The Abbey must not, however, be dismissed without some reference to its history. There is a history of its buildings, and there is a history of its people. The architectural history of the Abbey has been written in many volumes. Briefly, there was a monastery with its church here as early as the eighth century: this was destroyed by the Danes; then a new House with its church was founded and the House was rebuilt on a scale of great magnificence by Edward the Confessor. Next, Henry the Third resolved to honor Edward the Confessor by pulling down his church and rebuilding it entirely. This he accomplished as far as the crossing of the transepts and the nave. The great feature of the new church was now the Shrine of the Confessor, raised high above the floor of the church by an artificial mound of earth brought from the Holy Land. St. Peter, to whom Edward had dedicated the church, was now supplanted by St. Edward. The nave was continued by Edward the First, who built five bays, according to Gilbert Scott. The chantry of Henry the Fifth, Henry the Seventh’s Chapel, and the completion of the western towers by Wren, or by his pupil Hawksmoor, have been added since the work of King Edward.

As for the domestic buildings of the Abbey, there are still fragments remaining of the Confessor’s work. But the buildings were in great part rebuilt by Abbot Litlington toward the end of the fourteenth century. The Cloisters, the Jerusalem Chamber, the Chapter House, the Abbot’s dining hall, still remain; while the Cloisters, the Refectory, the Infirmary cloisters, and fragments of the Chapel of St. Catherine also show in ruin, more or less complete, the beauty of his work. The history of a monastery apart from its architecture must be meager. The more meager it is, the more likely, one feels, is it that the House has sustained its pristine zeal. To the Benedictine of the ancient rule, behind his walls, cut off from the outer world, there were no events: he was buried; the world did not exist for him; the small events of the Abbey, the death of one Abbot and the election of another; an unexpected legacy; the building of another chapel; the addition of new carved stalls to the Abbey church; what else was there to chronicle?

At Westminster the monks were noted for their scriptorium. The work of copying and illuminating was one which flourished in religious Houses first because it was work which required the attention and care of men who were not bound by any consideration of time—whether a missal was completed in a year or in ten years mattered nothing; the only point worthy of consideration was the excellence of the work; next, it was just the kind of delicate artistic work, conventional in its drawing and in its coloring, which a monk of artistic tastes would like. What else did the Westminster monks do? They taught their novices; they received the sons of noblemen as scholars and wards; they administered their very large estates; they governed the rabble of Sanctuary; they carried on a tradition of learning, but they produced no scholars; and they took part in every national and Royal Function held in the Abbey church. I think it may be conceded that, except in one deplorable case, there were few scandals attached to the Abbey of St. Peter’s, Westminster. The stories connected with the poet Skelton point to a certain laxity as regards going outside the House and drinking in the Westminster taverns. Indeed, it is plain that the monks were frequently seen in the streets and in public places. But we hear little of the monks, and this fact must be placed to their credit.

Twice is the silence broken. On one occasion some prophet announced that a high tide was coming up the Thames, which would overflow the Abbey buildings and drown the monks. Then the Abbot with all the brethren betook himself to a small House at Kilburn, the Priory of St. John the Baptist, where they took shelter until the tide was past and the prophet was covered with confusion.

The second case is that of Richard Podelicote, which deserves a longer notice.

This case occurred in the year 1303. It is certainly one of the most astonishing and daring attempts in history—only equaled by Colonel Blood’s attempt nearly four hundred years later. It was the Robbery of the Royal Treasury. The King’s Treasure consisted of the Saxon Regalia; the jeweled crowns, swords, cups of state, and precious vessels acquired by the Norman and Plantagenet kings, and of such moneys as the King had accumulated or set apart for special purposes, or acquired by ordinary means from year to year. The Treasury was the ancient Norman Chapel of the Pyx, i. e., Chapel of the Box, which contained the things required for the assay and examination of new coins. In 1303 the chapel contained a far larger amount of specie than was usual. This money was lying there, ready for the use of the King in his Scottish campaign. It amounted to one hundred thousand pounds, an enormous sum, equivalent to something like a million or more of our own money.

The robbery apparently began with a raid upon the Refectory, and was not at first intended to go any farther. The robber was one Richard de Podelicote, described as a merchant of some kind, formerly trading in the Low Countries. We must, of course, be careful not to suppose that a so-called “merchant” was necessarily a person with the dignity and authority of a Whittington. Richard de Podelicote was probably an unsuccessful trader in foreign wares, not a craftsman or a retailer, else he would have been so described. Richard, who said in his confession that he had lost the sum of £14 17s. in a lawsuit, was a broken man, desperate and cunning; he observed that the small gate in the wall which led from the Palace to the Abbey (at the door now by Poets’ Corner) was unwatched and neglected. At this time the King himself, with a great army, was on his way to Scotland; the Palace was therefore deserted. All the grooms, armorers, blacksmiths, pages, and men-at-arms were with the King. A crowd of servants followed with such gear as was wanted for the cooking, carrying provisions, wine, and all kinds of things. There were left in the Palace only the Queen and her people, the canons, vicars, singing men, and boys of St. Stephen’s; the women and the children; and some of the servants. The courts of the palace were therefore quiet and deserted; the strictness of the rules about closing and opening gates, and about watching those who entered or went out, was relaxed. This private way from the Palace to the Abbey was hardly ever used—perhaps it was well-nigh forgotten. The thief, therefore, would have no difficulty whatever, pretending to be a workman sent perhaps to repair the roof, in introducing by this postern a ladder into the Abbey precinct. Or indeed he might have entered boldly by any of the remaining four gates into the Abbey.

At night all the gates, except this, being locked and made fast, and all the monks, even the two guardians of the church, being asleep, the thief was perfectly safe. No one could see him. He set his ladder against one of the Chapter House windows and so, opening a window and tying a rope round the stonework, he easily let himself down into the Chapter House and so into the Cloisters. There is mention of some kind of night-watch; there was such a watch in the church; the Sacristan is said to have been responsible for a night-watch in the Abbey; there was perhaps an irregular patrol; perhaps the Sacristan, whose guilt in what afterward occurred is but too apparent, was already an accomplice. However that might be, there were no watchmen out on the night when Richard de Podelicote stood in the silent Cloisters and glanced hurriedly around before he forced open the lock of the Refectory door and proceeded to the job in hand. This was to fill his bag with silver cups from the aumbries or cupboards in the Refectory. Nobody disturbed him; he retreated as he had entered; he climbed up his rope; he replaced his ladder along the wall as if it had been left there by a workman, and he passed through the postern into the Palace itself. To find a place for rest and concealment in that deserted nest of houses, chambers, and offices was not difficult; to carry out his bag in the morning—his bag full of silver cups—was also easy. Perhaps, as happened later, the custodian of the gate was an accomplice in this job as well.

The next chapter in the story is more difficult to understand. To rob the King’s treasury was a far more serious job than to rob the Refectory. For the Treasury was a chamber with stone walls of great thickness, cemented firmly, only to be dislodged by being taken away piecemeal with infinite labor: and to carry out whole sacks and hampers full of treasure was impossible for one man unaided. There must be confederates. There must certainly have been confederates within and without the Abbey: monks who would assist in averting suspicion; people who would buy up the plunder.

The story has been related by two writers from such documents as remain; one of these is Mr. Joseph Burtt, late Assistant Keeper of the Public Records, who contributed a paper on the subject to Gilbert Scott’s “Gleanings from Westminster Abbey,” and the other is Mr. Henry Harrod, F.S.A., in a paper printed in the forty-fourth volume of “ArchÆologia.” The differences between the two accounts are very slight.

Mr. Harrod, however, endeavors to prove that the King’s Treasury was not the Chapel of the Pyx, but the Crypt of the Chapter House. I cannot think that he has made out his case. It is true that the Crypt is a strong and massive structure perfectly well adapted for such a purpose; but the tradition which attaches to the chapel, the strong iron door, the provision about the keys, the nature of the things actually stored there after the regalia was removed, seem to me quite clearly to prove that this place and not the Crypt was the Royal Treasury.

In considering the method of the robbery it makes a very great difference whether the Treasury was in one or the other place. Consider the plan (p. 101) of the Abbey. If the Treasury was in the Chapter House the robber might, if the postern were closed, work all day at the back of this house. No one ever came into the cemetery which is now Henry VII.’s Chapel. If the Treasury was in the Chapel of the Pyx, he would have to work by night only in the passage frequented every day by the monks, and leading from the Chapter House to the Cloisters.

In any case the whole world knew the position of the King’s Treasury. In the reign of Edward I., just as now, there was the massive and ponderous iron door, closely locked, which could not be broken open in a single night by a dozen men. The Abbot and the Prior were the official guardians of the Treasury; they kept the keys. A key was also kept by the Master of the King’s Wardrobe.

Matthew of Westminster is deeply indignant at the suspicion that any of the monks were concerned in the robbery. But he is careful not to tell the story, which is suspicious to the highest degree. Meantime it is perfectly certain that no one unaided could effect this work without its being discovered while incomplete. Dean Stanley (p. 369) says that Richard “concerted with friends, partly within, partly without the Precincts.” He refers to Matthew of Westminster under the year 1303. Unfortunately Matthew makes no reference whatever to any accomplices; he merely says, “Edward had his Treasury plundered by a single robber.” And this bald statement he repeats immediately afterward.

The undeniable facts in the case are these:

1. At the end of April, 1303, the King’s Treasury at Westminster Abbey was broken open and a great quantity of treasure was stolen.

2. On June 6 the King, being then at Linlithgow, heard of the robbery and very naturally fell into a wrath more than royal. He dispatched writ after writ, ordering the most searching investigation.

3. An investigation was made. In consequence of this all the monks of Westminster and forty other persons were taken to the Tower and kept there.

4. On the day of Annunciation, 1306, the monks were released.

The evidence, so far as it has been preserved, shows how the robbery was planned and carried out.

First there is the confession of Podelicote himself:

“He was a travelling merchant for wool, cheese, and butter, and was arrested in Flanders for the King’s debts in Bruges, and there were taken from him £14 1s., for which he sued in the King’s Court at Westminster at the beginning of August in the thirty-first year, and then he saw the condition of the Refectory of the Abbey, and saw the servants bringing in and out silver cups and spoons and mazers. So he thought how he might obtain some of those goods, as he was so poor on account of his loss in Flanders, and so he spied about all the parts of the Abbey. And on the day when the King left the place for Barnes, on the following night, as he had spied out, he found a ladder at a house which was near the gate of the Palace toward the Abbey, and put that ladder to a window of the Chapter House, which he opened and closed by a cord; and he entered by this cord, and thence he went to the door of the Refectory, and found it closed with a lock, and he opened it with his knife and entered, and there he found six silver hanaps in an aumbry behind the door, and more than thirty silver spoons in another aumbry, and the mazer hanaps under a bench near together; and he carried them all away, and closed the door after him without shutting the lock. And having spent the proceeds by Christmas he thought how he could rob the King’s Treasury. And as he knew the ways of the Abbey, and where the Treasury was and how he could get there, he began to set about the robbery eight days before Christmas with the tools which he provided for it, viz., two ‘tarrers,’ great and small knives, and other small ‘engines’ of iron, and so was about the breaking open during the night hours of eight days before Christmas to the quinzain of Easter, when he first had entry on the night of a Wednesday, the eve of St. Mark (April 24); and all the day of St. Mark he stayed in there and arranged what he would carry away, which he did the night after, and the night after that, and the remainder he carried away with him out of the gate behind the church of St. Margaret, and put it at the foot of the wall beyond the gate, covering it with earth, and there were there pitchers, cups with feet and covers. And also he put a great pitcher with stones and a cup in a certain tomb. Besides he put three pouches full of jewels and vessels, of which one was ‘hanaps’ entire and in pieces. In another a great crucifix and jewels, a case of silver with gold spoons. In the third ‘hanaps,’ nine dishes and saucers, and an image of our Lady in silver-gilt, and two little pitchers of silver. Besides he took to the ditch by the mews a pot and a cup of silver. Also he took with him spoons, saucers, spice dishes of silver, a cup, rings, brooches, stones, crowns, girdles, and other jewels which were afterwards found with him. And he says that what he took out of the Treasury he took at once out of the gate near St. Margaret’s Church, and left nothing behind within it.”

It will be observed that he takes the whole blame to himself and names no confederates. Was this loyalty to his friends? If so, it was loyalty of a very unusual kind. Another man, John de Rippingall, however, who also confessed, states that there were present two monks, two foresters, two knights, and about eight others.

The evidence of conspiracy was very strong. First, as regards the monks. Podelicote himself says that the work took him four months. Was there no help from within to keep this work secret? Consider: the robber was cutting through a massive stone wall; he would have to remove the stones one by one at night and replace them when he ceased at daybreak. But this kind of work cannot be done without making a considerable amount of mess. Now, the Sacrist and his officers had charge of the church and the close, and they were charged to watch “in the cemetery.” By the cemetery is meant, I suppose, the ground lying between the East end of the Abbey and the wall, now covered by Henry VII.’s Chapel.

Stanley, without any discoverable authority, calls the cloister-garth the cemetery. During that time of four months the Sacrist’s watch never once discovered this workman. I do not suppose a nightly patrol, but any kind of watch means some kind of irregular visit here and there.

The work would involve the removal of those stones which were underground. In order to effect this the flags must be taken up every night, if the passage was paved; if it was not, the difficulty of opening and closing the cavity for working in was very greatly increased. It seems to me, in fact, impossible that the thing could have been managed at all without confederates in the Abbey itself.

There were other reasons for suspecting the Sacrist. He brought one day, before the discovery, a silver-gilt cup to the Abbot; he found it, he said, outside St. Margaret’s Church. It was debated whether the Abbot could rightly keep the cup thus found within the precincts. Where did the Sacrist get that cup? Did he give it up in fear of having it discovered in his possession? William the Palmer, Keeper of the Palace, deposed that he had seen a very unusual coming and going of the Sacrist, the Sub-Prior, and other monks, carrying things. What things? Some of the things were taken away in two great hampers by a boat from King’s Bridge, the river stairs of the Palace. Another monk, John de Lynton, was proved to have sown the ground in the cloister with hemp seed in the winter, so that when the hemp grew up there might be a convenient and unsuspected place to hide their plunder. One John Albas deposed that he was employed to make certain tools for the use of the robbers, and that Alexander de Pershore, the monk, threatened to kill him if he revealed the design; it was he who had seen the said Alexander and other monks taking two large panniers into a boat at the King’s Bridge. John de Ramage, another confederate, went in and out of the Abbey a good deal at this time; he suddenly bought horses and arms and splendid attire. Where did the money come from? The robbers were also assisted by William de Paleys, who had charge of the Palace gate. He it was who passed the burglars in and let them out. Under his bed were found the richly jeweled case of the holy Cross of Neath, with other valuable things belonging to the Treasury.

They stole the King’s money, a great quantity of gold and silver cups (some of these they broke up), and many rings, jewels, and other precious things. They had the sense to understand that the King’s crown and the greater jewels would be of no use at all to them, therefore they left these things behind; but they took the money, and they took the things they could melt down and sell for silver or for gold. A good deal was sold in London, the purchasers not caring to inquire how this valuable stuff was obtained. Some of the jewels were sold by Podelicote in Northampton and Colchester. This worthy was actually found to be in possession of two thousand pounds’ worth of property stolen from the Treasury.

Such is the story. It does not state in what manner the fact of the robbery was discovered. It took place at the end of April or the beginning of May. The King heard of it in June. It is stated, however, by Burtt that it was not till the 20th of June that the Master of the Wardrobe, John de Drokenesford, came with the Keeper of the Tower, the Justices, the Lord Mayor, and the Prior of Westminster, and opened the doors of the Treasury, when he found “the chests and coffers broken open and many goods carried away.” But the robbery was known before that date. How? We cannot learn.

Many of the criminals were caught in actual possession of the spoil. Among these were Podelicote, William de Paleys, and John de Ramage. The history of this wonderful case is unfortunately incomplete. The fate of the ringleaders is unknown and the particulars of their trial have not been preserved. It is, however, quite certain that they were all hanged, most likely with the pleasing additions to hanging which prolonged the ceremony and gave it greater importance. In Rishanger there is a brief note on the subject. He is speaking of the robbery: “Propter quod multi fuerunt—et quidam insontes forte—suspensi.” All the monks, forty of them, were sent to the Tower; another company of forty persons, not monks, were sent there as well. The monks were liberated after two years’ imprisonment; what became of the rest I know not.

The following letter from the King, enjoining the Justices to make speed with the trial, is interesting, if only because it gives the names of the monks:

“Rex dilectis et fidelibus suis Rogero Brabazan, Willielmo Bereford, Rogero de Higham, Radulpho de Sandwico et Waltero de GloucestriÂ, salutem.

“Cum Walterus Abbas Westmonastriensis:

“Commonachi ejusdem domus;

—de fractione ThesaurariÆ nostrÆ apud Westmonasterium nuper furtive fact et Thesauro ibidem ad valorem C. M. librarum capto et asportato indictati et e occasione in prison nostr Turris nostrÆ London detenti, asseruerunt se inde falso et malitiose indictatos fuisse et nobis attente supplicaverunt quod veritatem inde inquiri et eis justitiam exhiberi faciamus. Assignavimus vos justiciarios ad inquirendum per sacramentum tum militum quum aliorum &c.... de comitatibus Middlesex et Surrey per quos &c. super negotio prÆdictam plenam veritatem et ad negotium illud audiendum et terminandum &c., &c.”

The names suggest a few observations. First, the monks, with one or two exceptions, all come from country villages or from small country towns—one is from Lichfield; one from London. How are we to interpret this fact? Surely by the very simple explanation that to be made a member of this rich and dignified foundation was a provision for a younger son. The wars carried off some of the sons—eldest as well as younger; in the service of the King or of some great Lord some found employment and preferment; some were apprenticed in the great companies of London and perhaps of Bristol, York, and Norwich; some were put into the monasteries as children, and remained there all their lives. With three exceptions all the surnames are territorial. The three—Payn, Vil, and Temple—may have belonged to gentlehood, but I know not. A boy received as a novice was assured at least of a tranquil life, free from care. We are not to suppose that these rich endowments were given to boys taken from the plow. I say that the names in this list go to prove the fact that the monasteries were filled with the children of gentlefolk. For, granting that a rustic would also be called by the name of his village, how was a plain country lad from Pershore, Merton, Warefield, Henley, Sudbury, Rye, to get himself recommended and accepted by the Abbot of Westminster?

The other names—those of the persons indicted who were not monks—also illustrate the change and growth in the surname. There are thirty-one names—twenty-one are places of birth; four signify trade; six are names which I do not understand.

One more episode in the life of the Abbey—an episode which startled the Brotherhood in a way long remembered. There was a Spanish prisoner in the hands of his captors, two English knights named Shackle and Hawke. The prisoner was allowed to go home in order to collect his ransom, leaving his son behind in his place. But the ransom was not sent. Then John of Gaunt, who pretended to the crown of Castile, demanded the release of the young Spaniard. This the two knights refused; they intended to secure their ransom, and according to the existing rules of the game as it was then played, they were quite right. John of Gaunt, without troubling himself about the legality of the thing, imprisoned them both in the Tower; but he could not find the young Spaniard. The knights escaped and took sanctuary at Westminster. Hither they were pursued by Alan Bloxhall, Constable of the Tower, and Sir Ralph Ferrers, with fifty armed men. It was on the 4th of August, in the forenoon, during the celebration of High Mass, that the two fugitives ran headlong into the church followed by their pursuers. Even in the rudest times such a thing as was then done would have been regarded as monstrous and horrible. For the knights and their servants ran round and round the choir, followed by the men of the Tower, and the words of the Gospel—they were at the Gospel of the day—were drowned by the clash of mailed heels and of weapons, by the shouts and yells of the murderers and the groans of the victims. Hawke fell dead in front of the Prior’s stall; one of the monks was killed, no doubt trying to stop the men, and one of Hawke’s servants. Then the Constable recalled his men and they all went back to the Tower, feeling, we may imagine, rather apprehensive of the consequences. And the Spanish prisoner was not caught after all. Now, this young Spaniard seems to have been the soul of honor, for he was with the knights all the time, disguised as one of the servants; it seems as if he might have given himself up at any moment.

Naturally, the Abbot and the monks sent up an outcry that was heard over all Christendom. Was the like wickedness ever heard? Not only to break sanctuary, but to commit murder—a triple murder—in the Church itself and at the celebration of High Mass! The Abbey Church was closed for four months; Parliament, which then met in the Chapter House, was suspended; the case was brought before the King; the two chief assailants were excommunicated; and they had to pay two hundred pounds to the Abbey—a fine of about three thousand pounds of our money. Meanwhile Shackle compromised the matter of the Spanish prisoner; he gave him up, but received a sum of five hundred marks down and an annuity of one hundred marks.

Another breaking of sanctuary took place at the time of Wat Tyler’s rebellion, when the unfortunate Marshal of the Marshalsea was dragged from the Confessor’s shrine and murdered. But the rebels being dispersed and their leaders hanged there was nothing more said.

Such events as these, from time to time, broke the monotony of the monastic life. A coronation; a Royal wedding; a great funeral; the flight of a Queen—Elizabeth Woodville: or a Duchess—as the Duchess of Gloucester—to sanctuary; the death of a King—Henry IV.—in the Abbey; these things gave the Brethren something to think about, something to quicken the slow march of Time.

There were, and are, however, other residents of the Abbey besides the monks; there are all the dead Kings and Queens and Princes; all the dead nobles and the dead ignobles; the dead men of letters and the arts who lie buried in this Campo Santo, the most sacred spot in all the Empire.

The verger will show us the Royal tombs and the Royal waxworks, with the shrine of the Confessor, the armor of Henry V., and all the treasures that lie behind those iron gates. We can see for ourselves the monuments of the great unknown and the great illustrious who are buried in this cemetery. We can read in the historians of the Abbey about the tombs and the statues, the sculptors and the architects, the occupants and their royal achievements.

Let us turn to the men of Letters and of Art. Here lies Chaucer; buried in the church in the year 1400, not because he was a great poet, but because he was one of the Royal household. The monument was erected in the reign of Edward VI. Next to him lies Spenser, who died in King Street close by. All the poets were present at his funeral; elegies written by them for this occasion were thrown into the grave with the pens that wrote them. The Countess of Dorset erected the monument. Then come Drayton, Ben Jonson, Sir William Davenant, Abraham Cowley, John Dryden—whose monument was raised by Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham.

But the lines were altered and Pope’s proposed epitaph did not appear. John Milton’s bust was put up in 1737; his ashes lie in St. Giles’ Cripplegate. Here are that remarkable pair Aphra Behn and Tom Brown. Here is Mrs. Steele, Dick Steele’s first wife, and here lies Addison, the writer who is perhaps more loved than any other in our whole literary history. They knew how to honor so great a scholar and an essayist in the year 1719. His body lay in state in the Jerusalem Chamber. They buried him in the dead of night—funerals in the eighteenth century were often held at midnight when the darkness and the gleaming torches added to the impressiveness of the ceremony. Bishop Atterbury met the corpse; the choir sang a hymn, and the procession was conducted by torchlight round the Royal Tombs into Henry VII.’s Chapel. Tickell has written upon the scene:

Matthew Prior and Gay followed Addison. Pope was buried at Twickenham; Gray at Stoke Pogis; Goldsmith in the Temple. Samuel Johnson lies in the Abbey; Sheridan, Cumberland, and Macpherson are buried here. And here of moderns are Macaulay, Lord Lytton, Dickens, and Tennyson. Of actors and actresses Anne Oldfield, Anna Bracegirdle, Betterton, Garrick, and John Henderson are buried here. Of musicians Purcell, John Blow, William Croft, Charles Burney, Sterndale Bennett, and HÄndel are buried here. Of painters there are none. This is a very remarkable omission. How did it happen? Presumably because the successive Deans and Canons have had no taste for art.

The list includes a goodly company. Whenever a great man dies, the Dean should remove a monument—one of the unknown—to make room for the newcomer; in that way the Abbey would become more and more the Holy Field of the British Empire.

One thing more before we leave the Abbey. We read of the mediÆval churches, especially such churches as old St. Paul’s, the Gray Friars, and Austin Friars, how they were filled from end to end with tombs of princes and noble ladies, carved and precious, with alabaster and marble; how between and among the greater tombs were the tombs of the lesser folk—but all of them, nobles and ladies and knights—the common sort lay outside—insomuch that the church was filled with their monuments. If we go into Westminster Abbey, alone of existing churches we can understand this wealth of sepulchral monuments formerly so common.

What says Addison?

“When I am in a serious humour I very often walk by myself in Westminster Abbey. When the gloominess of the place, and the use to which it is applied, with the solemnity of the building and the conditions of the people who lie in it, are apt to fill the mind with a kind of melancholy or rather thoughtfulness that is not disagreeable.... When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tombs of the parents themselves I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow; when I see kings lying by those who deposed them, when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men who divided the world with their contests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little competitions, factions, and debates of mankind.”