Chapter II THE STORY OF THE CATTLE RAID OF COOLEY
Chapter III ONE OF THE SORROWS OF STORY-TELLING
Chapter IV THE STORY OF A LITERARY LIE
Chapter V THE STORY OF FINGAL
Chapter VI ABOUT SOME OLD WELSH STORIES AND STORY-TELLERS
Chapter VII HOW THE STORY OF ARTHUR WAS WRITTEN IN ENGLISH
Chapter VIII THE BEGINNING OF THE READING TIME
Chapter IX "THE PASSING OF ARTHUR"
Chapter X THE ADVENTURES OF AN OLD ENGLISH BOOK
Chapter XI THE STORY OF BEOWULF
Chapter XII THE FATHER OF ENGLISH SONG
Chapter XIII HOW CAEDMON SANG, AND HOW HE FELL ONCE MORE ON SILENCE
Chapter XIV THE FATHER OF ENGLISH HISTORY
Chapter XV HOW ALFRED THE GREAT FOUGHT WITH HIS PEN
Chapter XVI WHEN ENGLISH SLEPT
Chapter XVII THE STORY OF HAVELOK THE DANE
Chapter XVIII ABOUT SOME SONG STORIES
Chapter XIX "PIERS THE PLOUGHMAN"
Chapter XX "PIERS THE PLOUGHMAN" -- continued
Chapter XXI HOW THE BIBLE CAME TO THE PEOPLE
Chapter XXII CHAUCER--BREAD AND MILK FOR CHILDREN
Chapter XXIII CHAUCER--"THE CANTERBURY TALES"
Chapter XXIV CHAUCER--AT THE TABARD INN
Chapter XXV THE FIRST ENGLISH GUIDE-BOOK
Chapter XXVI BARBOUR--"THE BRUCE," THE BEGINNINGS OF A STRUGGLE
Chapter XXVII BARBOUR--"THE BRUCE," THE END OF THE STRUGGLE
Chapter XXVIII A POET KING
Chapter XXIX THE DEATH OF THE POET KING
Chapter XXX DUNBAR--THE WEDDING OF THE THISTLE AND THE ROSE
Chapter XXXI AT THE SIGN OF THE RED PALE
Chapter XXXII ABOUT THE BEGINNING OF THE THEATER
Chapter XXXIII HOW THE SHEPHERDS WATCHED THEIR FLOCKS
Chapter XXXIV THE STORY OF EVERYMAN
Chapter XXXV HOW A POET COMFORTED A GIRL
Chapter XXXVI THE RENAISSANCE
Chapter XXXVII THE LAND OF NOWHERE
Chapter XXXVIII THE DEATH OF SIR THOMAS MORE
Chapter XXXIX HOW THE SONNET CAME TO ENGLAND
Chapter XL THE BEGINNING OF BLANK VERSE
Chapter XLI SPENSER--THE "SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR"
Chapter XLII SPENSER--THE "FAERY QUEEN"
Chapter XLIII SPENSER--HIS LAST DAYS
Chapter XLIV ABOUT THE FIRST THEATERS
Chapter XLV SHAKESPEARE--THE BOY
Chapter XLVI SHAKESPEARE--THE MAN
Chapter LXVII SHAKESPEARE--"THE MERCHANT OF VENICE"
Chapter XLVIII JONSON--"EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR"
Chapter XLIX JONSON--"THE SAD SHEPHERD"
Chapter L RALEIGH--"THE REVENGE"
Chapter LI RALEIGH--"THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD"
Chapter LII BACON--NEW WAYS OF WISDOM
Chapter LIII BACON--THE HAPPY ISLAND
Chapter LIV ABOUT SOME LYRIC POETS
Chapter LV HERBERT--THE PARSON POET
Chapter LVI HERRICK AND MARVELL--OF BLOSSOMS AND BOWERS
Chapter LVII MILTON--SIGHT AND GROWTH
Chapter LVIII MILTON--DARKNESS AND DEATH
Chapter LIX BUNYAN--"THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS"
Chapter LX DRYDEN--THE NEW POETRY
Chapter LXI DEFOE--THE FIRST NEWSPAPERS
Chapter LXII DEFOE--"ROBINSON CRUSOE"
Chapter LXIII SWIFT--THE "JOURNAL TO STELLA"
Chapter LXIV SWIFT--"GULLIVER'S TRAVELS"
Chapter LXV ADDISON--THE "SPECTATOR"
Chapter LXVI STEELE--THE SOLDIER AUTHOR
Chapter LXVII POPE--THE "RAPE OF THE LOCK"
Chapter LXVIII JOHNSON--DAYS OF STRUGGLE
Chapter LXIX JOHNSON--THE END OF THE JOURNEY
Chapter LXX GOLDSMITH--THE VAGABOND
Chapter LXXI GOLDSMITH--"THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD"
Chapter LXXII BURNS--THE PLOWMAN POET
Chapter LXXIII COWPER--"THE TASK"
Chapter LXXIV WORDSWORTH--THE POET OF NATURE
Chapter LXXV WORDSWORTH AND COLERIDGE--THE LAKE POETS
Chapter LXXVI COLERIDGE AND SOUTHEY--SUNSHINE AND SHADOW
Chapter LXXVII SCOTT--THE AWAKENING OF ROMANCE
Chapter LXXVIII SCOTT--"THE WIZARD OF THE NORTH"
Chapter LXXIX BYRON--"CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE"
Chapter LXXX SHELLEY--THE POET OF LOVE
Chapter LXXXI KEATS--THE POET OF BEAUTY
Chapter LXXXII CARLYLE--THE SAGE OF CHELSEA
Chapter LXXXIII THACKERAY--THE CYNIC?
Chapter LXXXIV DICKENS--SMILES AND TEARS
Chapter LXXXV TENNYSON--THE POET OF FRIENDSHIP
YEAR 7
Chapter I IN THE LISTENING TIME
HAS there ever been a time when no stories were told? Has there
ever been a people who did not care to listen? I think not.
When we were little, before we could read for ourselves, did we
not gather eagerly round father or mother, friend or nurse, at
the promise of a story? When we grew older, what happy hours did
we not spend with our books. How the printed words made us
forget the world in which we live, and carried us away to a
wonderland,
"Where waters gushed and fruit trees grew
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honey bees had lost their stings,
And horses were born with eagles' wings."*
*Robert Browning.
And as it is with us, so it is with a nation, with a people.
In the dim, far-off times when our forefathers were wild, naked
savages, they had no books. Like ourselves, when we were tiny,
they could neither read nor write. But do you think that they
had no stories? Oh, yes! We may be sure that when the day's
work was done, when the fight or the chase was over, they
gathered round the wood fire and listened to the tales of the
story-teller.
These stories were all of war. They told of terrible combats
with men or with fierce strange beasts, they told of passion, of
revenge. In them there was no beauty, no tenderness, no love.
For the life of man in those far-off days was wild and rough; it
was one long struggle against foes, a struggle which left little
room for what was beautiful or tender.
But as time went on, as life became more easy, in one way or
another the savage learned to become less savage. Then as he
changed, the tales he listened to changed too. They were no
longer all of war, of revenge; they told of love also. And
later, when the story of Christ had come to soften men's hearts
and brighten men's lives, the stories told of faith and purity
and gentleness.
At last a time came when minstrels wandered from town to town,
from castle to castle, singing their lays. And the minstrel who
had a good tale to tell was ever sure of a welcome, and for his
pains he was rewarded with money, jewels, and even land. That
was the true listening time of the world.
It was no easy thing to be a minstrel, and a man often spent ten
or twelve years in learning to be one. There were certain tales
which all minstrels had to know, and the best among them could
tell three hundred and fifty. Of these stories the minstrels
used to learn only the outline, and each told the story in his
own way, filling it in according to his own fancy. So as time
went on these well-known tales came to be told in many different
ways, changing as the times changed.
At length, after many years had passed, men began to write down
these tales, so that they might not be forgotten. These first
books we call Manuscripts, from the Latin words manus, a hand,
and scribere, to write, for they were all written by hand. Even
after they were written down there were many changes made in the
tales, for those who wrote or copied them would sometimes miss
lines or alter others. Yet they were less changed than they had
been when told only by word of mouth.
These stories then form the beginnings of what is called our
Literature. Literature really means letters, for it comes from a
Latin word littera, meaning a letter of the alphabet. Words are
made by letters of the alphabet being set together, and our
literature again by words being set together; hence the name.
As on and on time went, every year more stories were told and
sung and written down. The first stories which our forefathers
told in the days long, long ago, and which were never written
down, are lost forever. Even many of those stories which were
written are lost too, but a few still remain, and from them we
can learn much of the life and the history of the people who
lived in our land ten and twelve hundred years ago, or more.
For a long time books were all written by hand. They were very
scarce and dear, and only the wealthy could afford to have them,
and few could read them. Even great knights and nobles could not
read, for they spent all their time in fighting and hunting, and
had little time in which to learn. So it came about that the
monks who lived a quiet and peaceful life became the learned men.
In the monasteries it was that books were written and copied.
There too they were kept, and the monasteries became not only the
schools, but the libraries of the country.
As a nation grows and changes, its literature grows and changes
with it. At first it asks only for stories, then it asks for
history for its own sake, and for poetry for its own sake;
history, I mean, for the knowledge it gives us of the past;
poetry for joy in the beautiful words, and not merely for the
stories they tell. Then, as a nation's needs and knowledge grow,
it demands ever more and more books on all kinds of subjects.
And we ourselves grow and change just as a nation does. When we
are very young, there are many books which seem to us dull and
stupid. But as we grow older and learn more, we begin to like
more and more kinds of books. We may still love the stories that
we loved as children, but we love others too. And at last,
perhaps, there comes a time when those books which seemed to us
most dull and stupid delight us the most.
At first, too, we care only for the story itself. We do not mind
very much in what words it is told so long as it is a story. But
later we begin to care very much indeed what words the story-
teller uses, and how he uses them. It is only, perhaps, when we
have learned to hear with our eyes that we know the true joy of
books. Yes, hear with our eyes, for it is joy in the sound of
the words that makes our breath come fast, which brings smiles to
our lips or tears to our eyes. Yet we do not need to read the
words aloud, the sight of the black letters on the white page is
enough.
In this book I am going to tell you about a few of our greatest
story-tellers and their books. Many of these books you will not
care to read for yourselves for a long time to come. You must be
content to be told about them. You must be content to know that
there are rooms in the fairy palace of our Literature into which
you cannot enter yet. But every year, as your knowledge grows,
you will find that new keys have been put into your hands with
which you may unlock the doors which are now closed. And with
every door that you unlock, you will become aware of others and
still others that are yet shut fast, until at last you learn with
something of pain, that the great palace of our Literature is so
vast that you can never hope to open all the doors even to peep
inside.