Doing nothing has long been treated as a moral problem. In most societies, work and activity are viewed as signs of virtue, while idleness is often associated with weakness or inefficiency. Yet for Diogenes of Sinope, one of the founders of ancient Cynicism, idleness was not failure but a method of freedom. His rejection of ordinary labor and ambition challenged what his contemporaries believed about the good life. In the modern world, where productivity often defines self-worth, his philosophy still offers a useful counterpoint.   The Active Life of Ancient Athens School of Athens, by Raphael, 1511. Source: Vatican Museums   We tend to think of today’s hyperactive world as uniquely modern. Many of us live restless lives filled with constant demands on our time and might feel guilt during periods of rest because of the quiet fear of falling behind. Yet the belief that a good life must be an active and productive one has deep roots.   In classical Athens, participation was highly valued. The ideal citizen was expected to serve the polis through politics, warfare, or the arts. The concept of arete (virtue) was tied to usefulness and public service. To abstain from civic life was rare and discouraged. For Athenians, living apart from the polis was almost unthinkable. Pericles famously warned that the man who took no interest in public affairs was not minding his own business, but possessed no business at all. Such a person was condemned as useless.   Against this backdrop, Diogenes of Sinope became something of a philosophical scandal. Exiled from his hometown for debasing the currency according to tradition, he turned his punishment into a lesson in philosophical independence. He owned almost nothing, slept in open spaces, and refused to take on any occupation. Dressed in a coarse cloak, he took shelter in a large clay jar (pithos) and begged for food. Few could miss him.   When Plato defined man as a “featherless biped,” Diogenes plucked a chicken and carried it into the Academy, declaring, “Here is Plato’s man.” The joke was crude, but it had a point. Philosophy, he seemed to be saying, had become too detached from real life. In this spirit of confrontation, Diogenes cast himself as a truth-teller, exposing the extent to which human striving was performative and vain.   What It Meant to Be Idle Marble Statue of Diogenes, Roman. Source: Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York   To the Athenians, Diogenes looked lazy, perhaps even mad. But his idleness was deliberate. By doing as little as possible, he tested how much a person truly needed to live.   Cynicism, as he practiced it, was not cynicism in the modern sense of distrust or irony. It was an attempt to live in accordance with nature, without possessions, ambition, or pretense. The Cynic’s task was to separate what was necessary from what was mere habit and social responsibility.   When asked where he came from, Diogenes replied that he was a citizen of the world. In a society that tied moral worth to the city-state, the remark was provocative. He suggested that belonging could be a human quality rather than a civic one, and that virtue was not the privilege of the well-born or those with status.   In his exercise of idleness, Diogenes embodied a fundamental Greek concept of schole, or leisure. The word later gave us “school,” but in its original sense, it meant time set aside for reflection and conversation rather than work. For philosophers, leisure was the requisite condition in which thought could emerge. What distinguished Diogenes was how far he extended that idea. He withdrew completely from what counted as a respectable life by eating, sleeping, and even relieving himself in public. In one account, he was seen masturbating in the marketplace and remarked that he wished hunger could be satisfied as easily.   Ancient sources tell us that this was the kind of provocative behavior that Diogenes revelled in, yet his behavior was not just crude for the sake of it. It was a test of how much moral sentiment depended on custom rather than reason. It was also his way of turning philosophical leisure into deliberate and shameless idleness.   Freedom Through Simplicity Diogenes, by Jean-Léon Gérôme, 1860. Source: Walters Art Museum, Baltimore   At the core of ancient Cynicism was the idea of autarkeia (self-sufficiency). Earlier thinkers, including Socrates, spoke of it as moral independence, but Diogenes made it visible. Freedom, he believed, began when one required little from others.   Fewer possessions meant fewer obligations. Wanting less meant fewer fears. His simplicity was not a case of romanticizing poverty but about showing that happiness did not have to depend on wealth or status. In other words, the Cynic vision of eudaimonia (happiness) rested on the conviction that freedom from excess desire was the surest route to peace of mind.   One story has him discarding his bowl after seeing a child drink from cupped hands. He laughed and said the boy had beaten him in frugality. His response was certainly theatrical, but within this gesture was a lesson in how dependence could be reduced still further, beyond what some might find tolerable. By paring life down to the bare essentials, Diogenes believed he could find a kind of stability that no accumulated fortune could secure.   What many failed to see was how his actions also carried a social bite. By living without property and abstaining from civic duty, Diogenes rejected the very institutions that upheld Athenian hierarchy. His lifestyle was not only a moral stance but a protest and a claim that virtue could exist entirely outside the economy of recognition and reward. Few statements could have been more radical, and it would become a model of self-rule that outlived him by centuries.   The Legacy of Cynicism Saint Paul, “The First Hermit,” by Jusepe de Ribera, 1640. Source: Musei del Prado   After Diogenes’ death, his influence spread through new schools of thought. Zeno of Citium, the founder of Stoicism, adapted many of his ideas for a different audience. Where Diogenes challenged society directly, the Stoics sought harmony within it. Both agreed, however, that real happiness required mastery over one’s desires and that freedom began with wanting less. Epictetus later wrote admiringly about Diogenes in The Discourses, presenting his conduct as one of the clearest embodiments of living according to reason and nature. What impressed him most was not Diogenes’ poverty but his complete command over himself. For a Stoic, this was the highest form of praise.   The Cynic ethos also found echoes among early Christian hermits and later humanist writers who chose voluntary poverty. Over time, Diogenes became a cultural figure: the honest outsider who tells the truth precisely because of how he stands apart.   The Modern Cult of Productivity The Furniture Factory, by Bumpei Usui, 1925. Source: Digital Museum of The History of Japanese in New York   Although the intervening centuries may have changed our tools, they have not altered our instincts. Modern societies, like ancient Athens, still measure worth by productivity. Activity is praised as discipline, while rest is treated as an indulgence.   Technology has intensified this ethic. Many people now feel obliged to account for every hour, to measure the merit of time spent by what it has produced. There is no longer a clear boundary between work and leisure. Fitness routines, mindfulness apps, and personal development projects all extend the logic of productivity into free time. The modern philosopher Byung-Chul Han has referred to this trend extensively in his writings on the achievement society and the phenomenon of burnout.   Similarly, Jenny Odell, who helped popularize the idea of an “attention economy,” argues that our focus has become a commodity to be bought and sold. In her view, the ability to look away and to notice what has no market value is now an indispensable means of maintaining autonomy.   The parallel with ancient Athens is clear, although the motives differ. Civic activity once served the polis, whereas productivity today serves systems that are algorithmic and abstract. Like Diogenes, critics of this system who refuse participation seek to highlight the danger of conforming to values we do not fully understand.   Diogenes’ habit of sitting in the sun while the city hurried around him was a form of resistance and a pointed comment on the persistence of human folly and “useless toils.” This idleness was a way of creating distance from the compulsions of his day. By doing nothing, Diogenes was able to reclaim time from the demands of purpose. In that sense, his lesson remains sharply contemporary.   The New Cynics The Siesta, by Vincent Van Gogh, 1889. Source: Musée d’Orsay, Paris   The outward austerity of ancient Cynicism has vanished, yet its attitude persists in new forms. Movements such as digital minimalism and China’s tang ping (“lying flat”), for example, challenge the idea that a good life must always be busy. While they rarely mention Diogenes, they share his skepticism of compulsion and his pursuit of simplicity.   Digital minimalists turn disconnection into a form of recovery, refusing the demand for continuous engagement. The tang ping movement rejects relentless competition and overwork, valuing sufficiency over ambition. Both arise from exhaustion with the cult of activity that defines modern life. In their own way, both reclaim the right to stop.   These new Cynics reject the metrics of productivity that govern modern existence. They remind us that not every hour must be justified, and not every act must yield value. What they pursue is balance and a life measured by proportion rather than excess. In fact, they continue the same pursuit of eudaimonia that shaped ancient Cynicism, not in fleeting pleasure or achievement, but in the stability of a life rooted in less. In doing so, they revive Diogenes’ claim that idleness, far from weakness, can be a test of freedom.   The Right to Do Less Diogenes, by Ugo da Carpi, 1520-1530. Source: Art Institute of Chicago   Diogenes never told others to abandon society. Instead, he asked them to examine more closely what binds them to conditions that hinder the quest for happiness and contentment. For him, the good life meant independence from compulsion and external validation, not total detachment. By stripping away what he deemed superfluous, he discovered what could not be taken from him.   Cynicism, in his hands, became a philosophy of awareness rather than withdrawal or simple laziness. To “do nothing” is to know when action becomes performative and to resist the empty gestures masquerading as virtue and purpose. For Diogenes, that was freedom in its purest form.   The figure of Diogenes endures because his method remains useful, precisely because it is practical. It is a template for pause and reflection. It encourages us to scrutinise our habits and distinguish between those that serve genuine needs and those that merely echo the expectations of contemporary ideology. Ultimately, his idleness functions as a useful act of calibration rather than as a symbol of apathy. It restores balance between need and excess by reminding us that restraint can be as active a discipline as work itself.

  Walk Trinity Church cemetery, and know that you’re stepping into a time machine of New York history, complete with revolutionaries, inventors, and even a bit of scandal. The bones resting under these headstones saw it all—the birth of a nation, the rise of a metropolis, and more drama than a Broadway show. Let’s uncover the inventions and intrigues of some of the most infamous souls laid to rest here.   1. Richard and Ann Churcher: The Earliest Known Graves Trinity Church, by Alexander Jackson Davis, 1827. Source: Picryl   When you think of the oldest grave in a place that dates back to the 1600s, it is easiest to imagine a stately, elderly gentleman who fought in some great war, or maybe a matronly figure who lived through some textbook-worthy moment in history. This assumption would be wrong, as the oldest legible grave belongs to a five-year-old—little Richard Churcher—who died in 1681. Speculation has it that Richard was one of many children to die in the area’s smallpox outbreak around this time. A short life perhaps but his stone is holding up better than many a New York building.   Located in the northeast section of the yard, Richard’s small marker is a quiet reminder of the area’s early history, when life in New York—then New Amsterdam—was harsh and fleeting for many. Buried next to him is Ann Churcher, likely a relative (some have hypothesized that this is his sister), who passed away a decade after Richard did. These graves predate the founding of Trinity Church itself by a handful of years and provide a glimpse into the city’s colonial past.   Although little is known about the Churcher family, their presence in the churchyard highlights the diverse range of people interred here, from children to adults, all representing the early days of the city’s development.   2. William Alexander, Lord Stirling: A Patriot of the American Revolution Lord Stirling. Source: New York Public Library   Of all the graves at Trinity Churchyard, few hold as much technological significance as that of William Alexander, aka Lord Stirling. A key figure in the American Revolution, Stirling served as one of George Washington’s most diligent generals. He first witnessed the steadfastness of Washington during the French and Indian War and became a dedicated supporter of the American cause after growing disenchanted with British overreach in the colonies.   Born on Christmas Day in 1726, Stirling was the kind of guy who believed in America before it was the trend. His defining moment came during the Battle of Long Island in 1776, when Stirling held off the Redcoats just long enough to let Washington and his troops melt away from the battlefield to safety. It was a sacrifice—Stirling ended up getting captured. However, he was back in action after a few months as a prisoner, eager to fight again.   Born to privilege, Stirling’s aristocratic roots were complicated by his father’s Jacobite loyalties, which had forced the family to seek freedom in America. Despite his noble title and elite upbringing, Stirling was a rebel from the beginning of the conflict, choosing to fight for America over the British Crown. Today, his gravestone stands as a reminder of his critical role in shaping the nation’s future as well as its attitudes concerning privilege versus achievement.   3. Robert Fulton: Steamboat Pioneer The Clermont, Robert Fulton’s steamboat, as rebuilt 1806-7. Source: Free Library   Robert Fulton’s name is synonymous with the steamboat, although it is worth noting that he did not invent the technology, he was the broker who made it a commercial success. Born in Pennsylvania in 1765, Fulton initially pursued a career as a portrait painter, but his inventive mind eventually led him to revolutionize transportation in America.   In the early 1800s, Fulton’s steamboat, the Clermont, made its historic first voyage up the Hudson River, carrying passengers for a fare of five cents per mile. With its sleek design and powerful steam engine, the Clermont opened up new possibilities for both travel and trade, contributing significantly to the Industrial Revolution that changed America from agrarian leanings to a country of manufacturing. Fulton’s innovation made river travel much more accessible, cheaper, and reliable, playing a key role in the nation’s westward expansion as well.   Unfortunately, Fulton didn’t get to enjoy his success for long—he died in 1815, but not before cementing his place in American innovation history (and Trinity Church graveyard).   4. The Hamilton-Schuyler Clan: Founders and Flirtations Memorial of Eliza Hamilton, by Wally Gobetz. Source: Flickr   You can’t talk about Trinity Churchyard without giving a nod to the guy who practically built America’s financial system from scratch. After all, in 1789, when he became the first Secretary of the Treasury under George Washington, Hamilton didn’t just stop at making sure this new nation could pay for things. This rather complicated genius set up the National Bank, created the first US monetary system, and even got the tax system up and running.   Aside from his own eight children with his dedicated wife Elizabeth, many forget he is also the father of the Customs Service and the national debt. All Americans who enjoy their functioning and globally sound economy owe Mr. Hamilton a thank you. While Alexander Hamilton’s large monument draws scores of tourists each year, the less frequented graves of his in-laws, including Angelica and Peggy Schuyler, rest nearby.   Angelica Schuyler Church, sister to Hamilton’s wife Eliza, is remembered for her wit, intelligence, and playful flirtations with the founding father himself. Her relationship with Hamilton has been the subject of much speculation, though historians generally interpret their letters as a friendly, if somewhat flirtatious, exchange (she had a very similar literary setup with Hamilton-hater, Thomas Jefferson). Angelica spent much of her life in Europe, traveling between Paris and London, where she mingled with political luminaries such as the royal family, Benjamin Franklin, and the Marquis de Lafayette.   Alexander Hamilton, by John Trumbull, 1806. Source: Wikimedia Commons   Eliza Hamilton remained a devoted member of Trinity Church, frequently bringing her children to services. The Schuyler sisters’ presence in the cemetery speaks to the strong ties between their families and the early days of American independence.   Margarita “Peggy” Schuyler, the youngest of the three most famous Schuyler sisters, is also buried at Trinity. Much like Angelica, she maintained correspondence with her brother-in-law for most of her short life. Known for her boldness, Peggy once thwarted a British attempt to kidnap her father during the Revolution, proving herself as courageous as she was charming. Although her story is less well-known than those of her sisters, Peggy’s legacy as a key figure in the Revolution lives on in Trinity Churchyard.   5. Charlotte Temple: Fiction Meets Reality Portrait of Fictional Charlotte, 1870. Source: Library of Virginia   Charlotte was the title character in Charlotte, A Tale of Truth, the first American bestseller, written by Susanna Rowson in 1794. The book was a tragic story about a young woman who got knocked around by life and died after giving birth out of wedlock. Readers, whose heartstrings were certainly tugged by Charlotte’s struggles, came to believe the story was real.   A gravestone for Charlotte popped up in the Trinity Churchyard, and folks came from miles around to pay their respects. However, as Charlotte Temple was not based on a single real woman, many attribute the sudden appearance of her burial marker at Trinity Church to unsurpassable hype man, P.T. Barnum.   Visitors would come to mourn the fictional character as if she were once an actual young woman. The grave remains a curious piece of literary history, a testament to the power of storytelling and the blurred boundaries between fiction and reality in early America.   6. Madeleine Talmage Force: Titanic Survivor and Society Darling Madeleine and Son, 1916. Source: Get Archive   Madeleine Talmage Force was just 18 when she became a Titanic survivor—and that’s far from the most interesting thing about her. Born into wealth in 1893, Madeleine was the it girl of her time, educated at fancy schools like Miss Ely’s and Miss Spence’s, where she excelled in just about everything. She rode horses with an elegant mastery, was a fixture in New York’s social plays, and had a place in the Junior League sisterhood to boot. That’s not even mentioning her grandfather, one of Brooklyn’s former mayors.   Then came John Jacob Astor IV, one of the richest men in the world and fresh off an odious and quite public divorce. Despite the gossip swirling around them—divorce wasn’t exactly considered decent in 1911—Madeleine and John married at his vast mansion in Newport. Societal uproar ensued, as the Titanic movie of ‘90s fame got right: “his little wifey there, Madeleine, is my age in a delicate condition. See how she’s trying to hide it, quite the scandal.”   Just months later, they boarded the Titanic. Madeleine, pregnant and barely out of her teens, was put into Lifeboat No. 4 while her husband was denied a seat. She survived the sinking, displaying what one report called “the greatest courage and fortitude” during the chaos.   After the tragedy, she gave birth to their son, John Jacob Astor VI (aka the “Titanic baby”), and went on to remarry her childhood friend, William Karl Dick. She had two sons with this husband, an industrialist, and a member of the New York Yacht Club.   From socialite to survivor, Madeleine’s life was a whirlwind of societal scandal, romance, and resilience. She now rests at Trinity Church, leaving behind a story that is rather more unsinkable than the legendary ship she once sailed on.   Trinity Churchyard: Resting Place of Revolutionary Heroes and Modern Icons Trinity Churchyard. Source: Wikimedia Commons   Trinity Churchyard is more than a peaceful cemetery—it is a monument to real American achievement. Beneath its stone markers eternally sleep individuals who shaped America, from the days of revolution to the bustling metropolis we know today. This article has only scratched the surface of the notables who are buried there in the hallowed grounds of Trinity Churchyard.   There is John Peter Zenger, whose defiant stand in a libel trial established the freedom of the press—a right that still stands today. Visitors to this Upper Manhattan cemetery can also wander to the Soldiers’ Monument, which commemorates the Americans who perished in British captivity during the Revolution. Talk about a place steeped in sacrifice.   Fast forward to more recent history: jazz pianist John Lewis rests here, his music echoing in the annals of American culture. He is joined by Robert Lowery, the first Black Fire Commissioner of New York City, and even Ed Koch, the legendary mayor who gave NYC its signature untouchable swagger in the 1980s.   Trinity isn’t just a place to mourn—it is a place to remember how these men and women shaped the country we live in today. From generals to mayors, spies to surgeons, Trinity Churchyard tells the story of American exceptionalism, one headstone at a time.

  In the pre-Roman era, Britain was populated by Celtic tribes, and the Catuvellani were among the most powerful. During Caesar’s invasion of Britain in 54 BCE, their king, Cassivellaunus, was the leader of an alliance of tribes that resisted the Romans. It was based around the London area, encompassing a large portion of the surrounding country. However, there is some evidence to suggest that their influence may have extended even further than generally thought. It is possible that the Silures tribe, as far west as southeast Wales, may have been subject to the Catuvellani.   Geography of the Catuvellauni and the Silures Map of the tribes of southern Britain, based on Ptolemy’s description in c. 150 CE. Source: Wikimedia Commons   To begin with, let us examine what we know about the distribution of the tribes of pre-Roman southern Britain. In the southeast corner, there was the Cantiaci tribe, which gave its name to the modern county of Kent. To the west was the Atrebates tribe, which extended at least as far west as Winchester. Still further in that direction was the Durotriges tribe, extending into the West Country. Immediately north of these three tribes were three other tribes. Approximately speaking, above the Cantiaci were the Trinovantes, in the Essex area; above the Atrebates were the Catuvellauni, in the London area; and above the Durotriges were the Dobunni.   This latter tribe touched the eastern border of what is now southern Wales. Bordering them to the west, inhabiting southeast Wales, was the Silures tribe. Although they appear far away from the Catuvellauni, they were only separated from them by a single tribe, albeit a large one. Nevertheless, there is some evidence that the Silures were subject to the kings of the Catuvellauni.   Evidence From the Activities of Caratacus Caractacus at the Tribunal of Claudius in Rome, Andrew Birrell, 1792. Source: Wikimedia Commons   One piece of evidence comes from the recorded activities of a king named Caratacus. He was from the Catuvellauni tribe. His father, Cunobelinus, had been the powerful king of the tribe and was on generally friendly terms with the Romans. Cunobelinus’ eldest son, Togodumnus, succeeded him and was ruling during the Claudian invasion of Britain in 43 CE. Caratacus, although not the king at that time, still held a prominent position and joined Togodumnus’ side in fighting against the Romans.   However, very early on in the Roman invasion, Togodumnus was killed. This is reported by Dio Cassius. However, he does not explain what happened to Caratacus, despite having mentioned him earlier. Presumably, Caratacus may have succeeded Togodumnus as king of his tribe, although Dio does not specifically mention this. If this did happen, then it could only have been a very brief rule, since the Romans swiftly conquered Catuvellauni territory in the wake of Togodumnus’ death.   Caradog, by Thomas Prytherch, 1906. Source: National Library of Wales   The next reference to Caratacus in the history of the Roman invasion of Britain is seen in the writings of Tacitus. He refers to Caratacus as leading the Silures in southeast Wales in guerrilla warfare against the Romans. The final battle between Caratacus and the Romans, in which the former was defeated, occurred in 50 CE. Hence, Caratacus appears to have been active as the ruler of this tribe in southeast Wales for some seven years.   The fact that Caratacus was a prince of the Catuvellauni tribe in the southeast of England makes his appearance shortly afterward as the leader of the Silures in southeast Wales rather conspicuous. Was he a fugitive prince who was warmly welcomed by the Silures and set up as their ruler? Or, alternatively, had the Catuvellauni tribe already exerted some level of control over the Silures, thus making Caratacus’ leadership role perfectly natural and even expected? The latter is certainly a distinct possibility, even if it cannot be definitively confirmed.   Evidence From Roman Records Silver coin of the Dobunni tribe, c. 30-45 CE. Source: Wikimedia Commons   As mentioned earlier, the Catuvellauni and the Silures were separated by the large Dobunni tribe. It would obviously not be possible for the Catuvellauni kings to have dominated the Silures if the Dobunni tribe was not also subject to them. Is there any evidence that this was the case? As it happens, there is some evidence from the writings of Dio Cassius.   After referring to the initial defeat of Togodumnus and Caratacus, prior to the battle that killed the former, Dio mentions that the Romans subdued a part of the Bodunni. He states that this tribe was ruled by the Catuvellauni. Now, who were the Bodunni? No other records speak of a tribe by that name. For this reason, many scholars agree that Dio intended to refer to the Dobunni.   If so—and this conclusion does seem likely—then this would mean that the power of the Catuvellauni extended at least as far as the border of Wales.   Evidence From Archaeology Illustration of a Celtic chariot burial discovered at Châlons in 1901. Source: Wikimedia Commons   Can archaeology reveal anything useful about this issue? Unfortunately, unlike most of the tribes in England, the tribes of Wales did not mint coins, so we cannot learn anything through this corpus of evidence. Nevertheless, one interesting archaeological find which might be relevant is a chariot burial in Pembrokeshire. Chariot burials were very common among the tribes of what is now eastern England, stretching from at least as far north as Yorkshire to at least as far south as Essex.   The fact that only a single chariot burial has been found in Wales suggests that it was not common there. Of course, more may still be found, but the evidence as we now have it suggests that the Welsh tribes did not generally use chariot burials.   Could this be evidence that members of the elite class from the tribes of eastern England had spread as far west as Pembrokeshire? If so, this would put them past the Silures.   Bronze terret ring from a chariot, Lesser Garth, near Cardiff, c. 1st century BCE. Source: Museum Wales   Of course, this could just be a trace of Caratacus’ relocation to Wales after the defeat of Togodumnus in 43 CE. After all, it is clear that Caratacus did not just arrive there in the territory of the Silures with a few warriors by his side. This is evident from Tacitus’ report that Caratacus’ wife and daughters were captured after his defeat in 50 CE. He had thus relocated his whole family to Wales.   Therefore, perhaps the chariot burial in Pembrokeshire, which dates broadly to the middle of the 1st century CE, could have been the burial of one of Caratacus’ men. On the other hand, individual pieces of chariots have been found in the territory of the Silures from long before Caratacus’ arrival there. One example is a bronze terret ring found near Cardiff, dating to the 1st century BCE. It has a red enamel inlay, just like those found much further east.   This supports the possibility that Catuvellauni warriors may have been present in south Wales from as early as the 1st century BCE.   Evidence From Later Tradition Folio from Brut Tysilio found in the Jesus College MS 28, showing Tenvantius described as the Earl of Kerniw on the first line, 1695. Source: Bodleian Library, Oxford   One final piece of evidence comes from later medieval tradition. Geoffrey of Monmouth, in his Historia Regum Britanniae of 1137, preserved extensive amounts of authentic Welsh tradition. Togodumnus, for example, appears as “Guiderius,” a form of his name which must have undergone centuries of corruption.   Therefore, it is notable that in his account of the reign of Cassivellaunus, Geoffrey mentions a nephew of the king named Tenvantius. This is widely accepted as the historical Tasciovanus, a king attested through coinage evidence in the second half of the 1st century BCE. Notably, Geoffrey calls him the “Duke of Cornwall.” A Welsh translation of Geoffrey’s account calls him the “Earl of Kerniw.” While “Kerniw” is indeed a Welsh word for Cornwall, it is also the name of a large region, attested in medieval times, in southeast Wales, the territory of the Silures.   Historian Miles Russell attempted to explain “Cornwall” as a mistake for “Catuvellauni,” but this is transparently unconvincing. Understanding it as a mistake for the attested region of Kerniw in southeast Wales is more consistent with Geoffrey’s description and it does not require any corruptions of spelling.   Did the Catuvellauni Really Rule the Silures? Gold coin of the Catuvellauni tribe, c. 1st century CE. Source: Wikimedia Commons   In conclusion, what does the evidence suggest regarding the possibility that the Catuvellauni ruled over the Silures? Between the former and the latter was the Dobunni tribe, and evidence from Dio Cassius suggests that the Dobunni were indeed subject to the Catuvellauni kings. We cannot fail to note that Caratacus, after the death of his brother and the defeat of his tribe in 43 CE, appeared shortly afterward as the leader of the Silures until 50 CE. This suggests that the Silures may have already been subject to the Catuvellauni, thus making it easy and natural for Caratacus to make himself their new ruler.   Furthermore, archaeology shows what may be signs of this subjugation. Evidence of chariots like those of eastern England have been found near Cardiff and in Pembrokeshire, dating to the 1st century BCE/CE, respectively. Finally, later tradition makes a nephew of Cassivellaunus the “Earl of Kerniw,” a territory that was in the land of the Silures. None of this evidence is definitive, but together, it supports a reasonable case that the Silures may have been subject to the Cassivellauni.

  Language is alive. It changes and evolves with the cultures that use it, reflecting their values and unique aspects of daily life. Considering how the slang of younger generations can seem indecipherable to older folks, it’s no surprise that the English spoken in Medieval times can almost seem like a foreign language. That said, many phrases we use today have Medieval origins, some amusing and others frankly disgusting.   1. The Wrong End of the Stick Replica of a toilet stick. Source: Wikimedia Commons   When we say someone has the “wrong end of the stick,” we mean that they have misunderstood something. But the phrase has frankly disgusting origins. In the Medieval era, public toilets were long stone benches with carved holes side by side for users. There was no toilet paper, but a sponge that soaked in vinegar or salt water between uses, attached to a communal stick that was passed along. It was rather unpleasant if you accidentally grabbed the wrong end of the stick.   2. A Pig in a Poke Medieval Market scene, 15th century. Source: Wikimedia Commons   If you went to a Medieval market, you would receive your animal or animal meat from the butcher inside a cloth sack called a poke. When purchasing, you had to ensure that you received what you expected in your bag. Those who didn’t and waited to get home to open up their bag could be disappointed and find that they had been given something much less appetizing inside. This gave rise to the phrase “pig in a poke” as a warning against accepting something without identifying it as what you expected.   3. Eat Humble Pie A 14th-century butcher shop, c. 1350. Source: Wikimedia Commons   When you must apologise for something when you don’t really want to, we sometimes call this “eating humble pie.” But while this phrase represents swallowing your pride today, in the Middle Ages, it literally meant eating offal pie. When animals were butchered, the best pieces went to the wealthy nobles, while the leftovers, such as the liver and lungs, were minced up to make pies for poorer folk. These were called “umble pie” in England, adapting the Norman-French word “nombles,” which means dear innards. Eating these pies became a metaphor for being put in your place.   4. By Hook or By Crook King John on a stag hunt, 14th century. Source: The British Library   When we say “by hook or by crook” today, we mean achieving something no matter what and by whatever means necessary. This phrase can be traced back to the 14th century, when most forests were owned by the crown. As such, while commoners were allowed to enter forests to collect things such as firewood, they were specifically barred from cutting branches from fallen trees using a billhook or pulling them down with a shepherd’s crook. Since this would have been difficult to monitor, many peasants likely got away with gathering extra wood using these illicit tools, obtaining what they needed by fair means or foul.   5. Caught Red Handed “The Bessant family’s living conditions in rural Hampshire may have resembled those depicted in ‘The poacher arrested,’” by Thomas Rowlandson. Source: Boston Public Library   Today, we use the phrase “caught red-handed” to indicate that someone has been caught in the act of doing something. But the term was initially coined because laws in 15th-century Scotland stated that a person could only be convicted if they were caught in the act or with the blood still on their hands, turning them red. This could apply to murdering a fellow man, but more usually applied to poaching and killing livestock. The phrase remains popular today because Sir Walter Scott used it in his popular 1819 novel Ivanhoe.   6. Drawn and Quartered The Execution of Guy Fawkes, by Claes (Nicolaes) Jansz Visscher, 1919. Source: National Portrait Gallery   The phrase “drawn and quartered” reflects the bloody sense of humor of the Medieval era. One of the most common forms of execution was to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. This saw a person hanged but cut down before dying so that they could suffer their genitals being removed, bowels extracted and burned, and then beheaded. The head was then displayed on a spike. In 1305, when William Wallace, of Braveheart fame, was killed, his body was famously divided into four parts. Today, we say that someone should be “drawn and quartered” when they need some serious consequences.   7. Sink or Swim Depiction of a sink or swim ordeal from Witches Apprehended, Examined and Executed, 1613. Source: Wellcome Collection   The phrase “sink or swim” also has violent origins. In the Medieval era, there was a belief in signs from the divine. Trial by ordeal could allow the divine to indicate if a person was guilty or innocent. Unfortunately, the general rule was that the innocent would sink, and therefore possibly drown, while the guilty would float, pushed out of the baptismal waters. Today, the phrase means jumping in the deep end and seeing what happens: success or failure.   8. No Man’s Land 15th century York, by E. Ridsdale Tate, 1914. Source: York Castle   “No man’s land” has been used since World War I to describe the land between the trenches of the two opposing sides. It has become more broadly popular to refer to a dangerous area where men fear to tread. But it is actually an older Medieval phrase from the 11th-century Domesday Book, written “nanesmanesland” to describe uninhabited and desolate areas, such as waste grounds (garbage dumps) outside cities.   9. By My Troth Manuscript of the Tale of Melibee, by Chaucer, mssEL 26 C 9, folio 153v, c. 1400-1410 CE. Source: Huntington Library   The word “troth” meant “true” in Medieval England, so “by my troth” just means “by my truth.” In the 14th century, the phrase was commonly used to swear that what a person was saying was true. It appears frequently in Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, in which it appears as a common, everyday oath. It remained popular for centuries and even appeared in Shakespeare, such as in Henry IV, Part Two.   10. Memento Mori Allegory of Death by Florens Schuyl, 1629-1669. Source: Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam   “Memento Mori” was a Latin phrase commonly used in the Medieval world, reminding people that death is inevitable: “remember that you must die.” It was used to chastise, reminding believers that life could be over at any moment, and to live righteously. It became a popular phrase in devotional art, appearing in macabre scenes alongside skulls.   11. By God’s Bones Obscene scene from the manuscript “Maastricht Hours,” c. 14th century. Source: British Library   “By God’s Bones” was a popular way to swear in Medieval England, referring to the physical remains of Christ. Sometimes the word bones was replaced with eyes, nails, or something else. It was used as a kind of blasphemous oath, taking the lord’s name in vain in the most vulgar fashion. It was considered doubly offensive because of how seriously people took oaths, as communities were built on trust.   12. The World, the Flesh, and the Devil Title page of the Book of Common Prayer, 1662. Source: British Library   In the Middle Ages, “the world, the flesh, and the devil” were the three great enemies of the Christian soul, representing external, internal, and spiritual temptation. This phrase was used repeatedly in sermons and theology, making it a widely familiar Medieval idiom. It was used as late as 1662, when it appears in the Book of Common Prayer.   13. Blood is Thicker Than Water The Baptism of a Child, by Nicola Grassi, 1697-1750. Source: The British Museum   The common phrase “blood is thicker than water” suggests that the bonds of family are stronger than those of any other relationship. This phrase can be traced back to 13th-century Germany, where it was used to suggest that water could dilute blood ties, possibly referring to the potential impact of baptism. By the 15th century, the phrase was used in England with a reversed meaning, because while water leaves no mark, blood is hard to wash off.   14. One Bad Apple Historic photo of apple barrels, Iowa, c. 1900s. Source: Hood River History Museum   We often use the phrase “one bad apple” to refer to the impact that just a small amount of negativity can have. The original phrase is “one bad apple spoils the whole barrel,” and specifically refers to fruit storage. If you accidentally place a bad apple in a barrel, it can quickly spread and ruin the rest of the produce. It became a metaphor for Juman behavior, with Geoffrey Chaucer referring to a “bad apple” in his The Cook’s Tale, to describe someone who causes problems for others.   15. More Irish Than the Irish Maurice FitzGerald, Lord of Llanstephan, an Anglo-Norman involved in the invasion of Ireland, as shown in a manuscript of the Expugnatio Hibernica, MS 700, f77, right margin, 1189. Source: National Library of Ireland   During the 12th century, the Normans started to invade and settle Ireland. While they formed a noble upper class, they also became deeply immersed in local customs and culture. This concerned the Anglo-Norman leadership back in England, so by 1366, the Statutes of Kilkenny were introduced to limit cultural assimilation. The phrase “more Irish than the Irish” was coined to refer to those who enthusiastically migrated and then adopted the local culture.

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DEADLY PHOENIX BIKER SHOOTING – Rock Machine vs Vagos Beef Turns Fatal | Full BreakdownPhoenix biker shooting 2025 – Rock Machine member and Vagos Motorcycle Club (Vagos) member both killed in brutal motorcycle club beef that ended in gunfire and a car ramming. Shocking video of the entire Phoenix MC incident is all over the internet. This outlaw motorcycle club fight in Phoenix raises the question: Is it worth dying or doing life over colors? Two fathers dead, kids now without dads right before Christmas because of a deadly 1%er beef in Phoenix, Arizona. Rock Machine rider shot multiple times, Vagos member then ran over by a Rock Machine support car in broad daylight near 7th Ave and I-17. Raw video shows the entire deadly biker shooting and crash – pure Walking Dead on the streets of Phoenix. Is this the new normal in outlaw motorcycle club beefs? Emptying a clip then getting smashed by a car in retaliation? We break down the Phoenix biker shooting, the clubs involved (Rock Machine MC vs Vagos Motorcycle Club), the viral video everyone’s talking about, possible self-defense/stand-your-ground claims, and why this motorcycle club beef should’ve been settled at the table instead of on the street. This is the biggest Phoenix motorcycle club shooting of 2025 – don’t miss the full story of the Rock Machine vs Vagos deadly incident. 0:00 – Intro: Deadly Phoenix Biker Shooting Shocks the Scene0:02 – Rock Machine & Vagos Members Killed Over Colors0:19 – ABC15 Arizona Report Breakdown1:25 – What Really Happened: Shooting & Car Ramming2:23 – Viral Video Everyone is Talking About3:11 – From Fists to Guns – The New Normal in MC Beefs?4:53 – Kids Left Without Fathers Before Christmas5:52 – Why Risk Life in Prison Over Colors?6:33 – Was the Car Ramming Self-Defense? Stand Your Ground?7:21 – Driver Questioned and Released8:28 – Why We Only Talk to Club Leadership9:06 – Danger of Gossip & Out-Bad Members11:02 – This Could’ve Been Settled at the Table11:27 – Stop Acting Like Gangsters If You’re a Club12:17 – Final Thoughts & Comment Below SHOOTING BETWEEN ROCK MACHINE AND VAGOS MC LEAVES MULTIPLE DEAD Dorset Motorcycle Club riders deliver toys dressed as Santa ‘Lucky to be alive’: Dirt biker shares rescue story after trail collapse near Mt. Rainier  Security firm linked to Finks bikie gang Motorcycle club works with fundraiser to put meals on tables 

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