The rebellion of Wat Tyler was encouraged by the people of London, according to Froissart, who repeats what he heard and clearly echoes the rumours prevalent at the Court. The Londoners, he says, invited the country people to assemble and to march upon London, where they promised them a good reception and such a welcome that there should soon be not a slave left in all England—but there were none in London. The people came up from all parts of the Kingdom; they came in companies of a dozen or a hundred. Froissart says they knew not what they wanted; it is, however, quite certain that they wanted to realise the dream of their preachers; they wanted, what people always want, justice; they wanted to see the life of religion instead of the profession of religion, and they knew very well what the life of religion meant; they wanted a more equitable division of the world’s goods. The great rebellion of Wat Tyler, if it was really encouraged, welcomed, or invited by the common people of London, which I doubt, further than that there were certainly some who had imbibed the ideas of John Ball, shows us what the common people thought.

As for the extent of their knowledge and its limitations, London was a place of foreign trade, and the centre of internal trade. It was therefore filled with people carrying on the trade of distribution, collection, import, and export. In other words, it was constantly receiving and sending forth men to foreign countries across the sea and to all parts of the realm of England to carry on their trade. The boys went down to the quays to talk with the sailors and the stevedores: they learned to distinguish the Genoese and the Venetian galleys, the ships of the Hanseatic League, the ships from Lisbon and the ships from Bordeaux, they heard where these places were, and what they sent to London. The voyagers themselves in the taverns told their travellers’ tales. All that trade could teach the people was learned by them in the fourteenth century as well as in the nineteenth. I suppose that they would not be able to draw a mappa mundi with much approach to accuracy, but they knew where places were.

Their knowledge of geography and of peoples was widened also by their pilgrimages and by the stories told by pilgrims on their return. As to science, each man had the mastery of his craft: that was enough for him. As to history, the people of London remembered; no doubt they mixed up a good many events, but they remembered at least their own liberties. Of books they had none and could not read; of songs satirical, historical, commemorative, they had, of their own, a good many which are still surviving.

It will be understood from the foregoing what were the rough ideas of the people as to religion and social economy; how their knowledge of the world was considerable; how their trades taught them a certain amount of science; and how their popular songs extended and deepened and strengthened the popular ideas.

In the chapter on Sports and Recreations these matters are fully dealt with, but there are a few minor notes which do not exactly belong to these things and come more properly here under the heading of Manners. On festive occasions the people wore garlands, the Master and Wardens of a Company wore garlands on their great days, at banquets they wore garlands, ladies wore garlands, young ecclesiastics wore garlands. When any one rode abroad—not to battle—he hung little bells on the bridles and harness of his horse. Wyclyf speaks of a priest “in pompe and pride, coveitise and envye, with fatte hors, and bridelis ryngynge be (by) the weye and himself in costly clothes and pelure (fur).”

In every wealthy household the falcon was as much of a domestic pet as the dog. The peregrine especially was easy to tame, “mult cortois et vaillan et de bon manniere”—very tame, bold, and of good manners.

The clerk and the notary and the scrivener carried about with them a case containing paper, pens, ink, and other necessaries for writing, so that they could be called into a house or shop for the purpose of writing down anything. The writing-case was called a Penner.

I have already said that every man was bound to keep ready for use arms or armour according to his degree. We must always bear in mind that the Londoner was a soldier first, whatever his calling; he was liable to be called out for the defence of the City, or even, on occasion, to march out into the country. Therefore every man had to learn, and to practise, the use of arms, such as shooting with the long-bow, how to handle a pike, and how to use a sword. Thus in the inventory of the furniture belonging to Hugh le Bever, whose case is quoted elsewhere, we find a haketon—i.e. a jacket of quilted leather sometimes worn under armour, sometimes used as armour. In the reign of Henry II., every one who held a knight’s fee was bound to have a habergeon or under coat of mail, a helmet, a shield, and a lance. A free-holder of sixteen marks must have the same; one of ten marks must provide a small habergeon, and a capeline of iron and a lance; while the ordinary burgher must at least have a capeline and a lance.

Besides the wholesale merchants and the shopkeepers there were the “stationers.” In every public place, wherever there was a church, or a cross, or a conduit there were put up “stations” or stalls. Thus in the year 1370 there were eleven stations round the High Cross of Chepe, let to as many women, at the annual rent of 13s. 4d. In that year the whole number were convicted of using false measures. The modern word stationer is derived from the practice of selling paper, pens, etc., at such stations.

Among the Fraternities of London must not be forgotten that called the Company of the Pui, “in honour of God, our Lady Saint Mary, and all saints both male and female; and in honour of our Lord the King and all the Barons of this country.” It has been suggested that the Fraternity was named after our Lady of Le Puy in Auvergne, an image of the Black Virgin which worked miracles. There were many societies of the Pui in France: this of London drew up for its own use and guidance a set of Rules which are still existing and have been published in the Liber Custumarum. It was, in fact, an early specimen of a club founded for purposes of peace, joyousness, harmony, and friendship. It was open to everybody, that is, to everybody whom the governing body chose to admit. There were no distinctions of nationality. There was an entrance fee and a subscription. The society was governed by a committee of twelve members, elected for life, and by a “Prince,” who was elected every year. As no Fraternity could exist without religion, a Chaplain was maintained for the purpose of singing mass every day and for all the members, living or dead. The great day of the Society was the first Sunday after Trinity, when a meeting was held in a Hall newly strewn with rushes and decked with branches. On this day the Prince for the year was invested. The old Prince, with the crown of office on his head and a gilt cup full of wine in his hands, marched down the room singing. Then he gave the newly chosen Prince the crown, offered him the cup, and hung up his arms over the Presidential chair.

This done, the meeting proceeded with the business of the day, which, like the famous annual Festival at Toulouse, chiefly consisted in choosing and rewarding the best song. The competitors sat in a row on a seat covered with cloth of gold; the judges were the newly elected Prince and the outgoing Prince, assisted by fifteen jurymen: the competitors sang the songs to music of their own composition. When the prize was adjudged the successful competitor was duly crowned.

Then dinner was served, and after dinner they all rode in procession through the City, the two Princes heading the cavalcade, followed by the poetic champion of the day. At the house of the new Prince they all dismounted, and the brethren executed a dance in the street. The day after this great feast, mass was sung at St. Helen’s for the souls of the brotherhood. It is a pleasant glimpse of the sunnier side of the City life. The merchants unite once a year at least—English, French, and Germans, all alike, in friendliness; they sing, they feast, they dance, they go to Church, and they encourage each other, all together, in the practice of concord and harmony, brotherly help and brotherly love.

The postage or carriage of letters was by no means neglected, and grew into a regular system by slow degrees. Edward IV. stationed men every twenty miles, whose duty it was to carry despatches as fast as they could gallop for this distance, and to hand them on to the next man. Edward I. had messengers, who took charge of the despatches of the Officers of State, the Constables of Castles, and the Sheriffs of Counties. The messenger was paid at the rate of a shilling a day. Some tenants held their land on the condition of carrying the lord’s letters. There was a regular mail sent off by the Venetians from London to Venice every month. It included the letters of the merchants of both cities. Private gentlemen also sent their servants to carry letters. In this way the Paston correspondence was carried on. If this correspondence be taken as an average example of the letter-writing of the time, there must have been great need of an organised postal system. The internal trade was managed in the summer by means of long strings of pack-horses; in the winter there was very little travelling and no traffic. Probably messengers were sent about at least on the King’s service, which could not be stopped, all the winter, but the state of the roads forbade any but the most necessary travelling. Yet they were not so bad in the fourteenth century as they were in the seventeenth, three hundred years later.

Here are a few notes:—

It was customary after the arrest of criminals and disorderly persons, at the dragging of a man on a hurdle, or at the putting of a man in pillory, to precede the prisoner and his guards with music—trumpets, pipe, and tabor. The object, of course, was to call general attention to the culprit, and to increase the shame of his punishment.

Lovers gave and exchanged a true-love-knot; some of these knots had four loops, for which reason the herb paris, which had four leaves set against each other, was known as True Love.

A great feast was continued for three days, during which the company continued to eat, drink, sing, dance, and look on at games.

It was a common practice with friends to take oaths of fraternity and friendship one with another; sometimes even to die for each other if the occasion should demand this proof of friendship.

Of reconstruction of the past there is no end, because something new, which was also old, is continually turning up. See, for instance, the cart covered with a black cloth on which is a white cross, slowly passing down the street. The horse carries a bell which tolls mournfully, the cart is led by a man in the livery of the Carthusian Brothers; it contains the body of one who has died a violent death, killed in a brawl by some rioter unknown, killed in a mad fight over a woman—who knows? They will take the cart to Pardon Churchyard where lie buried so many victims of the Black Death; the poor wretch will be laid, at least, in sacred soil. Or there is the procession of the sanctuary-man who has abjured the Kingdom; he is bare-headed and bare-footed; he carries a wooden cross; he is led to the Bridge Gate by the serjeants of his Ward; he has three days in which to reach Dover and to get across the seas. And after? History knows no more. Here is a crowd gathered round the woman set up in the shameful thew. Why is she set there? For tampering with her measures and defrauding her customers. The interests of beer are concerned. The crowd is justly indignant, words of reproach and contumely greet the culprit; she hides her face in terror and in shame. It seems a light thing to stand up for an hour or two before the people. It is anything but light, it is grievous, it is a lifelong disgrace; women have been known to fall down dead in such a case, overwhelmed and heartbroken with the public exposure.

Here comes one, a City officer, clad in a tunic ornamented with death’s heads. The grinning skulls proclaim his office. He is the Death Crier. In his hand he carries a bell, which he rings as he walks along the streets; at night he carries a lantern; he might walk through the streets at any time of the day or night, for he announces the death of some great man. “Good people,” he cries, “of your charity pray for the soul of our dear brother ——, who departed this life at such or such an hour.” As he passes, perhaps in the dead of night, his voice awakens those who sleep. They arise, they open their windows, they put out their heads, and murmur a prayer. When the King died, it was the custom for the Death Crier to march through the streets escorted by the Guild of Allhallows carrying crosses.

Other duties were imposed upon the officers in order to find work enough for them to do. There was one, it seems, for every ward. They inspected taverns and reported to the Alderman on their conduct and management, they also watched for, and reported, houses of ill-fame, and places which harboured disorderly persons.

Chaucer, in describing the Miller, speaks of the “goliardeys.” The goliardus was a professional diner-out; one who earned his dinner by telling tales, reciting verses, and making jests for the amusement of the company. The profession is one branch of the many devoted to making a sad world merry. The mime, the tumbler, the dancing girl, the juggler, the Tom Fool, the singer, the musician, and the diner-out are all members of this honourable and creditable profession.

Professor Skeat has kindly sent me the following notes on Mediæval manners and customs, taken from a Lecture delivered before the University Extension Conference in 1898. In one or two places they mention matters already recited by myself. The greater part of the notes, however, will be found to supplement my own. But the field of Mediæval manners is absolutely inexhaustible. I would recommend the reader to look through the learned Professor’s Notes to Chaucer and Piers Plowman for an illustration of the axiom.

It was usual, he remarks, for tradesmen’s apprentices to stand at the shop-doors, touting for custom by means of incessant shouting. At the door of the cook, who provided meat and drink for the hungry wayfarer, was heard the cry—“Hote pies, hote,” i.e. hot pies, all hot. Or else—“gode grys and gees,” i.e. good roast pigs, good roast geese. Or—“gowe, dyne, gowe,” i.e. let’s go and dine. At the door of the taverner was heard the cry—“whyte wyn of Gascoigne,” i.e. white wine of Alsace, red wine of Gascony. Or else—“wyn of the Ryne,” i.e. wine of the Rhine; or “wyn of Rochel,” i.e. wine of Rochelle; and these wines were especially warranted to assist the digestion, as being the correct drink to take after dining off roast meat.

One common use of bread was to feed horses and dogs with. I have often seen a horse eat a loaf of bread in Switzerland, but never in London; so I suppose it is not now in use here. One common name for a horse was Bayard, and hence a horse-loaf was sometimes called a Bayard’s bun. In the same way, I may here note that there was once a place in London called Bayard’s water, i.e. a watering-place for horses. It is now called Bayswater.

It deserves to be mentioned that there was a kind of ale particularly known by the name of London Ale. As early as the time of Henry III., London had established a special reputation for its ale, which was considered by good judges of drink as being of the first quality. There is a particular allusion to it in Chaucer’s description of the Cook. The Cook, it seems, was a good judge of liquor, hence it is said of him—“well could he know a draught of London ale.” One of the most noticeable and obvious characteristics of Old London was the use of tradesmen’s signs. At the present day, we seldom see signs hung out before any houses except inns and taverns; but it was formerly usual for nearly every trade to exhibit a sign, and their great multitude added considerably to the picturesque effect of nearly every street. They were extremely conspicuous, being intended, of course, for advertisements, and varied greatly. Sometimes they were stuck up on posts, but these were in the way of the passengers; so it was more usual to hang them out above the door, supported by poles or ornamental iron-work; or, if the street was unusually narrow, they were slung across the road. It is capable of proof that it is from this custom that the phrase to hang out originated. “Where do you hang out” is now a colloquial phrase for “where do you live”; but the fuller expression “where do you hang out your sign” could once have been asked in all seriousness, and would have been understood in the same sense. Examples are given in the New English Dictionary and in the Century Dictionary. There are still a few survivals of the old custom. Thus it was common for a dealer in woollen articles to hang out the Golden Fleece; and the Golden Fleece may still be seen before shops of this description. Another sign is well known as the barber’s pole. These signs were so numerous, so cumbersome, and in a high wind so dangerous, that they sometimes had to be suppressed; and we meet with enactments that attempted to regulate their size. The most objectionable were the ale-stakes of taverns. An ale-stake was a horizontal pole, projecting far in front of a tavern, sometimes bearing a sign, and almost invariably ornamented with a bunch of leaves suspended from its extremity. This bunch was called a bush, and gave rise to the proverb that “good wine needs no bush,” i.e. no advertisement. We find the following ordinance in the Liber Albus:—

“Whereas the ale-stakes, projecting in front of taverns in East Cheap, and elsewhere in the said City, extend too far over the King’s highways, to the impeding of riders and others, and by reason of their excessive weight to the great deterioration of the houses in which they are fixed, it is enjoined that no one in future shall have a stake, bearing either his sign or leaves (i.e. or a bush) extending over the King’s highway, of greater length than seven feet at most.” Seven feet is rather a large allowance, and affords some notion of the lengths to which these ale-stakes had grown.

There is one famous passage in Langland which reminds us of Shakespeare’s description of the Boar’s Head tavern in East Cheap, where Sir John Falstaff was wont to “take his ease in his inn.” It is a description of the company assembled in a large tavern in Cheapside or thereabouts; a company of a very miscellaneous sort. The chief person there is called Sir Glutton, who seems to have been just such another as Sir John Falstaff. This Sir Glutton was on his way to church on a certain Friday, in order to make confession; but he just called in at the tavern as he went along. For it so happened that Beton the brewster was standing at the tavern-door, and took occasion to mention that she had some especially good ale for immediate consumption. “But have you,” said he, “any hot spices to put in it?” “Yes,” said she, “there’s pepper, and peony-seeds, and a pound of garlic, and a farthing’s worth of fennel-seed, especially reserved for Fridays.” That was just too much for him. In went Sir Glutton; and, it is remarked, “great oaths went with him.” We are then introduced to the company, which included Ciss the sempstress, Wat the gamekeeper and his wife, who was already drunk, Tom the tinker and two of his boys, Hick the horse-dealer, Hugh the needle-seller, Clarice of Cock Lane, and the clerk of the church—which probably alludes to St. Peter’s Cornhill—a certain Sir Piers, a Flemish woman named Parnel (once a common female name), a hay-ward or hedge-warden, a hermit, the hangman of Tyburn, Daw the diker, i.e. hedger and ditcher, and a dozen rascals more, made up of porters and pick-pockets and drawers of teeth. Then there were a minstrel and a rat-catcher, and Rose the seller of dishes; Godfrey who sold garlic, and a Welshman named Griffin; and, to conclude all, a heap of upholsterers or dealers in ready-made furniture.

Then the whole company looked on while Hick the horsedealer and Clement the cobbler played at a kind of game called the New Fair; which was really a kind of bartering by handicap, and constituted a mild form of gambling. The idea was simple enough, though it led to a large amount of dispute and wrangling before it could be satisfactorily settled. First of all, Clement the cobbler took off his cloak and laid it on a table or chair. Then Hick took off his hood, and laid it beside the cloak. Then the whole business was to appraise the relative worth of the articles, which they wholly failed to do, till they appointed an umpire, viz. Robin the rope-maker. Robin’s decision was very advantageous to the taverner. It was clear that the cloak was worth more than the hood; so that some compensation was due to Clement, who accepted the hood in exchange. So he was allowed to fill up his cup at Hick’s expense. And it was further provided that, if either of the parties was dissatisfied with the award, he was to be fined in a gallon of ale; out of which gallon he was to drink the health of Sir Glutton, who had been so good as to preside over the matter in dispute.

And so things went on, till every one grew more or less uproarious; and we are not surprised to hear that when Sir Glutton at last rose up, late in the evening, too late to go to church, he had already consumed about a gallon, and a gill over; and, in crossing the floor, he went no straighter than a blind man’s dog, which is sometimes in front and sometimes behind. He had much difficulty in finding the door, and finally stumbled over the threshold, unable to rise; and at last, Clement and others had to carry him home. Then, with all the trouble in the world, his wife and his maid got him safely into bed, and there he slept all Saturday and all Sunday, waking up at last on the Sunday evening. And as soon as ever he unclosed his eyes, the first word that he said was, “Where stands the bowl?” It is some satisfaction to know that his wife administered to him a severe rebuke, and that he was thoroughly ashamed of himself, and promised to observe Friday, thenceforward, as a day of abstinence and church-going. From this it would appear that the manner of life as conducted inside a tavern was not very different from what it is now. One of the most curious points in Langland’s description of this company is his inclusion of “the hangman of Tyburn.” Perhaps it is not generally known that there were, in fact, two Tyburns. The more celebrated one is that which took its name from the bourn or stream that was formerly called Tybourn. The exact spot where the gallows stood was not always precisely the same, but one position of it is denoted by a mark near the junction of Edgware Road with Oxford Street, not far from the Marble Arch. But there was another place of execution in Southwark, close to the St. Thomas-a-Waterings mentioned by Chaucer in his famous Prologue; and this place was expressly called Tyburn of Kent, to prevent mistakes.

In one passage, Langland alludes to what was then known as “the benefit of clergy.” This is a phrase which I strongly suspect has frequently been misunderstood; at any rate, to the modern ear, it is extremely misleading. It sounds as if it meant that the attendance of a clergyman might benefit the condemned criminal; but it means nothing of the kind. The word clergy had formerly two distinct meanings; or, strictly speaking, there were two distinct words which came to be sounded alike. One of these, referring to the clerical order, is still in common use; the other, meaning “clerkship, scholarship, or learning,” is practically obsolete. In old law, it meant “ability to read”; and at a time when such ability was uncommon, it was permissible, in the case of some misdeeds, that the criminal should claim his privilege of scholarship, if it was his first offence. If he could prove his ability to read, he could claim exemption from capital punishment. The person who examined the criminal—perhaps we may call him “the examiner”—usually selected one of the Latin psalms as the subject; very often it was the fifty-first psalm beginning with the words Miserere mei, Deus; or sometimes he pointed to the fifth verse of the sixteenth psalm, Dominus pars hereditatis mee. It is to be suspected that some of the thieves carefully learned these Latin verses by heart before they stole a purse: a practice of which we never hear at the present day. Langland’s praise of the benefits of a good education is surely remarkable, and such as we are by no means accustomed to. “Well may the child bless the man who set him to learn books. Familiarity with literature has often saved a man, body and soul. Dominus pars hereditatis mee is a pleasant verse; it has been known to save from Tyburn some twenty strong thieves. When ignorant thieves are made to dangle, just see how the learned ones are saved!”