ive tongue since the time of Alfred, if we except the
_Anglo-Saxon Chronicle_. Three young ladies who had secluded
themselves from the world in Dorsetshire, wished rules for guidance in
their seclusion. An unknown author, to oblige them, wrote the _Ancren
Riwle_ (Rule of Anchoresses). This book not only lays down rules for
their future conduct in all the affairs of life, but also offers much
religious consolation.

The following selection shows some of the curious rules for the
guidance of the anchoresses, and furnishes a specimen of the Southern
dialect of transitional English prose in the early part of the
thirteenth century:--

"sse, mine leoue sustren,
ne schulen habben no best
bute kat one... sse schulen
beon i-dodded four siethen,
iethe ssere, uorto lihten ower
heaued... Of idelnesse awakeneeth
muchel flesshes fondunge...
Iren ethet lieth stille gedereeth
sone rust."

Ye, my beloved sisters,
shall have no beast
but one cat... Ye shall
be cropped four times
in the year for to lighten your
head... Of idleness ariseth
much temptation of the flesh...
Iron that lieth still soon gathereth
rust.

The keynote of the work is the renunciation of self. Few productions
of modern literature contain finer pictures of the divine love and
sympathy. The following simile affords an instance of this quality in
the work:--

"De sixte kunfort is ethet
ure Louerd, hwon he ietholeth
ethet we beoeth itented, he plaieeth mid
us, ase ethe moder mid hire ssunge
deorlinge; vliheth from him, and
hut hire, and let hit sitten one,
and loken sseorne abuten, and cleopien
Dame! dame! and weopen
one hwule; and etheonne mid ispredde
ermes leapeeth lauhwinde
voreth, and cluppeeth and cusseeth and
wipeeth his eien. Riht so ure
Louerd let us one iwurethen oether
hwules, and wiethdraweeth his grace
and his kunfort, ethet we ne ivindeeth
swetnesse in none ethinge ethet we wel
doeth, ne savor of heorte; and ethauh,
iethet ilke point ne luveeth he us
ure leove veder never ethe lesce,
auh he deeth hit for muchel luve
ethet he haveeth to us."

The sixth comfort is that
our Lord, when he suffers
that we be tempted, he plays with
us, as the mother with her young
darling; she flees from it, and
hides herself, and lets it sit alone
and look anxiously about and cry
"Dame! dame!" and weep
awhile; and then with outspread
arms leaps laugh