Hundreds of additional titles available for
online reading when you join Gateway to the Classics
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
"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."
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
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
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
writ-  ten 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
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