"Project Gutenberg's English Literature For Boys And Girls, by H.E. Marshall #2 in our series by H.E. Marshall Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the header without written permission. Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** **eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** *****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** Title: English Literature For Boys And Girls Author: H.E. Marshall Release Date: May, 2004 [EBook #5725] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on August 17, 2002] Edition: 10 Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLISH LITERATURE ***
H.E. Marshall English Literature Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter I II III IV IN THE LISTENING TIME THE STORY OF THE CATTLE RAID OF COOLEY ONE OF THE SORROWS OF STORY-TELLING THE STORY OF A LITERARY LIE
Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter
V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII XIX XX XXI XXII XXIII XXIV XXV XXVI XXVII XXVIII XXIX XXX XXXI XXXII XXXIII XXXIV XXXV XXXVI XXXVII XXXVIII XXXIX XL XLI XLII XLIII XLIV XLV XLVI LXVII XLVIII XLIX L LI LII LIII LIV LV LVI LVII LVIII LIX LX LXI LXII
THE STORY OF FINGAL ABOUT SOME OLD WELSH STORIES AND STORY-TELLERS HOW THE STORY OF ARTHUR WAS WRITTEN IN ENGLISH THE BEGINNING OF THE READING TIME "THE PASSING OF ARTHUR" THE ADVENTURES OF AN OLD ENGLISH BOOK THE STORY OF BEOWULF THE FATHER OF ENGLISH SONG HOW CAEDMON SANG, AND HOW HE FELL ONCE MORE ON SILENCE THE FATHER OF ENGLISH HISTORY HOW ALFRED THE GREAT FOUGHT WITH HIS PEN WHEN ENGLISH SLEPT THE STORY OF HAVELOK THE DANE ABOUT SOME SONG STORIES "PIERS THE PLOUGHMAN" "PIERS THE PLOUGHMAN" -- continued HOW THE BIBLE CAME TO THE PEOPLE CHAUCER--BREAD AND MILK FOR CHILDREN CHAUCER--"THE CANTERBURY TALES" CHAUCER--AT THE TABARD INN THE FIRST ENGLISH GUIDE-BOOK BARBOUR--"THE BRUCE," THE BEGINNINGS OF A STRUGGLE BARBOUR--"THE BRUCE," THE END OF THE STRUGGLE A POET KING THE DEATH OF THE POET KING DUNBAR--THE WEDDING OF THE THISTLE AND THE ROSE AT THE SIGN OF THE RED PALE ABOUT THE BEGINNING OF THE THEATER HOW THE SHEPHERDS WATCHED THEIR FLOCKS THE STORY OF EVERYMAN HOW A POET COMFORTED A GIRL THE RENAISSANCE THE LAND OF NOWHERE THE DEATH OF SIR THOMAS MORE HOW THE SONNET CAME TO ENGLAND THE BEGINNING OF BLANK VERSE SPENSER--THE "SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR" SPENSER--THE "FAERY QUEEN" SPENSER--HIS LAST DAYS ABOUT THE FIRST THEATERS SHAKESPEARE--THE BOY SHAKESPEARE--THE MAN SHAKESPEARE--"THE MERCHANT OF VENICE" JONSON--"EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR" JONSON--"THE SAD SHEPHERD" RALEIGH--"THE REVENGE" RALEIGH--"THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD" BACON--NEW WAYS OF WISDOM BACON--THE HAPPY ISLAND ABOUT SOME LYRIC POETS HERBERT--THE PARSON POET HERRICK AND MARVELL--OF BLOSSOMS AND BOWERS MILTON--SIGHT AND GROWTH MILTON--DARKNESS AND DEATH BUNYAN--"THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS" DRYDEN--THE NEW POETRY DEFOE--THE FIRST NEWSPAPERS DEFOE--"ROBINSON CRUSOE"
Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter
LXIII LXIV LXV LXVI LXVII LXVIII LXIX LXX LXXI LXXII LXXIII LXXIV LXXV LXXVI LXXVII LXXVIII LXXIX LXXX LXXXI LXXXII LXXXIII LXXXIV LXXXV
SWIFT--THE "JOURNAL TO STELLA" SWIFT--"GULLIVER'S TRAVELS" ADDISON--THE "SPECTATOR" STEELE--THE SOLDIER AUTHOR POPE--THE "RAPE OF THE LOCK" JOHNSON--DAYS OF STRUGGLE JOHNSON--THE END OF THE JOURNEY GOLDSMITH--THE VAGABOND GOLDSMITH--"THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD" BURNS--THE PLOWMAN POET COWPER--"THE TASK" WORDSWORTH--THE POET OF NATURE WORDSWORTH AND COLERIDGE--THE LAKE POETS COLERIDGE AND SOUTHEY--SUNSHINE AND SHADOW SCOTT--THE AWAKENING OF ROMANCE SCOTT--"THE WIZARD OF THE NORTH" BYRON--"CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE" SHELLEY--THE POET OF LOVE KEATS--THE POET OF BEAUTY CARLYLE--THE SAGE OF CHELSEA THACKERAY--THE CYNIC? DICKENS--SMILES AND TEARS 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 storyteller 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.
Chapter II THE STORY OF THE CATTLE RAID OF COOLEY OUR earliest literature was history and poetry. Indeed, we might say poetry only, for in those far-off times history was always poetry, it being only through the songs of the bards and minstrels that history was known. And when I say history I do not mean history as we know it. It was then merely the gallant tale of some hero's deeds listened to because it was a gallant tale. Now the people who lived in the British Isles long ago were not English. It will be simplest for us to call them all Celts and to divide them into two families, the Gaels and the Cymry. The Gaels lived in Ireland and in Scotland, and the Cymry in England and Wales. It is to Ireland that we must go for the very beginnings of our Literature, for the Roman conquest did not touch Ireland, and the English, who later conquered and took possession of Britain, hardly troubled the Green Isle. So for centuries the Gaels of Ireland told their tales and handed them on from father to son undisturbed, and in Ireland a great many old writings have been kept which tell of far-off times. These old Irish manuscripts are perhaps none of them older than the eleventh century, but the stories are far, far older. They were, we may believe, passed on by word of mouth for many generations before they were written down, and they have kept the feeling of those far-off times. It was from Ireland that the Scots came to Scotland, and when they came they brought with them many tales. So it comes about that in old Scottish and in old Irish manuscripts we find the same stories. Many of the manuscripts which are kept in Ireland have never been translated out of the old Irish in which they were written, so they are closed books to all but a few scholars, and we need not talk about them. But of one of the great treasures of old Irish literature we will talk. This is the Leabhar Na h-Uidhre, or Book of the Dun Cow. It is called so because the stories in it were first written down by St. Ciaran in a book made from the skin of a favorite cow of a dun color. That book has long been lost, and this copy of it was made in the eleventh century. The name of this old book helps us to remember that long ago there was no paper, and that books were written on vellum made from calf-skin and upon parchment made from sheep-skin. It was not until the twelfth century that paper began to be made in some parts of Europe, and it was not until the fifteenth century that paper books became common in England. In the Book of the Dun Cow, and in another old book called the Book of Leinster, there is written the great Irish legend called the Tain Bo Chuailgne or the Cattle Raid of Cooley. This is a very old tale of the time soon after the birth of Christ. In the book we are told how this story had been written down long, long ago in a book called the Great Book Written on
Skins. But a learned man carried away that book to the East. Then, when many years had passed, people began to forget the story of the Cattle Raid. So the Chief minstrel called all the other minstrels together to ask if any of them knew the tale. But none of them could remember more than a few verses of it. Therefore the chief minstrel asked all his pupils to travel into far countries to search for the rest which was lost. What followed is told differently in different books, but all agree in this, that a great chief called Fergus came back from the dead in order to tell the tale, which was again written down. The story is one of the beautiful Queen Meav of Connaught. For many years she had lived happily with her husband and her children. But one day the Queen and her husband began to argue as to which of them was the richer. As they could not agree, they ordered all their treasures to be brought before them that they might be compared. So first all their wooden and metal vessels were brought. they were both alike. But
Then all their jewels, their rings and bracelets, necklets and crowns were brought, but they, too, were equal. Then all their robes were brought, crimson and blue, green, yellow, checked and striped, black and white. They, too, were equal. Next from the fields and pastures great herds of sheep were brought. They, too, were equal. Then from the green plains fleet horses, champing steeds came. Great herds of swine from forest and glen were brought. They, too, were equal. Lastly, droves and droves of cattle were brought. In the King's herd there was a young bull named White-horned. When a calf, he had belonged to Meav's herd, but being very proud, and thinking it little honor to be under the rule of a woman, he had left Meav's herd and joined himself to the King's. This bull was very beautiful. His head and horns and hoofs were white, and all the rest of him was red. He was so great and splendid that in all the Queen's herd there was none to match him. Then Meav's sorrow was bitter, and calling a messenger, she asked if he knew where might be found a young bull to match with Whitehorned. The messenger replied that he knew of a much finer bull called Donn Chuailgne, or Brown Bull of Cooley, which belonged to Dawra, the chief of Ulster. "Go then,' said Meav, "and ask Dawra to lend me the Bull for a year. Tell him that he shall be well repaid, that he shall receive fifty heifers and Brown Bull back again at the end of that time. And if Dawra should seem unwilling to lend Brown Bull, tell him that he may come with it himself, and that he
shall receive here land equal to his own, a chariot worth thirtysix cows, and he shall have my friendship ever after." So taking with him nine others, the messenger set out and soon arrived at Cooley. And when Dawra heard why the messengers had come, he received them kindly, and said at once that they should have Brown Bull. Then the messengers began to speak and boast among themselves. "It was well," said one, "that Dawra granted us the Bull willingly, otherwise we had taken it by force." As he spoke, a servant of Dawra came with food and drink for the strangers, and hearing how they spoke among themselves, he hastily and in wrath dashed the food upon the table, and returning to his master repeated to him the words of the messenger. Then was Dawra very wrathful. And when, in the morning, the messengers came before him asking that he should fulfill his promise, he refused them. So, empty-handed, the messengers returned to Queen Meav. And she, full of anger, decided to make good the boastful words of her messenger and take Brown Bull by force. Then began a mighty war between the men of Ulster and the men of Connaught. And after many fights there was a great battle in which Meav was defeated. Yet was she triumphant, for she had gained possession of the Brown Bull. But the Queen had little cause for triumph, for when Brown Bull and White-horned met there was a fearful combat between them. The whole land echoed with their bellowing. The earth shook beneath their feet and the sky grew dark with flying sods of earth and with flecks of foam. After long fighting Brown Bull conquered, and goring White-horned to death, ran off with him impaled upon his horns, shaking his shattered body to pieces as he ran. But Brown Bull, too, was wounded to death. Mad with pain and wounds, he turned to his own land, and there "He lay down Against the hill, and his great heart broke there, And sent a stream of blood down all the slope; And thus, when all the war and Tain had ended, In his own land, 'midst his own hills, he died."* *The Tain, by Mary A. Hutton. The Cattle Raid of Cooley is a strange wild tale, yet from it we can learn a great deal about the life of these old, far-away times. We can learn from it something of what the people did and thought, and how they lived, and even of what they wore. Here is a description of a driver and his war chariot, translated, of course, into English prose. "It is then that the charioteer arose, and he put on his hero's dress of charioteering. This was
the hero's dress of charioteering that he put on: his soft tunic of deer skin, so that it did not restrain the movement of his hands outside. He put on his black upper cloak over it outside. . . . The charioteer took first then his helm, ridged like a board, four-cornered...."
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