Such are the protests from the defenders of the monasteries even before a hearing is granted.  “What,” say they, “believe such perjurers, adulterers and gamblers; men forsworn to bring in a bad report; men who were selected because they were worthless characters who could be relied on to return false charges against an institution loved by the people?”

The commissioners began their work at Oxford, in September, 1535.  The work was vigorously pushed.  On reaching the door of a monastery, they demanded admittance; if it was not granted, they entered by breaking down the gate with an axe.  They then summoned the monks before them, and plied them with questions.  An inventory was taken of everything; nothing escaped their searching eyes.  When the king decided to suppress the lesser monasteries, and ordered a new visitation of the larger ones, they seized and sold all they could lay their hands on; “stained glass, ironwork, bells, altar-cloths, candles, books, beads, images, capes, brewing-tubs, brass bolts, spits for cooking, kitchen utensils, plates, basins, all were turned into money.”  Many valuable books were destroyed; jewels and gold and silver clasps were torn from old volumes, and the paper sold as waste; parchment manuscripts were used to scour tubs and grease boots.  Out of the wreck about a hundred and thirty thousand manuscripts have been saved.  It must be admitted that the commissioners were not delicate in their labors; that they insulted many nuns, robbed the monks, violated the laws of decency and humanity, and needlessly excited the rage of the people and outraged the religious sentiments of the Catholics.  They even used sacred altar-cloths for blankets on their horses, and rode across the country decorated in priestly and monkish garments.  There seems to be some ground for the statement that Henry was ignorant, or at least not fully informed, of their unwarranted violence and gross sacrilege.  The abbey of Glastonbury was one of the oldest and finest cloisters in England.  It was a majestic pile of buildings in the midst of gardens and groves covering sixty acres; its aisles were vocal with the chanting of monks, who marched in gorgeous processions among the tall, gray pillars.  The exterior of the buildings was profusely decorated with sculpture; monarchs, temple knights, mitered abbots, martyrs and apostles stood for centuries in their niches of stone while princes came and passed away, while kingdoms rose and fell.  The nobles and bishops of the realm were laid to rest beneath the altars around which many generations of monks had assembled to praise and to pray.  The royal commissioners one day appeared before the walls.  The abbot, Richard Whiting, who was then eighty-four years of age, was at Sharphorn, another residence of the community.  He was brought back and questioned.  At night when he was in bed, they searched his study for letters and books, and they claimed to have found a manuscript of Whiting’s arguments against the divorce of the king and Queen