Just when the original posts, bars, and chains gave way to a building known as Temple Bar, we have no means of knowing. Honest John Stow, whose effigy in terra cotta still looks down on us from the wall of the Church of St. Andrew Undershaft, published his famous “Survay of [Elizabethan] London” in 1598. In it he makes scant mention of Temple Bar; and this is the more remarkable because he describes so accurately many of the important buildings, and gives the exact location of every court and lane, every pump and well, in the London of his day.
Stow assures his readers that his accuracy cost him many a weary mile’s travel and many a hard-earned penny, and his authority has never been disputed. He refers to the place several times, but not to the gate itself. “Why this is, I have not heard, nor can I conjecture,” to use a phrase of his; but we know that a building known as Temple Bar must have been standing when the “Survay” appeared; for it is clearly indicated in Aggas’s pictorial map of London, published a generation earlier; otherwise we might infer that in Stow’s time it was merely what he terms it, a “barre” separating the liberties of London from Westminster—the city from the shire. It is obvious that it gets its name from that large group of buildings known as the Temple, which lies between Fleet Street and the river, long the quarters of the Knights Templar, and for centuries past the centre of legal learning in England.
Referring to the “new Temple by the Barre,” Stow tells us that “over against it in the high streets stand a payre of stockes”; and adds that the whole street “from the Barre to the Savoy was commanded to be paved in the twenty-fourth year of the reign of King Henry the Sixt” (this sturdy lad, it will be remembered, began to “reign” when he was only nine months old), with “tole to be taken towards the charges thereof.” This practice of taking “tole” from all non-freemen at Temple Bar continued until after the middle of the nineteenth century, and fine confusion it must have caused. The charge of two pence each time a cart passed the City boundary finally aroused such an outcry against the “City turnpike” that it was done away with. Whoever received this revenue must have heartily bewailed the passing of the good old days; for a few years before the custom was abandoned, the toll collected amounted to over seven thousand pounds per annum.
The first reference which seems to suggest a building dates back to the time when “Sweet Anne Bullen” passed from the Tower to her coronation at Westminster, at which time the Fleet Street conduit poured forth red wine, and the city waits—or minstrels—“made music like a heavenly noyse.” We know, too, that it was “a rude building,” and that it was subsequently replaced by a substantial timber structure of classic appearance, with a pitched roof, spanning the street and gabled at each end. Old prints show us that it was composed of three arches—a large central arch for vehicular traffic, with smaller arches, one on each side, over the footway. All of the arches were provided with heavy oaken doors, studded with iron, which could be closed at night, or when unruly mobs, tempted to riot, threatened—and frequently carried out their threat—to disturb the peace of the city.
The City proper terminated at Lud Gate, about halfway up Ludgate Hill; but the jurisdiction of the City extended to Temple Bar, and those residing between the two gates were said to be within the liberties of the City and enjoyed its rights and privileges, among them that of passing through Temple Bar without paying toll. Although Lud Gate was the most important gate of the old city, originally forming a part of the old London wall, from time immemorial Temple Bar has been the great historic entrance to the City. At Temple Bar it was usual, upon an accession to the throne, the proclamation of a peace, or the overthrow of an enemy, for a state entry to be made into the City. The sovereign, attended by his trumpeters, would proceed to the closed gate and demand entrance. From the City side would come the inquiry, “Who comes here?” and the herald having made reply, the Royal party would be admitted and conducted to the lord mayor.
With the roll of years this custom became slightly modified. When Queen Elizabeth visited St. Paul’s to return thanks for the defeat of the Spanish Armada, we read that, upon the herald and trumpeters having announced her arrival at the Gate, the Lord Mayor advanced and surrendered the city sword to the Queen, who, after returning it to him, proceeded to St. Paul’s. On this occasion—as on all previous occasions—the sovereign was on horseback, Queen Elizabeth having declined to ride, as had been suggested, in a vehicle drawn by horses, on the ground that it was new-fangled and effeminate. For James I, for Charles I and Cromwell and Charles II, similar ceremonies were enacted, the coronation of Charles II being really magnificent and testifying to the joy of England in again having a king.