THE SECLUSION.
Notwithstanding the tide of disaster and calamity which seemed to
be gradually overwhelming Alfred's kingdom, he was not reduced to
absolute despair, but continued for a long time the almost hopeless
struggle. There is a certain desperation to which men are often
aroused in the last extremity, which surpasses courage, and is even
sometimes a very effectual substitute for strength; and Alfred might,
perhaps, have succeeded, after all, in saving his affairs from utter
ruin, had not a new circumstance intervened, which seemed at once to
extinguish all remaining hope and to seal his doom.
This circumstance was the arrival of a new band of Danes, who were, it
seems, more numerous, more ferocious, and more insatiable than any
who had come before them. The other kingdoms of the Saxons had been
already pretty effectually plundered. Alfred's kingdom of Wessex was
now, therefore, the most inviting field, and, after various excursions
of conquest and plunder in other parts of the island, they came like
an inundation over Alfred's frontiers, and all hope of resisting them
seems to have been immediately abandoned. The Saxon armies were broken
up. Alfred had lost, it appears, all influence and control over both
leaders and men. The chieftains and nobles fled. Some left the country
altogether; others hid themselves in the best retreats and fastnesses
that they could find. Alfred himself was obliged to follow the general
example. A few attendants, either more faithful than the rest, or else
more distrustful of their own resources, and inclined, accordingly, to
seek their own personal safety by adhering closely to their sovereign,
followed him. These, however, one after another, gradually forsook
him, and, finally, the fallen and deserted monarch was left alone.
In fact, it was a relief to him at last to be left alone; for they who
remained around him became in the end a burden instead of affording
him protection. They were too few to fight, and too many to be easily
concealed. Alfred withdrew himself from them, thinking that, under the
circumstances in which he was now placed, he was justified in seeking
his own personal safety alone. He had a wife, whom he married when he
was about twenty years old; but she was not with him now, though she
afterward joined him. She was in some other place of retreat. She
could, in fact, be much more easily concealed than her husband; for
the Danes, though they would undoubtedly have valued her very highly
as a captive, would not search for her with the eager and persevering
vigilance with which it was to be expected they would hunt for their
most formidable, but now discomfited and fugitive foe.
Alfred, therefore, after disentangling himself from all but one or two
trustworthy and faithful friends, wandered on toward the west, through
forests, and solitudes, and wilds, to get as far away as possible from
the enemies who were upon his track. He arrived at last on the remote
western frontiers of his kingdom, at a place whose name has been
immortalized by its having been for some time the place of his
retreat. It was called Athelney.[1] Athelney was, however, scarcely
deserving of a name, for it was nothing but a small spot of dry land
in the midst of a morass, which, as grass would grow upon it in the
openings among the trees, a simple cow-herd had taken possession of,
and built his hut there.
The solid land which the cow-herd called his farm was only about two
acres in extent. All around it was a black morass, of great extent,
wooded with alders, among which green sedges grew, and sluggish
streams meandered, and mossy tracts of verdure spread treacherously
over deep bogs and sloughs. In the driest season of the summer the
goats and the sheep penetrated into these recesses, but, excepting in
the devious and tortuous path by which the cow-herd found his way to
his island, it was almost impassable for man.
Alfred, however, attracted now by the impediments and obstacles which
would have repelled a wanderer under any other circumstances, went
on with the greater alacrity the more intricate and entangled the
thickets of the morass were found, since these difficulties promised
to impede or deter pursuit. He found his way in to the cow-herd's
hut. He asked for shelter. People who live in solitudes are always
hospitable. The cow-herd took the wayworn fugitive in, and gave him
food and shelter. Alfred remained his guest for a considerable time.
The story is, that after a few days the cow-herd asked him who he was,
and how he came to be wandering about in that distressed and destitute
condition. Alfred told him that he was one of the king's _thanes_. A
thane was a sort of chieftain in the Saxon state. He accounted for his
condition by saying that Alfred's army had been beaten by the Danes,
and that he, with the other generals, had been forced to fly. He
begged the cow-herd to conceal him, and to keep the secret of his
character until times should change, so that he could take the field
again.
The story of Alfred's seclusion on the _island_, as it might almost
be called, of Ethelney, is told very differently by the different
narrators of it. Some of these narrations are inconsistent and
contradictory. They all combine, however, though they differ in
respect to many other incidents and details, in relating the far-famed
story of Alfred's leaving the cakes to burn. It seems that, though
the cow-herd himself was allowed to regard Alfred as a man of rank in
disguise--though even _he_ did not know that it was the king--his wife
was not admitted, even in this partial way, into the secret. She was
made to consider the stranger as some common strolling countryman,
and the better to sustain this idea, he was taken into the cow-herd's
service, and employed in various ways, from time to time, in labors
about the house and farm. Alfred's thoughts, however, were little
interested in these occupations. His mind dwelt incessantly upon his
misfortunes and the calamities which had befallen his kingdom. He was
harassed by continual suspense and anxiety, not being able to gain any
clear or certain intelligence about the condition and movements of
either his friends or foes. He was revolving continually vague and
half-formed plans for resuming the command of his army and attempting
to regain his kingdom, and wearying himself with fruitless attempts to
devise means to accomplish these ends. Whenever he engaged voluntarily
in any occupation, it would always be something in harmony with these
trains of thought and these plans. He would repair and put in order
implements of hunting, or any thing else which might be deemed to have
some relation to war. He would make bows and arrows in the chimney
corner--lost, all the time, in melancholy reveries, or in wild and
visionary schemes of future exploits.
One evening, while he was thus at work, the cow-herd's wife left, for
a few moments, some cakes under his charge, which she was baking
upon the great stone hearth, in preparation for their common supper.
Alfred, as might have been expected, let the cakes burn. The woman,
when she came back and found them smoking, was very angry. She told
him that he could eat the cakes fast enough when they were baked,
though it seemed he was too lazy and good for nothing to do the least
thing in helping to bake them. What wide-spread and lasting effects
result sometimes from the most trifling and inadequate causes! The
singularity of such an adventure befalling a monarch in disguise, and
the terse antithesis of the reproaches with which the woman rebuked
him, invest this incident with an interest which carries it every
where spontaneously among mankind. Millions, within the last thousand
years, have heard the name of Alfred, who have known no more of him
than this story; and millions more, who never would have heard of him
but for this story, have been led by it to study the whole history of
his life; so that the unconscious cow-herd's wife, in scolding
the disguised monarch for forgetting her cakes, was perhaps doing
more than he ever did himself for the wide extension of his future
fame.[2]
[Illustration: ALFRED WATCHING THE CAKES.]
Alfred was, for a time, extremely depressed and disheartened by the
sense of his misfortunes and calamities; but the monkish writers who
described his character and his life say that the influence of his
sufferings was extremely salutary in softening his disposition and
improving his character. He had been proud, and haughty, and
domineering before. He became humble, docile, and considerate now.
Faults of character that are superficial, resulting from the force of
circumstances and peculiarities of temptation, rather than from innate
depravity of heart, are easily and readily burned off in the fire of
affliction, while the same severe ordeal seems only to indurate the
more hopelessly those propensities which lie deeply seated in an
inherent and radical perversity.
Alfred, though restless and wretched in his apparently hopeless
seclusion, bore his privations with a great degree of patience and
fortitude, planning, all the time, the best means of reorganizing his
scattered forces, and of rescuing his country from the ruin into which
it had fallen. Some of his former friends, roaming as he himself had
done, as fugitives about the country, happened at length to come into
the neighborhood of his retreat. He heard of them, and cautiously made
himself known. They were rejoiced to find their old commander once
more, and, as there was no force of the Danes in that neighborhood
at the time, they lingered, timidly and fearlessly at first, in the
vicinity, until, at length, growing more bold as they found themselves
unmolested in their retreat, they began to make it their gathering
place and head-quarters. Alfred threw off his disguise, and assumed
his true character. Tidings of his having been thus discovered
spread confidentially among the most tried and faithful of his Saxon
followers, who had themselves been seeking safety in other places of
refuge. They began, at first cautiously and by stealth, but afterward
more openly, to repair to the spot. Alfred's family, too, from which
he had now been for many months entirely separated, contrived to
rejoin him. The herdsman, who proved to be a man of intelligence and
character superior to his station, entered heartily into all these
movements. He kept the secret faithfully. He did all in his power
to provide for the wants and to promote the comfort of his warlike
guests, and, by his fidelity and devotion, laid Alfred under
obligations of gratitude to him, which the king, when he was afterward
restored to the throne, did not forget to repay.
Notwithstanding, however, all the efforts which the herdsman made to
obtain supplies, the company now assembled at Ethelney were sometimes
reduced to great straits. There were not only the wants of Alfred
and his immediate family and attendants to be provided for, but
many persons were continually coming and going, arriving often at
unexpected times, and acting, as roving and disorganized bodies of
soldiers are very apt to do at such times, in a very inconsiderate
manner. The herdsman's farm produced very little food, and the
inaccessibleness of its situation made it difficult to bring in
supplies from without. In fact, it was necessary, in one part of the
approach to it, to use a boat, so that the place is generally called,
in history, an island, though it was insulated mainly by swamps
and morasses rather than by navigable waters. There were, however,
sluggish streams all around it, where Alfred's men, when their stores
were exhausted, went to fish, under the herdsman's guidance, returning
sometimes with a moderate fare, and sometimes with none.
The monks who describe this portion of Alfred's life have recorded an
incident as having occurred on the occasion of one of these fishing
excursions, which, however, is certainly, in part, a fabrication, and
may be wholly so. It was in the winter. The waters about the grounds
were frozen up. The provisions in the house were nearly exhausted,
there being scarcely anything remaining. The men went away with
their fishing apparatus, and with their bows and arrows, in hopes of
procuring some fish or fowl to replenish their stores. Alfred was left
alone, with only a single lady of his family, who is called in the
account "Mother," though it could not have been Alfred's own mother,
as she had been dead many years. Alfred was sitting in the hut
reading. A beggar, who had by some means or other found his way in
over the frozen morasses, came to the door, and asked for food.
Alfred, looking up from his book, asked the mother, whoever she
was, to go and see what there was to give him. She went to make
examination, and presently returned, saying that there was nothing to
give him. There was only a single loaf of bread remaining, and that
would not be half enough for their own wants that very night when the
hunting party should return, if they should come back unsuccessful
from their expedition. Alfred hesitated a moment, and then ordered
half the loaf to be given to the beggar. He said, in justification of
the act, that his trust was now in God, and that the power which once,
with five loaves and two small fishes, fed abundantly three thousand
men, could easily make half a loaf suffice for them.
The loaf was accordingly divided, the beggar was supplied, and,
delighted with this unexpected relief, he went away. Alfred turned his
attention again to his reading. After a time the book dropped from his
hand. He had fallen asleep. He dreamed that a certain saint appeared
to him, and made a revelation to him from heaven. God, he said, had
heard his prayers, was satisfied with his penitence, and pitied his
sorrows; and that his act of charity in relieving the poor beggar,
even at the risk of leaving himself and his friends in utter
destitution, was extremely acceptable in the sight of Heaven. The
faith and trust which he thus manifested were about to be rewarded.
The time for a change had come. He was to be restored to his kingdom,
and raised to a new and higher state of prosperity and power than
before. As a token that this prediction was true, and would be all
fulfilled, the hunting party would return that night with an ample and
abundant supply.
Alfred awoke from his sleep with his mind filled with new hopes and
anticipations. The hunting party returned loaded with supplies, and in
a state of the greatest exhilaration at their success. They had fish
and game enough to have supplied a little army. The incident of
relieving the beggar, the dream, and their unwonted success confirming
it, inspired them all with confidence and hope. They began to
form plans for commencing offensive operations. They would build
fortifications to strengthen their position on the island. They would
collect a force. They would make sallies to attack the smaller parties
of the Danes. They would send agents and emissaries about the kingdom
to arouse, and encourage, and assemble such Saxon forces as were yet
to be found. In a word, they would commence a series of measures for
recovering the country from the possession of its pestilent enemy, and
for restoring the rightful sovereign to the throne. The development
of these projects and plans, and the measures for carrying them into
effect, were very much hastened by an event which suddenly occurred in
the neighborhood of Ethelney, the account of which, however, must be
postponed to the next chapter.
[Footnote 1: The name is spelled variously, Ethelney, Æthelney,
Ethelingay, &c. It was in Somersetshire, between the rivers Thone and
Parrot.]
[Footnote 2: As this incident has been so famous, it may amuse the
reader to peruse the different accounts which are given of it in the
most ancient records which now remain. They were written in Latin and
in Saxon, and, of course, as given here, they are translations. The
discrepancies which the reader will observe in the details illustrate
well the uncertainty which pertains to all historical accounts that go
back to so early an age.
"He led an unquiet life there, at his cow-herd's. It happened that, on
a certain day, the rustic wife of the man prepared to bake her bread.
The king, sitting then near the hearth, was making ready his bow and
arrows, and other warlike implements, when the ill-tempered woman
beheld the loaves burning at the fire. She ran hastily and removed
them, scolding at the king, and exclaiming, 'You man! you will not
turn the bread you see burning, but you will be very glad to eat it
when it is done!' This unlucky woman little thought she was addressing
the King Alfred."
In a certain Saxon history the story is told thus:
"He took shelter in a swain's house, and also him and his evil wife
diligently served. It happened that, on one day, the swain's wife
heated her oven, and the king sat by it warming himself by the fire.
She knew not then that he was the king. Then the evil woman was
excited, and spoke to the king with an angry mind. 'Turn thou these
loaves, that they burn not, for I see daily that thou art a great
eater!' He soon obeyed this evil woman because she would scold. He
then, the good king, with great anxiety and sighing, called to his
Lord, imploring his pity."
The following account is from a Latin life of St. Neot, which still
exists in manuscript, and is of great antiquity:
"Alfred, a fugitive, and exiled from his people, came by chance and
entered the house of a poor herdsman, and there remained some days
concealed, poor and unknown.
"It happened that, on the Sabbath day, the herdsman, as usual, led his
cattle to their accustomed pastures, and the king remained alone in
the cottage with the man's wife. She, as necessity required, placed a
few loaves, which some call _loudas_, on a pan, with fire underneath,
to be baked for her husband's repast and her own, on his return.
"While she was necessarily busied, like peasants, on other offices,
she went anxious to the fire, and found the bread burning on the other
side. She immediately assailed the king with reproaches. 'Why, man! do
you sit thinking there, and are too proud to turn the bread? Whatever
be your family, with your manners and sloth, what trust can be put in
you hereafter? If you were even a nobleman, you will be glad to eat
the bread which you neglect to attend to.' The king, though stung by
her upbraidings, yet heard her with patience and mildness, and,
roused by her scolding, took care to bake her bread thereafter as she
wished."
There is one remaining account, which is as follows:
"It happened that the herdsman one day, as usual, led his swine to
their accustomed pasture, and the king remained at home alone with the
wife. She placed her bread under the ashes of the fire to bake, and
was employed in other business when she saw the loaves burning, and
said to the king in her rage, 'You will not turn the bread you see
burning, though you will be very glad to eat it when done!' The king,
with a submitting countenance, though vexed at her upbraidings not
only turned the bread, but gave them to the woman well baked and
unbroken."
It is obvious, from the character of these several accounts that each
writer, taking the substantial fact as the groundwork of his story,
has added such details and chosen such expressions for the housewife's
reproaches as suited his own individual fancy. We find, unfortunately
for the truth and trustworthiness of history, that this is almost
always the case, when independent and original accounts of past
transactions, whether great or small, are compared. The gravest
historians, as well as the lightest story tellers, frame their
narrations for _effect_, and the tendency in all ages to shape and
fashion the narrative with a view to the particular effect designed
by the individual narrator to be produced has been found entirely
irresistible. It is necessary to compare, with great diligence and
careful scrutiny, a great many different accounts, in order to learn
how little there is to be exactly and confidently believed.]