WAT TYLER'S INSURRECTION.
A.D. 1381
Real name of Wat Tyler.--State of the country.--Names of Walter's
confederates.--Character of these men.--Condition of the lower
classes at this time.--Ball's proposal.--Other orators.--Their
discourses.--Mixture of truth and error in their
complaints.--Necessary inequality among men.--The true doctrine of
equality.--Origin of Wat Tyler's insurrection.--The tax-gatherer in
Walter's family.--Intolerable outrage.--The tax-gatherer killed.--Plan
of the insurgents to march to London.--Re-enforcements by the
way.--Oaths administered.--The Archbishop of Canterbury.--Case of
Sir John Newton.--Sir John Newton is sent as an embassador to the
king.--Interview between Sir John and the king at the Tower.--Sir
John returns to the insurgents.--The king goes down to meet the
insurgents.--Scene on the bank of the river.--Parley with the
insurgents.--The king retires.--The insurgents resolve to go into
London.--The bridge.--Excitement in the city.--The gates opened.--The
insurgents occupy the streets of London.--Destruction of the Duke of
Lancaster's palace.--Destruction of the Temple.--Assassination of
Richard Lyon.--Excesses of the mob.--They bivouac near the Tower.
The insurrection to which a large portion of the people of England
were driven by the cruel tyranny and oppression which they suffered in
the early part of King Richard's reign is commonly called Wat Tyler's
insurrection, as if the affair with Wat Tyler were the cause and
moving spring of it, whereas it was, in fact, only an incident of it.
The real name of this unhappy man was John Walter. He was a tiler by
trade--that is, his business was to lay tiles for the roofs of houses,
according to the custom of roofing prevailing in those days. So he was
called John Walter, the Tiler, or simply Walter the Tiler; and from
this his name was abridged to Wat Tyler.
The whole country was in a state of great discontent and excitement on
account of the oppressions which the people suffered before Walter
appeared upon the stage at all. When at length the outbreak occurred,
he came forward as one of the chief leaders of it; there were however,
several other leaders. The names by which the principal of them were
known were Jack Straw, William Wraw, Jack Shepherd, John Milner, Hob
Carter, and John Ball. It is supposed that many of these names were
fictitious, and that the men adopted them partly to conceal their real
names, and partly because they supposed that they should ingratiate
themselves more fully with the lower classes of the people by assuming
these familiar and humble appellations.
The historians of the times say that these leaders were all very bad
men. They may have been so, though the testimony of the historians is
not conclusive on this point, for they belonged to, and wrote in the
interest of the upper classes, their enemies. The poor insurgents
themselves never had the opportunity to tell their own story, either
in respect to themselves or their commanders.
Still, it is highly probable that they were bad men. It is not
generally the amiable, the gentle, and the good that are first to
rise, and foremost to take the lead in revolts against tyrants and
oppressors. It is, on the other hand, far more commonly the violent,
the desperate, and the bad that are first goaded on to assume this
terrible responsibility. It is, indeed, one of the darkest features of
tyranny that it tends, by the reaction which follows it, to invest
this class of men with great power, and to commit the best interests
of society, and the lives of great numbers of men, for a time at
least, entirely to the disposal of the most reckless and desperate
characters.
The lower classes of the people of England had been held substantially
as slaves by the nobles and gentry for many generations. They had long
submitted to this, hopeless of any change. But they had gradually
become enlightened in respect to their natural rights; and now, when
the class immediately above them were so grievously oppressed and
harassed by the taxes which were assessed upon them, and still more by
the vexatious and extortionate mode in which the money was collected,
they all began to make common cause, and, when the rebellion broke
out, they rose in one mass, freemen and bondmen together.
There was a certain priest named John Ball, who, before the rebellion
broke out, had done much to enlighten the people as to their rights,
and had attempted to induce them to seek redress at first in a
peaceable manner. He used to make speeches to the people in the
market-place, representing to them the hardships which they endured by
the oppressions of the nobility, and urging them to combine together
to petition the king for a redress of their grievances. "The king will
listen to us, I am sure," said he, "if we go to him together in a body
and make our request; but if he will not hear us, then we must redress
our grievances ourselves the best way we can."
The example of Ball was followed by many other persons; and, as always
happens in such cases, the excitement among the people, and their
eagerness to hear, brought out a great many spectators, whose only
object was to see who could awaken the resentment and anger of their
audiences in the highest degree, and produce the greatest possible
excitement. These orators, having begun with condemning the
extravagant wealth, the haughty pretensions, and the cruel oppressions
of the nobles, and contrasting them with the extreme misery and want
of the common people, whom they held as slaves, proceeded at length to
denounce all inequalities in human condition, and to demand that all
things should be held in common.
"Things will never go on well in England," said they, "until all these
distinctions shall be leveled, and the time shall come when there
shall be neither vassal nor lord, and these proud nobles shall be no
more masters than ourselves. How ill have they used us! And what
right have they to hold us in this miserable bondage? Are we not all
descended from the same parents, Adam and Eve? What right have one set
of men to make another set their slaves? What right have they to
compel us to toil all our lives to earn money, that they may live at
ease and spend it? They are clothed in velvets and rich stuffs,
ornamented with ermine and furs, while we are half naked, or clothed
only in rags. They have wines, and spices, and fine bread, while we
have nothing but rye, and the refuse of the straw. They have manors
and handsome seats, while we live in miserable cabins, and have to
brave the wind and rain at our labor in the fields, in order that,
with the proceeds of our toil, they may support their pomp and luxury.
And if we do not perform our services, or if they unjustly think that
we do not, we are beaten, and there is no one to whom we can complain
or look for justice."
There is obviously some truth and some extravagance in these
complaints. Men deprived of their rights, as these poor English serfs
were, and goaded by the oppressions which they suffered almost to
despair, will, of course, be extravagant in their complaints. None but
those totally ignorant of human nature would expect men to be
moderate and reasonable when in such a condition, and in such a state
of mind.
The truth is, that there always has been, and there always will
necessarily be, a great inequality in the conditions, and a great
difference in the employments of men; but this fact awakens no
dissatisfaction or discontent when those who have the lower stations
of life to fill are treated as they ought to be treated. If they enjoy
personal liberty, and are paid the fair wages which they earn by their
labor, and are treated with kindness and consideration by those whose
duties are of a higher and more intellectual character, and whose
position in life is superior to theirs, they are, almost without
exception, satisfied and happy. It is only when they are urged and
driven hard and long by unfeeling oppression that they are ever
aroused to rebellion against the order of the social state; and then,
as might be expected, they go to extremes, and, if they get the power
into their hands, they sweep every thing away, and overwhelm
themselves and their superiors in one common destruction.
Young persons sometimes imagine that the American doctrine of the
equality of man refers to equality of condition; and even grown
persons, who ought to think more clearly and be more reasonable,
sometimes refer to the distinctions of rich and poor in this country
as falsifying our political theories. But the truth is, that, in our
political theory of equality, it is not at all equality of condition,
but equality of _rights_, that is claimed for man. All men--the
doctrine is simply--have an equal right to life, liberty, and the
pursuit of happiness. Even when all are in the full enjoyment of their
rights, different men will, of course, attain to very different
degrees of advancement in the objects of their desire. Some will be
rich and some will be poor; some will be servants and some masters;
some will be the employers and some the employed; but, so long as all
are equal _in respect to their rights_, none will complain--or, at
least, no _classes_ will complain. There will, of course, be here and
there disappointed and discontented individuals, but their discontent
will not spread. It is only by the long-continued and oppressive
infringement of the natural rights of large masses of men that the way
is prepared for revolts and insurrections.
It was by this process that the way was prepared for the insurrection
which I am now to describe. The whole country for fifty miles about
London was in a very sullen and angry mood, ready for an outbreak the
moment that any incident should occur to put the excitement in
motion. This incident was furnished by an occurrence which took place
in the family of Walter the Tiler.
It seems that a personal tax had been levied by the government, the
amount of which varied with the age of the individual assessed.
Children paid so much. Young men and young women paid more. The line
between these classes was not clearly defined, or, rather, the
tax-gatherers had no means of determining the ages of the young people
in a family, if they suspected the parents reported them wrong. In
such cases they were often very insolent and rude, and a great many
quarrels took place, by which the people were often very much
incensed. The tax-gatherer came one day into Walter's house to collect
the tax. Walter himself was away, engaged at work tiling a house
nearby. The only persons that were at home were his wife and a young
daughter just growing to womanhood. The tax-gatherer said that the
girl was full-grown, and that they must pay the higher tax for her.
Her mother said, "No, she is not full-grown yet; she is only a child."
The tax-gatherer then said he would soon find out whether she was a
woman or not, and went to her to take hold of her, offering her
rudeness and violence of the worst possible character. The poor girl
screamed and struggled to get away from him. Her mother ran to the
door, and made a great outcry, calling for help. Walter, hearing the
cries, seized for a club a heavy implement which he used in tiling,
and ran home. As soon as he entered the house, he demanded of the
officer, who had now left his daughter and came forward to meet him,
what he meant by conducting in so outrageous a manner in his house.
The officer replied defiantly, and advanced toward Walter to strike
him. Walter parried the stroke, and then, being roused to perfect
phrensy by the insult which his daughter had received and the
insolence of the tax-gatherer, he brought his club down upon the
tax-gatherer's head with such a blow as to break his skull and kill
him on the spot. The blow was so violent that the man's brains were
scattered all about the floor.
The news of this occurrence spread like wildfire through the town. The
people all took Walter's part, and they began to assemble. It seems
that a great many of them had had their daughters maltreated in the
same way by the tax-gatherers, but had not dared to resist or to
complain. They now, however, flocked around the house of Walter, and
promised to stand by him to the end. The plan was proposed that they
should march to London, and in a body appeal to the king, and call
upon him to redress their wrongs.
"He is young," said they, "and he will have pity upon us, and be just
to us. Let us go in a body and petition him."
The news of the movement spread to all the neighboring towns, and very
soon afterward a vast concourse collected, and commenced their march
toward London. They were joined on the road by large companies that
came from the villages and towns on the way, until at length Walter
and his fellow-leaders found themselves at the head of from sixty to
one hundred thousand men.
[Illustration: VIEW OF THE TOWER OF LONDON, AS SEEN FROM THE RIVER.]
The whole country was, of course, thrown into a state of great alarm.
The Duke of Lancaster, who was particularly obnoxious to the people, was
absent at this time. He was on the frontiers of Scotland. The king was
in his palace; but, on hearing tidings of the insurrection, he went to
the Tower, which is a strong castle built on the banks of the river, in
the lower part of London. A number of the nobles who had most cause to
fear the mob went with him, and shut themselves up there. The Princess
of Wales, Richard's mother, happened to be at Canterbury at the time,
having gone there on a pilgrimage. She immediately set out on her return
to London, but she was intercepted on the way by Tyler and his crowd of
followers. The crowd gathered around the carriage, and frightened the
princess very much indeed, but they did her no harm. After detaining her
for some time, they let her pass on. She immediately made the best of
her way to the Tower, where she joined her son.
As fast as companies of men came from the villages and towns along the
road to join the insurgents, the leaders administered to them an oath.
The oath bound them,
1. Always to be faithful and true to King Richard.
2. Never to submit to the reign of any king named John. This
was aimed at the Duke of Lancaster, whose name was John, and
whom they all specially hated.
3. Always to follow and defend their leaders whenever called
upon to do so, and always to be ready to march themselves,
and to bring their neighbors with them, at a moment's
warning.
4. To demand the abrogation of all the obnoxious taxes, and
never to submit again to the collection of them.
In this manner the throngs moved on along the roads leading to London.
They became gradually more and more excited and violent as they
proceeded. Soon they began to attack the houses of knights, and
nobles, and officers of the government which they passed on the way;
and many persons, whom they supposed to be their enemies, they killed.
At Canterbury they pillaged the palace of the archbishop. The
Archbishop of Canterbury, then as now, drew an immense revenue from
the state, and lived in great splendor, and they justly conceived that
the luxury and ostentation in which he indulged was in some degree the
cause of the oppressive taxation that they endured.
They assaulted a castle on the way, and made prisoner of a certain
knight named Sir John Newton, whom they found in it, and compelled him
to go with them to London. The knight was very unwilling to go with
them, and at first seemed determined not to do so; but they disposed
of his objections in a very summary manner.
"Sir John," said they, "unless you go with us at once, and in every
thing do exactly as we order you, you are a dead man."
So Sir John was compelled to go. They took two of his children with
them also, to hold as security, they said, for their father's good
behavior.
There were other parties of the insurgents who made prisoners in this
way of men of rank and family, and compelled them to ride at the head
of their respective columns, as if they were leaders in the
insurrection.
In this manner the throngs moved on, until at length, approaching the
Thames, they arrived at Blackheath and Greenwich, two villages below
London, farther down than the Tower, and near the bank of the river.
Here they halted, and determined to send an embassage to the king to
demand an audience. The embassador that they were to send was the
knight, Sir John Newton.
Sir John did not dare to do otherwise than as the insurgents directed.
He went to the river, and, taking a boat, he crossed over to the
Tower. The guards received him at the gate, and he was conducted into
the presence of the king.
He found the king in an apartment with the princess his mother, and
with a number of the nobles and officers of his court. They were all
in a state of great suspense and anxiety, awaiting tidings. They knew
that the whole country was in commotion, but in respect to what they
were themselves to do in the emergency they seem to have had no idea.
Sir John was himself one of the officers of the government, and so he
was well known to all the courtiers. He fell on his knees as soon as
he entered the king's presence, and begged his majesty not to be
displeased with him for the message that he was about to deliver.
"I assure your majesty," said he, "that I come not voluntarily, but on
compulsion."
The king said to him that he had nothing to fear, and directed him to
proceed at once and deliver his message.
The knight then said that the people who had assembled wished to see
the king, and he urgently requested that his majesty would come and
meet them at Blackheath.
"They wish you to come by yourself alone," said he. "And your majesty
need have no fear for your person, for they will not do you the least
harm. They have always respected you, and they will continue to
respect and honor you as their king. They only wish to tell you some
things which they say it is very necessary that your majesty should
hear. They have not informed me what it is that they wish to say,
since they desire to communicate it themselves directly to your
majesty."
The knight concluded by imploring the king to grant his subjects a
favorable answer if he could, or at least to allow him to return to
them with such a reply as would convince them that he, their
messenger, had fairly delivered his message.
"Because," said he, "they hold my children as hostages, and unless I
return they will surely put them to death."
The king replied that the knight should have an answer very soon, and
he immediately called a council of his courtiers to consider what
should be done. There was much difference of opinion, but it was
finally concluded to send word to the men that the king would come
down the river on the following day to speak with them, and that, if
the leaders would come to the bank of the river opposite Blackheath,
he would meet them there.
So Sir John Newton left the Tower, and, recrossing the river in his
boat, went back to the camp of the insurgents, and reported to the
leaders the answer of the king.
They were very much pleased to hear that the king was coming to meet
them. The news was soon communicated to all the host, and it gave
universal satisfaction. There were sixty thousand men on the ground,
it is said, and, of course, they were very insufficiently provided
with food, and not at all with shelter. They, however, began to make
arrangements to spend the night as well as they could where they were,
in anticipation of the interview with the king on the following day.
On the following morning the king attended mass in solemn state in the
chapel of the Tower, and then immediately afterward entered his barge,
accompanied by a grand train of officers, knights, and barons. The
barge, leaving the Tower stairs, was rowed down the river to the place
appointed for the interview. About ten thousand of the insurgents had
come to the spot, and when they saw the barge coming in sight with the
royal party on board, they burst out into such a terrific uproar, with
yells, screams, shouts, outcries, and frantic gesticulations, that
they seemed to the king and his party like a company of demons. They
had Sir John Newton with them. They had brought him down to the bank
of the river, because, as they said, if the king were not to come,
they should believe that he had imposed upon them in the message which
he had brought, and in that case they were going to cut him to pieces
on the spot.
The assembly seemed so noisy and furious that the nobles in
attendance on the king were afraid to allow him to land. They advised
him to remain in the barge, at a little distance from the shore, and
to address the people from the deck. The king resolved to do so. So
the barge lay floating on the river, the oarsmen taking a few strokes
from time to time to recover the ground lost by the drift of the
current. The king stood upon the deck of the barge, with his officers
around him, and asked the men on the shore what they wished for.
"I have come at your request," said he, "to hear what you have to
say."[H]
[Footnote H: See Frontispiece.]
Such an arrangement as this for communicating with a mass of desperate
and furious men would not have been safe under circumstances similar
to those of the present day. A man standing in this way on the deck of
a boat, within speaking distance of the shore, might, with a rifle, or
even with a musket, have been killed in a moment by any one of the
thousands on the shore. In those days, however, when the only missiles
were spears, javelins, and arrows, a man might stand at his ease
within speaking distance of his enemies, entirely out of reach of
their weapons.
When the crowd upon the shore saw that the king was waving his hand
to them in order to silence them, and that he was trying to speak,
they became in some measure calm; and when he asked again what they
wished for, the leaders replied by saying that they wished him to come
on shore. They desired him to land, they said, so that he could better
hear what they had to say.
One of the officers about the king replied that that could not be.
"The king can not land among you," he said. "You are not properly
dressed, nor in a fit condition, in any respect, to come into his
majesty's presence."
Hereupon the noise and clamor was renewed, and became more violent
than ever, the men insisting that the king should land, and filling
the air with screams, yells, and vociferations of all sorts, which
made the scene truly terrific. The counselors of the king insisted
that it was not safe for the king to remain any longer on the river,
so the oarsmen were ordered to pull their oars, and the barge
immediately began to recede from the shore, and to move back up the
river. It happened that the tide was now coming in, and this assisted
them very much in their progress, and the barge was swept back rapidly
toward the Tower.
The insurgents were now in a great rage. Those who had come down to
the bank of the river to meet the king went back in a throng to the
place where the great body of the rebels were encamped on the plain.
The news that the king had refused to come and hear their complaints
was soon spread among the whole multitude, and the cry was raised, To
London! To London! So the whole mighty mass began to put itself in
motion, and in a few hours all the roads that led toward the
metropolis were thronged with vast crowds of ragged and
wretched-looking men, barefooted, bareheaded; some bearing rudely-made
flags and banners, some armed with clubs and poles, and such other
substitutes for weapons as they had been able to seize for the
occasion, and all in a state of wild and phrensied excitement.
The people of London were greatly alarmed when they heard that they
were coming. There was then but one bridge leading into London from
the southern side of the river. This bridge was on the site of the
present London Bridge, about half a mile above the Tower. There was a
gate at the end of the bridge next the town, and a drawbridge outside
of it. The Londoners shut the gate and took up the drawbridge, to
prevent the insurgents from coming in.
When the rioters reached the bridge, and found that they were shut
out, they, of course, became more violent than before, and they began
to burn and destroy the houses outside. Now it happened that many of
these houses were handsome villas which belonged to the rich citizens
of the town. These citizens became alarmed for their property, and
they began to say that it would be better, after all, to open the
gates and let the people come in.
"If we let them come in," said they, "they will wander about the
streets a while, but they will soon get tired and go away; whereas, by
opposing and thwarting them, we only make them the more violent and
mischievous."
Then, besides, there were a great many of the common people of London
that sympathized with the rioters, and wished to join them.
"They are our friends," said they. "They are striving to obtain
redress for grievances which we suffer as well as they. Their cause is
our cause. So let us open the gates and let them come in."
[Illustration: THE SAVOY.]
In the mean time, the whole population of the city were becoming more
and more alarmed every hour, for the rioters were burning and destroying
the suburbs, and they declared that if the Londoners did not open the
gates, they would, after ravaging every thing without the walls, take
the city by storm, and burn and destroy every thing in it. So it was
finally concluded to open the gates and let the insurgents in.
They came in in an immense throng, which continued for many hours to
pour over the bridge into the city, like a river of men above, flowing
athwart the river of water below. As they entered the city, they
divided and spread into all the diverging streets. A portion of them
stormed a jail, and set all the prisoners free. Others marched through
the streets, filling the air with dreadful shouts and outcries, and
brandishing their pikes with great fury. The citizens, in hopes to
conciliate them, brought out food for them, and some gave them wine.
On receiving these provisions, the insurgents built fires in the
streets, and encamped around them, to partake of the food and
refreshments which the citizens had bestowed. They were rendered more
good-natured, perhaps, by this kind treatment received from the
citizens, but they soon became excited by the wine which they drank,
and grew more wild and noisy than ever. At length a large party of
them began to move toward the palace of the Duke of Lancaster. This
palace was called the Savoy. It stood on the bank of the river,
between London and Westminster, and was a grand and imposing mansion.
The Duke of Lancaster was an especial object of their hatred. He was
absent at this time, as has been said, being engaged in military
operations on the frontiers of Scotland. The mob, however, were
determined to destroy his palace, and every thing that belonged to it.
So they broke into the house, murdering all who made any resistance,
and then proceeded to break and destroy every thing the palace
contained. They built fires in the court-yard and in the street, and
piled upon them every thing movable that would burn. The plate, and
other such valuables as would not burn, they broke up and threw into
the Thames. They strictly forbade that any of the property should be
taken away. One man hid a silver cup in his bosom, intending to
purloin it; but he was detected in the act, and his comrades threw
him, cup and all, as some say, upon the fire; others say they threw
him into the Thames; at any rate, they destroyed him and his booty
together.
"We are here," said they, "in the cause of truth and righteousness, to
execute judgment upon a criminal, and not to become thieves and
robbers ourselves."
[Illustration: RUINS OF THE SAVOY.]
When they had destroyed every thing that the palace contained, they
set fire to the building, and burned it to the ground. A portion of
the walls remained standing afterward for a long time, a desolate and
melancholy ruin.
The insurgents felt a special animosity against lawyers, whom they
considered mercenary instruments in the hands of the nobles for
oppressing them. They hung all the lawyers that they could get into
their hands, and after burning the Savoy they went to the Temple,
which was a spacious edifice containing the courts, the chambers of
the barristers, and a vast store of ancient legal records. They burned
and destroyed the whole.
It is said, too, that there was a certain man in London, a rich
citizen, named Richard Lyon, who had formerly been Walter the Tiler's
master, and had beaten him and otherwise treated him in a cruel and
oppressive manner. At the time that he received these injuries Walter
had no redress, but now the opportunity had come, he thought, for
revenge. So he led a gang of the most desperate and reckless of the
insurgents to Lyon's house, and, seizing their terrified victim, they
dragged him out without mercy, and cut off his head. The head they
stuck upon the top of a pike, and paraded it through the streets, a
warning, as they said, to all cruel and oppressive masters.
A great many other heads, principally those of men who had made
themselves particularly obnoxious to the insurgents, were paraded
through the streets in the same manner.
After spending the day in these excesses, keeping all London in a
state of dreadful confusion and alarm, the various bands began to move
toward night in the direction of the Tower, where the king and his
court had shut themselves up in great terror, not knowing what to do
to escape from the dreadful inundation of poverty and misery which had
so suddenly poured in upon them. The rioters, when they reached the
Tower, took possession of a large open square before it, and, kindling
up great bonfires, they began to make arrangements for bivouacking
there for the night.