But, putting aside fables, there is quite enough to show that there have been very few Kings, and very few men of any sort, so great and good as King Alfred.  Perhaps the only equally good King we read of is Saint Louis of France; and though he was quite as good, we cannot set him down as being so great and wise as Alfred.  Certainly no King ever gave himself up more thoroughly than Alfred did fully to do the duties of his office.  His whole life seems to have been spent in doing all that he could for the good of his people in every way.  And it is wonderful in how many ways his powers showed themselves.  That he was a brave warrior is in itself no particular praise in an age when almost every man was the same.  But it is a great thing for a prince so large a part of whose time was spent in fighting to be able to say that all his wars were waged to set free his country from the most cruel enemies.

And we may admire too the wonderful way in which he kept his mind always straight and firm, never either giving way to bad luck or being puffed up by good luck.  We read of nothing like pride or cruelty or injustice of any kind either towards his own people or towards his enemies.  And if he was a brave warrior, he was many other things besides.  He was a lawgiver; at least he collected and arranged the laws, and caused them to be most carefully administered.  He was a scholar, and wrote and translated many books for the good of his people.  He encouraged trade and enterprise of all kinds, and sent men to visit distant parts of the world, and bring home accounts of what they saw.  And he was a thoroughly good man and a devout Christian in all relations of life.  In short, one hardly knows any other character in all history so perfect; there is so much that is good in so many different ways; and though no doubt Alfred had his faults like other people, yet he clearly had none, at any rate in the greater part of his life, which took away at all seriously from his general goodness.  One wonders that such a man was never canonized as a Saint; most certainly many people have received that name who did not deserve it nearly so well as he did.

Alfred, or, as his name should really be spelled, Aelfred, [Footnote:  That is, the rede or councel of the elves.  A great many Old-English names are called after the elves or fairies.] was the youngest son of King Aethelwulf, and was born at Wantage in Berkshire in 849.  His mother was Osburh daughter of Oslac the King’s cup-bearer, who came of the royal house of the Jutes in Wight.  Up to the age of twelve years Alfred was fond of hunting and other sports but he had not been taught any sort of learning, not so much as to read his own tongue.  But he loved the old English songs; and one day his mother had a beautiful book of songs with rich pictures and fine painted initial letters, such as you may often see in ancient books.  And she said to her children, “I will give this beautiful book to the one of you who shall first be able to read it.”  And Alfred said, “Mother, will you really give me the book when I have learned to read it?” And Osburh said, “Yes, my son.”  So Alfred went and found a master, and soon learned to read.  Then he came to his mother, and read the songs in the beautiful book and took the book for his own.