Thorney.—This spot appears to have been selected for the establishing of a religious house at the time that Wulphere and his kin went to the consecration of the church at Peterborough.[261] Abbot Saxulf requested of that Mercian king a grant of Thorney, saying—“There is an island here which is called ANCARIG, and my desire is that we build a minster there to the glory of S. Mary, so that those may dwell therein who wish to lead a life of peace and rest.” Thus it would seem that in 662 A.D. this fen island (Thorney now) was “Ancarig,” or “Hermit’s isle,”[262] and how long before we know not. Hermits—we suppose—developed into monks. Keltic Christians may have chosen a life of seclusion, and to some of them Thorney may have been a hermitage. _Ancarig_ seems allied to the Saxon words, “ANCER,” a hermit or recluse; and “_ig_,” an island. But there are similar elements in the Welsh language, as “ANCR,” a hermit; and “UNIG,” lonely, out of the way;—(also “_ing_,” narrow or confined.) Therefore, “Ancarig” may have been so named—may have been a hermitage—in what are called old British times, _i.e._ prior either to the Roman conquest or the Saxon supremacy. The derivation was probably quite independent of the Greek forms, _ana_ and _choreo_, from which our modern word, Anchorite, is supposed to come. Thorney, in common with other monasteries, suffered during the Danish invasions, but revived in the peaceful reign of Ædgar. Athelwold, bishop of Winchester, established himself at Thorney about 964, and according to William of Malmesbury he gained possession of land sufficient to maintain himself and 12 monks (Iccircoque nontantum terrarum illuc, quantum alibi congessit; sed quantum sibi et. XII. monachis sat esset.) To effect this he is said to have cleared the land of the thorns and brambles. The following lines are from _Novæ Arundines or New Marsh-Melodies_, by H. HAILSTONE, M.A. Palmer, Cambridge. 1885. THORNEY ABBEY. Ah! mute is Thorney’s matin bell, And hushed the holy singing That rose from out the hermits’ cell, In tuneful numbers ringing! Delightsome was that isle of yore, Where apples without measure Did bloom, and Phœbus panted o’er The vineyard’s purple treasure! Beneath the bosom of the eyot In pleasing holts embower’d, The tippet-grebes did congregate, The snow-white heron tower’d. Now all their water-ways are dry; Then sit we ’twixt the setting Of yon bright orb that gilds the sky, And Cynthia’s crystal fretting. Behold how Ceres’ lap is full: O may no fortune fickle The bounteous goddess’ gifts annul, Or stint the golden sickle!