English Literature For Boys and Girls | Page 2

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