/> these were in their graves, and in many places there were hardly enough

living to bury the dead.



We call it a calamity. It is not so sure that it was. Life in England at

that day, for the masses of the people, was not so precious a boon that

death had need to be sorely deplored. A handful of lords and a host of

laborers, the latter just above the state of slavery, constituted the

population. Many of the serfs had been set free, but the new liberty of

the people was not a state of unadulterated happiness. War had drained

the land. The luxury of the nobles added to the drain. The patricians

caroused. The plebeians suffered. The Black Death came. After it had

passed, labor, for the first time in English history, was master of the

situation.



Laborers had grown scarce. Many men refused to work. The first general

strike for higher wages began. In the country, fields were left untilled

and harvests rotted on the ground. "The sheep and cattle strayed through

the fields and corn, and there were none left who could drive them." In

the towns, craftsmen refused to work at the old rate of wages. Higher

wages were paid, but the scarcity of food made higher prices, and men

were little better off. Many laborers, indeed, declined to work at all,

becoming tramps,--what were known as "sturdy beggars,"--or haunting the

forests as bandits.



The king and parliament sought to put an end to this state of affairs by

law. An ordinance was passed whose effect would have made slaves of the

people. Every man under sixty, not a land-owner or already at work (says

this famous act), must work for the employer who demands his labor, and

for the rate of wages that prevailed two years before the plague. The

man who refused should be thrown into prison. This law failed to work,

and sterner measures were passed. The laborer was once more made a serf,

bound to the soil, his wage-rate fixed by parliament. Law after law

followed, branding with a hot iron on the forehead being finally ordered

as a restraint to runaway laborers. It was the first great effort made

by the class in power to put down an industrial revolt.



The peasantry and the mechanics of the towns resisted. The poor found

their mouth-piece in John Ball, "a mad priest of Kent," as Froissart

calls him. Mad his words must have seemed to the nobles of the land.

"Good people," he declared, "things will never go well in England so

long as goods be not in common, and so long as there be villains and

gentlemen. By what right are they whom we call lords greater folk than

we? On what grounds have they deserved it? Why do they hold us in

serfage? If we all came of the same father and mother, of Adam and Eve,

how can they say or prove that they are better than we, if it be not

that they make us gain for them by our toil what they spend in their

pride? They are clothed in velvet, and warm in their furs and their

ermines, while we are covered with rags. They have wine and spices and

fair bread; and we have oat-cake and straw, and water to drink. They

have leisure and fine houses; we have pain and labor, the rain and the

wind in the fields. And yet it is of us and of our toil that these men

hold their state."



So spoke this early socialist. So spoke his hearers in the popular rhyme

of the day:



"When Adam delved and Eve span,

Who was then the gentleman?"



So things went on for years, growing worse year by year, the fire of

discontent smouldering, ready at a moment to burst into flame.



At length the occasion came. Edward the Third died, but he left an ugly

heritage of debt behind him. His useless wars in France had beggared

the crown. New money must be raised. Parliament laid a poll-tax on every

person in the realm, the poorest to pay as much as the wealthiest.



Here was an application of the doctrine of equality of which the people

did not approve. The land was quickly on fire from sea to sea. Crowds of

peasants gathered and drove the tax-gatherers with clubs from their

homes. Rude rhymes passed from lip to lip, full of the spirit of revolt.

All over southern England spread the sentiment of rebellion.



The incident which set flame to the fuel was this. At Dartford, in Kent,

lived one Wat Tyler, a hardy soldier who had served in the French wars.

To his house, in his absence, came a tax-collector, and demanded the tax

on his daughter. The mother declared that she was not taxable, being

under fourteen years of age. The collector thereupon seized the child in

an insulting manner, so frightening her that her screams reached the

ears of her father, who was at work not far off. Wat flew to the spot,

struck one blow, and the villanous collector lay dead at his feet.



Within an hour the people of the town were in arms. As the story spread

through the country, the people elsewhere rose and put themselves under

the leadership of Wat Tyler. In Essex was another party in arms, under a

priest called Jack Straw. Canterbury rose in rebellion, plundered the

palace of the archbishop, and released John Ball from the prison to

which this "mad" socialist had been consigned. The revolt spread like

wildfire. County after county rose in insurrection. But the heart of the

rebellion lay in Kent, and from that county marched a hundred thousand

men, with Wat Tyler at their head, London their goal.



To Blackheath they came, the multitude swelling as it marched. Every

lawyer they met was killed. The houses of the stewards were burned, and

the records of the manor courts flung into the flames. A wild desire for

liberty and equality animated the mob, yet they did no further harm. All

travellers were stopped and made to swear that they would be true to

King Richard and the people. The king's mother fell into their hands,

but all the harm done her was the being made to kiss a few rough-bearded

men who vowed loyalty to her son.



The young king--then a boy of sixteen--addressed them from a boat in the

river. But his council would not let him land, and the peasants, furious

at his distrust, rushed upon London, uttering cries of "Treason!" The

drawbridge of London Bridge had been raised, but the insurgents had

friends in the city who lowered it, and quickly the capital was swarming

with Wat Tyler's infuriated men.



Soon the prisons were broken open, and their inmates had joined the

insurgent ranks. The palace of the Duke of Lancaster, the Savoy, the

most beautiful in England, was quickly in flames. That nobleman,

detested by the people, had fled in all haste to Scotland. The Temple,

the head-quarters of the lawyers, was set on fire, and its books and

documents reduced to ashes. The houses of the foreign merchants were

burned. There was "method in the madness" of the insurgents. They sought

no indiscriminate ruin. The lawyers and the foreigners were their

special detestation. Robbery was not permitted. One thief was seen with

a silver vessel which he had stolen from the Savoy. He and his plunder

were flung together into the flames. They were, as they boasted,

"seekers of truth and justice, not thieves or robbers."



Thus passed the first day of the peasant occupation of London, the

people of the town in terror, the insurgents in subjection to their

leaders, and still more so to their own ideas. Many of them were drunk,

but no outrages were committed. The influence of one terrible example

repressed all theft. Never had so orderly a mob held possession of so

great a city.



On the second day, Wat Tyler and a band of his followers forced their

way into the Tower. The knights of the garrison were panic-stricken, but

no harm was done them. The peasants, in rough good humor, took them by

the beards, and declared that they were now equals, and that in the time

to come they would be good friends and comrades.






But this rude jollity ceased when Archbishop Sudbury, who had been

active in preventing the king from landing from the Thames, and the

ministers who were concerned in the levy of the poll-tax, fell into

their hands. Short shrift was given these detested officials. They were

dragged to Tower Hill, and their heads struck off.



"King Richard and the people!" was the rallying cry of the insurgents.

It went ill with those who hesitated to subscribe to this sentiment. So

evidently were the peasants friendly to the king that the youthful

monarch fearlessly sought them at Mile End, and held a conference with

sixty thousand of them who lay there encamped.



"I am your king and lord, good people," he boldly addressed them; "what

will ye?"



"We will that you set us free forever," was the answer of the

insurgents, "us and our lands; and that we be never named nor held for

serfs."



"I grant it," said the king.



His words were received with shouts of joy. The conference then

continued, the leaders of the peasants proposing four conditions, to all

of which the king assented. These were, first, that neither they nor

their descendants should ever be enslaved; second, that the rent of land

should be paid in money at a fixed price, not in service; third, that

they should be at liberty to buy and sell in market and elsewhere, like

other free men; fourth, that they should be pardoned for past offences.



"I grant them all," said Richard. "Charters of freedom and pardon shall

be at once issued. Go home and dwell in peace, and no harm shall come to

you."



More than thirty clerks spent the rest of that day writing at all speed

the pledges of amnesty promised by the king. These satisfied the bulk of

the insurgents, who quietly left for their homes, placing all

confidence in the smooth promises of the youthful monarch.



Some interesting scenes followed their return. The gates of the Abbey of

St. Albans were forced open, and a throng of townsmen crowded in, led by

one William Grindcobbe, who compelled the abbot to deliver up the

charters which held the town in serfage to the abbey. Then they burst

into the cloister, sought the millstones which the courts had declared

should alone grind corn at St. Albans, and broke them into small pieces.

These were distributed among the peasants as visible emblems of their

new-gained freedom.



Meanwhile, Wat Tyler had remained in London, with thirty thousand men at

his back, to see that the kingly pledge was fulfilled. He had not been

at Mile End during the conference with the king, and was not satisfied

with the demands of the peasants. He asked, in addition, that the forest

laws should be abolished, and the woods made free.



The next day came. Chance brought about a meeting between Wat and the

king, and hot blood made it a tragedy. King Richard was riding with a

train of some sixty gentlemen, among them William Walworth, the mayor of

London, when, by ill hap, they came into contact with Wat and his

followers.



"There is the king," said Wat. "I will go speak with him, and tell him

what we want."



The bold leader of the peasants rode forward and confronted the monarch,

who drew rein and waited to hear what he had to say.



"King Richard," said Wat, "dost thou see all my men there?"



"Ay," said the king. "Why?"



"Because," said Wat, "they are all at my command, and have sworn to do

whatever I bid them."



What followed is not very clear. Some say that Wat laid his hand on the

king's bridle, others that he fingered his dagger threateningly.

Whatever the provocation, Walworth, the mayor, at that instant pressed

forward, sword in hand, and stabbed the unprotected man in the throat

before he could make a movement of defence. As he turned to rejoin his

men he was struck a death-blow by one of the king's followers.



This rash action was one full of danger. Only the ready wit and courage

of the king saved the lives of his followers,--perhaps of himself.



"Kill! kill!" cried the furious peasants, "they have killed our

captain."



Bows were bent, swords drawn, an ominous movement begun. The moment was

a critical one. The young king proved himself equal to the occasion.

Spurring his horse, he rode boldly to the front of the mob.



"What need ye, my masters?" he cried. "That man is a traitor. I am your

captain and your king. Follow me!"



His words touched their hearts. With loud shouts of loyalty they

followed him to the Tower, where he was met by his mother with tears of

joy.



"Rejoice and praise God," the young king said to her; "for I have

recovered to-day my heritage which was lost, and the realm of England."



It was true; the revolt was at an end. The frightened nobles had

regained their courage, and six thousand knights were soon at the

service of the king, pressing him to let them end the rebellion with

sword and spear.



He refused. His word had been passed, and he would live to it--at least,

until the danger was passed. The peasants still in London received their

charters of freedom and dispersed to their homes. The city was freed of

the low-born multitude who had held it in mortal terror.



Yet all was not over. Many of the peasants were still in arms. Those of

St. Albans were emulated by those of St. Edmondsbury, where fifty

thousand men broke their way into the abbey precincts, and forced the

monks to grant a charter of freedom to the town. In Norwich a dyer,

Littester by name, calling himself the King of the Commons, forced the

nobles captured by his followers to act as his meat-tasters, and serve

him on their knees during his repasts. His reign did not last long. The

Bishop of Norwich, with a following of knights and men-at-arms, fell on

his camp and made short work of his majesty.



The king, soon forgetting his pledges, led an army of forty thousand men

through Kent and Essex, and ruthlessly executed the peasant leaders.

Some fifteen hundred of them were put to death. The peasants resisted

stubbornly, but they were put down. The jurors refused to bring the

prisoners in guilty, until they were threatened with execution

themselves. The king and council, in the end, seemed willing to

compromise with the peasantry, but the land-owners refused compliance.

Their serfs were their property, they said, and could not be taken from

them by king or parliament without their consent. "And this consent,"

they declared, "we have never given and never will give, were we all to

die in one day."



Yet the revolt of the peasantry was not without its useful effect. From

that time serfdom died rapidly. Wages continued to rise. A century after

the Black Death, a laborer's work in England "commanded twice the amount

of the necessaries of life which could have been obtained for the wages

paid under Edward the Third." In a century and a half serfdom had almost

vanished.



Thus ended the greatest peasant outbreak that England ever knew. The

outbreak of Jack Cade, which took place seventy years afterwards, was

for political rather than industrial reform. During those seventy years

the condition of the working-classes had greatly improved, and the

occasion for industrial revolt correspondingly decreased.