Characteristic thoughts.
Of thoughts characteristic of Alfred I will quote but two. The first is this: ‘No man may do aught of good unless God work with him. And yet no one should be idle and not attempt something in proportion to the powers which God gives him[922].’ The other is contained in the last sentence of the book[923]. And I think you will feel with me that we have here ‘the conclusion of the whole matter’; that anything added to this would be of the nature of an anticlimax: ‘Therefore he seems to me a very foolish man, and very wretched, who will not increase his understanding while he is in the world, and ever wish and long to reach that endless life where all shall be made clear.’
Alfred’s last words.
They are the last words not merely of this book; they are the last words of Alfred to us all across the chasm of a thousand years. We have seen some reason for thinking that the earliest of Alfred’s own works, the Pastoral Care, cannot be earlier than 894[924]; and as the years 894-6 were largely occupied with warfare[925], it is probable that Alfred’s literary activity falls mainly into the last four years of his reign, those four silent years for which our authorities fail us almost wholly, but in which Alfred had something of that ‘stillness’ for which he wishes in the Preface to the Pastoral Care.
Alfred and his grandson Athelstan.
One little glimpse we do get of him during his later years. William of Malmesbury, who had special materials for the life of Athelstan[926], tells us how he, a child, like Alfred himself, of singular beauty and attractiveness, was invested by his famous grandsire, who discerned his early promise, with a scarlet cloak, a jewelled belt, and a Saxon sword with golden scabbard[927]. And thus Alfred inherited the twofold blessing of the Psalmist: ‘Thou shalt see thy children’s children, and peace upon Israel.’ Nor was it least among Alfred’s blessings that he left a son like Edward, and a grandson like Athelstan, to carry on his work.
Death and character of Alfred.
§ 118. It was while he was occupied with these high thoughts of Providence and immortality, that he passed away. How the call came to him to quit these shadows for the ‘life where all things are made clear’ we do not know. We only know that it came on October 26, and probably in the year 900[928]. He was only fifty-two. But even if the tradition of his constant illness be rejected, he had been through what might well have worn out even a strong man in a shorter time. Those who witnessed the extinction of so great a light might have exclaimed with Shakespeare’s tawny queen: