distorted
tradition of those dark ages. Perhaps Alfred, with the superior science
of comparative civilization, had calculated the economics of Denmark
down to a halfpenny. Perhaps a Dane sometimes came with twopence,
sometimes even with twopence-halfpenny, after the sack of many cities
even with twopence three farthings; but never with threepence. Whether
or no it was a permanent barrier to the barbarians it was only a
temporary barrier to me. I discovered three large and complete coppers
in various parts of my person, and I passed on along that strangely
monotonous and strangely fascinating path. It is not merely fanciful to
feel that the place expresses itself appropriately as the place
where the great Christian King hid himself from the heathen. Though
a marshland is always open it is still curiously secret. Fens, like
deserts, are large things very apt to be mislaid. These flats feared to
be overlooked in a double sense; the small trees crouched and the whole
plain seemed lying on its face, as men do when shells burst. The
little path ran fearlessly forward; but it seemed to run on all fours.
Everything in that strange countryside seemed to be lying low, as if to
avoid the incessant and rattling rain of the Danish arrows. There were
indeed hills of no inconsiderable height quite within call; but those
pools and flats of the old Parrett seemed to separate themselves like
a central and secret sea; and in the midst of them stood up the rock of
Athelney as isolate as it was to Alfred. And all across this recumbent
and almost crawling country there ran the glory of the low wet lands;
grass lustrous and living like the plumage of some universal bird; the
flowers as gorgeous as bonfires and the weeds more beautiful than the
flowers. One stooped to stroke the grass, as if the earth were all one
kind beast that could feel.

Why does no decent person write an historical novel about Alfred and his
fort in Athelney, in the marshes of the Parrett? Not a very historical
novel. Not about his Truth-telling (please) or his founding the British
Empire, or the British Navy, or the Navy League, or whichever it was
he founded. Not about the Treaty of Wedmore and whether it ought (as
an eminent historian says) to be called the Pact of Chippenham. But an
aboriginal romance for boys about the bare, bald, beatific fact that
a great hero held his fort in an island in a river. An island is fine
enough, in all conscience or piratic unconscient