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.