooth and truth.” And he sang:

‘“Unto King Ulfbrand
Thus spake the wise man,
He the deep learned
Servant of Frey:
‘Danger is over thee,
Wild screaming war eagle
On the moss-grown tree,
By the white cataract,
Calleth on death to thee!
And the claw of the bear
Has scratched runes on the beech-tree;
And thy realm will be lost
Unless thou winnest
The skin of a fox
Of colour pale golden,
With a black cross.’

‘“Now the king was sore afraid, and offered his daughter to any of his nobles who could win him the prize. And I, with small hope, asked a witch, one whom I had greatly befriended—yea, saved her life and given her shelter. And she studied her spells seven days and nights with great pain, and then bid me obey my first dream. And I dreamed that I should trust in and abide by a wolf for three days. And coming here by chance I heard this rock called the Wolf; and so at hap-hazard here I have remained, but nothing has come of it, and I fear me that nothing will.”

‘Then it came into my mind,’ said Eadward, ‘hearing this, that I myself should go to King Ulfbrand and win a great reward. And yet again that this would be foul play to the man before me, and that thou, Flaxius, didst bid me to be generous and true. So I prayed in my soul to all the gods.’

(‘And a sweetly-mixed mythology thou hast, my dear boy!’ reflected Flaxius.)

‘And then said to the man, taking the skin from my bag: “Is not this what thou seekest? Take it in God’s name, for I believe it should be thine.”

‘Then he turned white and red for joy and amazement, and said:

‘“I will not haggle and cheapen with thee like a pedler, for ill fate befalls the man who is mean in buying such things. All that I have in this world, save my land, is this horse and ten gold pieces and I give them to thee, and I would I had more.” So I took his horse, but I gave him two gold pieces for his journey as fare-gold, and so he went his way.

‘But I rode on, unthinking and wondering whether I had done wisely, yet hoping hard as did Gautrek when he fought the bear. When, following a road, I came upon a horse which had been hard ridden, with bloody sides. It seemed to be dying, and yet anon, a furlong further in the woods, I found a noble knight, lying by a brook, who seemed in as evil case as the horse, for he was sore-bruised and could hardly move, and barely speak.

‘Then I asked him what it meant and he replied in pain:

‘“For two days I have fled before a band of foemen who will be here anon. And they seek my life.”

‘Then I gave him to drink from thy flask, O master, and verily it was a marvellous thing to behold how it revived him. For he rose up and said:

‘“Had I thy horse I might even yet escape. There are men who would fight thee for it, but thou hast, I think, saved me with thy wine and I will do naught in dishonour. But if thou lovest God and hast man’s faith in truth, I pray thee lend me thy steed, and it will be no loss to thee.”

‘As he spoke I heard far away a sound as of a mountain brook, and I knew it was men riding at full speed, and as it became like a clatter of hail and wind, I cried:

‘“Take another drink of wine and mount my horse in the names of Odin and Christ, and ride for thy life!”

‘And he did, but paused to draw a ring from his finger and say:

‘“Three days’ ride to the west lies the castle of my father the Earl of Ellaborne. If thou canst, carry to him what is in the mail on my horse. Show him this ring, and repeat the word Truth three times.”

‘And with that he was off like an arrow and he had good cause to ride, for ere I could have counted a hundred, there came a band of riders fierce as wolves, who asked me if I had seen a knight pass that way. Now they had not seen the foundered horse, for they came by another path. And not being minded that they should slay the knight, I delayed them while I could, giving them to drink, and then showed them the wrong road, for between a lie and a die, or a man’s life, there’s short choice.

‘Now when I returned to the horse, I, being somewhat learned in such matters, found him in better case than I deemed. And having poured wine down his throat, and cared for him, and given him rest, he was soon in good case to ride. And there was in the mails much gold, and certain parchments which I had lore enough to discern were great state matters for the king, and I saw that I had come into affairs of life and death for all the land.

‘And minding the proverb: “He must be a thin blade who would slip between great stones,” I went by the loneliest ways, in dark valleys and woodlands wild, till I got to Ellaborne Castle. And there was mourning and all were in dire distress, weeping and heart-sunken, because the old lord had heard his son was slain. But when I arrived with the horse, which was known to all, there was mighty to-do, and great questioning, but I spoke word to none, till I was brought before the great earl, and it was pitiful to see how broken and sorrowful he seemed.

‘“And thou hast come to prove to me that my son was truly slain, hast thou not,” he inquired, “since thou hast brought his horse?”

‘“Nay,” I replied, “by Odin and Frey who brings fortune! I know he escaped alive and well, for when I last saw him he was galloping away on a safe road, mounted on the best steed in Northumbria, with his pursuers on the wrong track.

‘“Man!” cried the earl, “if what thou sayest be sooth, and if thou didst aid him to escape, and saved his life, then, by God’s glory, thou shalt have castle and lands—if thou canst prove it.”

‘“For the proof, O my lord,” I answered, “here are the papers and gold.”

‘“Ah, the papers!” cried the earl. “By the splendour of the Virgin, though I love my son better than my own life, I had liefer he had died than that those papers had been found by the enemy. What is thy name?—Eadward—know that this day thou hast saved England!”

“‘The proof, my lord,” I said, as I gave him the ring, “is this—and the words, Truth, Truth, Truth! And know of a truth, for I will swear it in any shrine, that I did not save thy son’s life for gold, or fee, or aught promised or hoped for, save the price of my horse, nor would I have stuck at that to keep a goodly knight from being murdered.”

‘“True as gold art thou,” said the old lord, “and of good blood, for now I know thou art the grandson of Aeolfric, who was noble, but poor as he was learned.”

‘Then he heard the whole tale from me and said:

‘“Thou hast this day built up the fortune of thy house. And if the king do not raise thee to honour, I will.”

‘But the king treated me nobly, and the end thereof was that I am a belted knight, and lord of castles and broad lands, for I went into the war, and fate favoured me, and now I have wealth and fame. And I have wedded a niece of the Earl of Ellaborne, whom I love better for herself than for her possessions. All of which, Master, I owe to thee; and thanks are all I can give to such a mighty master of fate as thou art, but if I could give thee my life I would.’

‘I believe thee, my son,’ replied Flaxius. ‘But what became of the young earl?’

‘He saved himself, and we are now as brothers. Yea,’ he continued with a smile, ‘to him alone have I confided the holy secret of the Miraculous Bottle.’

‘God-a-mercy,’ exclaimed Flaxius; ‘’tis well there’s not a headache in a hogshead of it, else I trow ye had toped yourselves into Hela, or up to Valhall. To fancy two young Norse-Saxons with an unlimited well of wine is terrible!

‘But, let us drink!’

---

‘Hæc fabula docet—this fable teaches,’ annotated the master, ‘a marked moral lesson, which is greatly needed at this present day, and which no man has as yet taught. It befell about thirty years ago, when people began to doubt the ancient doctrine of so much pudding here on earth for so much piety, always punctually paid, that divers young scape-graces of the press, who wished to appear, as Verdant Greens always do, interestingly wicked and sceptical, began to write comicas fabulas or merry tales, wherein the little good boys all came to grief; as, for instance, how Master Benjamin Benevolence gave his penny to an old nigger and earned a whipping from his mother for so doing.’

These writers left out of sight the great fact, that, because there may not be a Moral Providence which keeps a book account to a farthing with all mortals, it still by no means follows that there is no decency, honour, or honesty, or moral retribution left among mankind, as their immensely funny tales would lead the heedless to believe. For, bad as this world may be, there are still gentlemen extant, in dealing with whom the current moral standards of Mark Lane, Houndsditch, Wall Street, the Stock Exchange, and similar dens of sharps and sharks may well be laid aside. There are still men who reciprocate generosity with generosity, and the ‘devilish shrewd’ fellow is to them a natural object of aversion. Because they know that he who cannot be done will infallibly do his best friend in the long run; and the man who is cheat-proof is a miraculous exception if he be not a cheat himself. In short, that it is more creditable to be taken in than to take others in, the which statement, when made by me to a young lady from Toronto, was received with the astonished remark, ‘Well, that is a new idea!’

Now it befell the young hero of this tale, or Eadward, to have to deal with only honest or honourable men, and he did exactly what was right under every circumstance, the result being that he was promptly rewarded, showing that virtue is not always punished, as current literature inculcates. And if there were one hundredth part of the pains taken to teach youth the vast superiority of honour to wealth, which there is to stimulate them to acquire the latter, then we should indeed find far more gentlemen in the world, and, in due proportion, due reward for decency. And there is many a millionaire who would give half his money to be a gentleman, a man of true honesty and nobility of soul; but there was never yet one who was truly of the latter who would exchange aught with the former. For whatever the vast multitude of howling cads may think, the gentleman is the superior in that in which he ought to excel; and this superiority or moral mastery is better worth having than carriages, opera-box, and a fashionable family,—who wish you were dead for your money.

And this lesson—that there may be circumstances in life when the sharp game is not the best, and when the very shrewdest would come to grief, unless guided by natural generosity and nobility—deserves to be deeply studied by the world in general, and sharp Americans in particular, to judge by my personal experiences of both.

And I would that the novelist and literary man, and all who write for the public, would teach this thing in spirit and in truth, if they can with real sympathy, and not go on for ever as most—ay, the very utmost of the most do—preaching it in a formal, listless, ‘be virtuous and you will be happy’ way, while they depict the advantages of wealth and the merest mammon varnished with fashion and style, with all the gush and fire and power of art which they possess. But a book written with earnestness, setting forth genially that honneur passe richesse, is as yet among the curiosities, yea, the rariora of literature. There is indeed no lack of authors who say this thing, and who think perhaps they mean it; but they do not send it home to the heart, nor prove it, nor illustrate it, so as to awaken in the mind of the reader a deep sympathy for honour as compared to wealth. No, not one, as they should and perhaps could do.

For it does not occur to you, O dearly beloved, that all these infinite scenes of flirtation in Belgravia or Cameliadom, showing how She would, and then wouldn’t, and then was incomprise, and anon capricious or top-lofty-minded, or interesting and mysterious-miserable, and how He, pauvre malheureux! with his gnawed moustachios and dreadful devotion, are all nothing but the direct results of too much money and its consequent idleness or ennui. And the other ways of plot-making, and interesting the reader, are, with few exceptions indeed, all cakes from the same dough. Therefore am I reminded of the French author’s recipe for a novel: ‘Commencez toujours avec un million.’

And as it seems to me that literature for the multitude can hardly sink lower than it has done into this swamp of wealth of late years, I have hope that it will ere long begin to rise.