In 55 B.C. the Romans landed in Britain, and for nearly four hundred years after that they kept coming and going.  All South Britain became a Roman province, and the people paid tribute or taxes to the Roman Emperor.  But they did not become Romans.  They still kept their own language, their own customs and religions.

It will help you to understand the state of Britain in those old days if you think of India to-day.  India forms part of the British Empire, but the people who live there are not British.  They are still Indians who speak their own languages, and have their own customs and religions.  The rulers only are British.

It was in much the same way that Britain was a Roman province.  And so our literature was never Latin.  There was, indeed, a time when nearly all our books were written in Latin.  But that was later, and not because Latin was the language of the people, but because it was the language of the learned and of the monks, who were the chief people who wrote books.

When, then, after nearly four hundred years the Romans went away, the people of Britain were still British.  But soon another people came.  These were the Anglo-Saxons, the English, who came from over the sea.  And little by little they took possession of Britain.  They drove the old dwellers out until it was only in the north, in Wales and in Cornwall, that they were to be found.  Then Britain became Angleland or England, and the language was no longer Celtic, but English.  And although there are a few words in our language which can be traced to the old Celtic, these are very few.  It is thus from Anglo-Saxon, and not from Gaelic or Cymric, that the language we speak to-day comes.

Yet our Celtic forefathers have given something to our literature which perhaps we could never have had from English alone.  The Celtic literature is full of wonder, it is full of a tender magic and makes us feel the fairy charm of nature, although it has not the strength, the downrightness, we might say, of the English.  It has been said that every poet has somewhere in him a Celtic strain.  That is, perhaps, too much to believe.  But it is, perhaps, the Celtic love of beauty, together with the Saxon love of strength and right, to which we owe much of our great literature.  The Celtic languages are dying out, but they have left us something which will last so long as our literature lasts.

And now, having talked in the beginning of this book of the stories which we owe to our Celtic forefathers, let us see what the Saxons brought us from over the sea.

Almost the oldest Anglo-Saxon book that we have is called Beowulf.  Wise men tell us that, like the tales of Arthur, like the tales of Ossian, this book was not at first the work of one man, but that it has been gradually put together out of many minstrel songs.  That may be so, but what is sure is that these tales are very old, and that they were sung and told for many years in the old homes of the English across the sea before they came to Britain and named it Angleland.