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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"

       YEAR 9

       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

       YEAR 10

       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

       Table of Contents

      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

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