"Stand you still, master," quoth Little John,
"Under this tree so grene,

And I will go to yond wight yeoman
To know what he doth meane."

"Ah, John, by me thou settest noe store,

And that I farley finde;

How often send I my men before,
And tarry myselfe behinde?

"It is no cunning a knave to ken,
And a man but heare him speake;
And were it not for bursting of my bowe,
John, I thy head wold breake."

As often wordes they breeden bale,
So they parted, Robin and John:
And John is gone to Barnesdale;
The ways he knoweth eche one.

Lett us leave talking of Little John,
And thinke of Robin Hood,
How he is gone to the wight yeoman,
Where under the leaves he stood.

"Good morrowe, good fellow," sayd Robin so fayre, "Good morrowe, good fellow," quo' he;

"Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hand, A good archere thou sholdst bee."

'I am wilfulle of my waye," quo' the yeman,

"And of my morning tyde."

"Ile lead thee through the wood," said Robin, "Good fellow, Ile be thy guide."

"I seeke an outlawe," the straunger sayd,
"Men call him Robin Hood;

Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe,
Than fortye pound soe good."

"Now come with me, thou wighty yeman,
And Robin thou soone shalt see.
But first, let us some pastime find,
Under the greenwood tree.

"First let us some masterye make,
Among the woods so even.

We may chance to meet with Robin Hood,
Here at some unsett steven."

They cutt them down two summer shroggs,
That both grew under a breere,

And sett them three score roode in twaine,
To shoote the prickes yfere.

"Leade on, good fellowe," quoth Robin Hood, "Leade on, I do bidde thee."

"Nay, by my faith, good fellowe," hee sayd,

"Now tell me thy name, good fellowe," sayd he, Under the leaves of lyne.

"Nay, by my faith," quoth bold Robin,

"I dwell by dale and downe," quoth hee,
"And Robin to take Ime sworne;
And when I am called by my right name,
I am Guy of good Gisborne."

"My dwelling is in this wood," sayes Robin.
"By thee I set right nought.

I am Robin Hood of Barnesdale,

Whom thou so long hast sought."

He that had neyther beene kyth nor kin
Might have seen a full fayre fight,
To see how together these yeomen went,
With blades both browne and bright.

To see how these yeomen together they fought,
Two howres of a summer's day.

Yett neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy
Them fettled to flye away.

HOW THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE FINALLY CAME TO ITS OWN AGAIN, AND WHAT BOOKS AND AUTHORS HELPED TO KEEP IT ALIVE IN THE TWELFTH AND THIRTEENTH CENTURIES.

HE man to whom our thanks are due for the first great book written in English, after the death of the good King Alfred, is a priest named Layamon, who dwelt near his church at Earnley, on the banks of the Severn. He tells us in his quaint way that it became his chief thought "that he would of England tell the noble deeds, what the men were named, and whence they came, who English land first held." So he went on a journey to find three books

which were his inspiration. When he brought them home he tells us how he took them, and turning over the leaves, "beheld them lovingly, pen he took in fingers and wrote a book-skin, the true words set together, and these three books compressed into one."

Every one who loves books will feel his heart throb in sympathy with this old student who thus lovingly handled. his newly acquired treasures, the three old books which were the models for his own work. Layamon's book is called Brut, and like Geoffrey of Monmouth's old history, it takes up the line of British kings from Brutus; tells the story of King Arthur and the Round Table; of King Lear and his ungrateful daughters; and many other interesting old stories, since used by poets. But the most interesting fact to us about Layamon's Brut is that when the fashionable language of England was Norman-French, this book of Layamon, in thirty-two thousand lines, had only fifty-two Norman words; the rest was pure English.

Layamon's Brut appeared early in the thirteenth century. Two other books, of about the same date, also helped to keep alive the English language, although they did not amount to much as literature. One of these, called the Ormulum, was written by a pious brother of the Church, named Ormin, who put Bible texts and passages of the Church service into English verse, probably because the common people could better keep the sacred lines in their memories if they were written in rhythm and in their spoken language. Another book of this period, written in English, was the Ancren Riwle, or Rule for Anchoresses, written by a bishop for three good ladies who, with their domestics, had decided to lead the life of recluses. book sets forth minutely all rules for daily living, and the contents include rules for the management of the five senses, seeing, hearing, smelling, etc., as well as rules for all domestic matters.

The

In the rules on seeing, the good bishop says: "Wherefore, my dear sisters, love your windows as little as possible. See that they be small, the parlor or front windows nar

rowest and smallest. See that your parlor windows be always fast on every side, and likewise well shut; and mind your eyes there, lest your heart escape and go out, like David's, and your soul fall sick as soon as it is out." Reticence in speech is strongly praised, since the Virgin Mary was a silent woman, who spoke rarely. In respect to the sense of smell, patience in bad smells is urged. "In heaven," says the bishop, "they shall smell celestial odors who in this life have endured stench and rank smells of sweat from iron, or haircloth which they wore, or sweaty garments, or foul air in houses." All of which seems to modern ears like an encouragement to the good ladies to do without much washing, and to ignore the idea which has since gained ground that cleanliness is very near to godliness.

Although these books helped to preserve our English speech in ears that hated the Normans, yet it was not easy for writers of that time to accept the English as the language of literature. Those who wrote for posterity wanted a more stable language than that of a court which shifted from English to Norman and back again. Thus the great history writers of the thirteenth century, Roger of Wendover, and Matthew of Paris, wrote in Latin; so did the greatest philosopher and scientist of his time, Roger Bacon, — a wonderful man, who has the credit of having invented gunpowder.

Near the close of the thirteenth century Robert of Gloucester wrote a rhyming history of England in his native tongue, in which he began with the British line of kings with Brut, and came down to Edward I. A little later than this Robert, came another Robert, Robert Mannyng of Brunne, who wrote a history in rhyme, and also a Manual of Sins, in which the seven deadly sins are moralized upon at length. He was a true patriot, and tells us he means to write in plain words, and that he "speaks no straunge Inglyss." He also writes with moral purpose, and tells his women readers not to paint their faces to make them fairer than they are by nature, and not to go about