Alfred's death, and that (as Mr. Oman urges)
Alfred never really wandered all alone without any thanes or soldiers.
Both these objections might possibly be met. It has taken us nearly as
long to learn the whole truth about Byron, and perhaps longer to learn
the whole truth about Pepys, than elapsed between Alfred and the first
writing of such tales. And as for the other objection, do the historians
really think that Alfred after Wilton, or Napoleon after Leipsic, never
walked about in a wood by himself for the matter of an hour or two? Ten
minutes might be made sufficient for the essence of the story. But I am
not concerned to prove the truth of these popular traditions. It is
enough for me to maintain two things: that they are popular traditions;
and that without these popular traditions we should have bothered about
Alfred about as much as we bother about Eadwig.

One other consideration needs a note. Alfred has come down to us in the
best way (that is, by national legends) solely for the same reason as
Arthur and Roland and the other giants of that darkness, because he
fought for the Christian civilization against the heathen nihilism. But
since this work was really done by generation after generation, by the
Romans before they withdrew, and by the Britons while they remained, I
have summarised this first crusade in a triple symbol, and given to a
fictitious Roman, Celt, and Saxon, a part in the glory of Ethandune. I
fancy that in fact Alfred's Wessex was of very mixed bloods; but in any
case, it is the chief value of legend to mix up the centuries while
preserving the sentiment; to see all ages in a sort of splendid
foreshortening. That is the use of tradition: it telescopes history.

G.K.C.

DEDICATION

Of great limbs gone to chaos,
A great face turned to night--
Why bend above a shapeless shroud
Seeking in such archaic cloud
Sight of strong lords and light?

Where seven sunken Englands
Lie buried one by one,
Why should one idle spade, I wonder,
Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder
To smoke and choke the sun?

In cloud of clay so cast to heaven
What shape shall man discern?
These lords may light the mystery
Of mastery or victory,
And these ride high in history,
But these shall not return.

Gored on the Norman gonfalo