In the time of Richard III. the chantry chapel comes once again into the light of fame, and is known far and wide as “Berkingshaw.” Richard, who, as we have seen, was no saint when dwelling in the Tower, seems to have been influenced by the age and sanctity of Allhallows to do good deeds, and is known here only as pious benefactor. He achieved this by “newbuilding this chapel,” and adding to the original foundation a college of priests, consisting of a Dean (Chaderton, a friend of Richard’s), and six Canons. In the Calendar of State Papers, Domestic, Henry VIII., 10th July, 1514, there is to be found a record of a “confirmation of the Chapel of St. Mary in the Cæmetary of Barkingchurch London to the Guild of St. Mary.” Provision is also made “for the election of a Master and four Wardens annually for the safe custody of the said chapel.”
If Berkinge Chapel during its long history had been the peculiar care of royalty, the church, after the upheavals in the time of Henry VIII. and Edward VI., became the care, and also the resort, of the prosperous burgesses of the City. It was conveniently near the Tower where the King and his Court were lodged, and where the King’s Justiciars held their sittings, and so became a meeting-place of representative citizens, where matters could be discussed when the City and Tower happened to be at variance—not by any means an infrequent occurrence. From early times, indeed, we may trace the feelings of affection which dwellers in the City, and more especially in the parish, have felt for their historic church. In 1265 we hear of Sir Roger de Leiburn, who was “lodging in the Tower,” meeting the representatives of the City at Berkyngechurche on their proposing to make their submission to the king, after the battle of Evesham. To that meeting came the Mayor “and a countless multitude of citizens.” Again, in 1280, the burgesses “apparelled in their best attire” gathered at Berkyngechurche and proceeded to the Tower to meet the King’s Justiciars “for the purpose of holding an Inquest, or inquiring into the peace of the City.” “Gregory, the Mayor,” as we read in the Liber Albus of the Corporation of London, “disputing the right of the Crown to hold an Inquest for the City of London, for the honour of the Mayoralty refused to enter the Tower as Mayor, but, laying aside his insignia and seal at the high Altar of Berkyngechurche, as the last church in the City next the Tower, entered the Tower merely as one of the Aldermen, alleging that by the ancient liberties he was not bound to attend the Inquests, nor to make appearance therein for judgments, unless forewarned for forty days.” The King, Edward I., as punishment for this disobedience, “abolished the office of Mayor, appointing a Warden in his place; which custom obtained till 26 Ed. I., when the ancient liberties of the City were restored.” Those of the citizens “who had accompanied Rokesly to Berkyngechurche” were confined in the Tower for some days and would, no doubt, on their return to their admiring families, be looked upon with a certain awe ever afterwards.
In the archives of the Guildhall we find that in 1302 Allhallows Barking appears as one of the advowsons of the City of London belonging to the Abbess and Convent of Barking. But after the suppression of the convent by Henry VIII. the patronage passed to the Archbishop of Canterbury, in whose hands it remains to this day. Another interesting fact we gather from the ancient records of the City is that Allhallows was one of the three churches where the curfew was rung each night as a warning that it was time for all good citizens to be indoors, and as a precaution against fire. This ancient curfew bell, it is believed, is that hung in the small bell-turret on the tower of the church and upon which the hammer of the clock strikes the hours.
Towards the end of the fifteenth century great changes took place with regard to the structure of the church. The chantry chapels had fallen into a state of disrepair, and it became necessary to rebuild the chancel to which they were attached and to strengthen the fabric of the nave. It is to this rebuilding that we owe the contrast afforded by the massive pillars of the body of the church with the graceful, deeply moulded Perpendicular pillars of the chancel. The manner in which the one style has been grafted on the other, where, as Allen says, “the pillars between the chancel and the nave are singularly composed of half a circular and half a clustered column worked together” attracts the attention of even the most casual observer. Mr. Fleming, in his admirable little pamphlet on the church, sums up the various alterations that have taken place in the structure when he says “the view of the stately interior tells at once, and more fully than the outside features, the story of the changes that have befallen the church through the centuries since its foundation. For the columns of the nave are Norman, the east window with its intricate tracery was the work of the sumptuous Decorated period, whilst the clerestory and aisles, with the slender clustered shafts of the chancel arcading, belong to the Perpendicular style.... Allhallows is a good instance of the manner in which, entirely convinced of the supreme merits of their school of building, the architects of the Perpendicular period superimposed their style on what had gone before. The contrast between the light clustered columns of the chancel, with their beautiful splayed arches, and the heavy pillars of the nave, is extremely striking, and almost remorseless in its hint of the supercilious ease with which the men of the Tudor period parted from the past and its traditions.”
The interior of the church was at this time embellished by mural decorations; and lingering traces of the paint, on one or two of the nave columns, were left undisturbed during the last restoration, in 1904. A rood-screen stood in front of the new chancel, and above it rose the famous Duddyngton organ. Alas, no traces of either remain to us, even in a museum. While Charles I. was on the throne the interior was again renovated, and during the long toll of subsequent years the history of Allhallows resolves itself into a record of successive restorations. Few churches have been more carefully and lovingly tended than this has been, and its present state of preservation is due to this interest which it has always inspired in those who appreciate its worth and beauty. Allhallows, unlike so many other churches, has not lost but gained by its restorations. An old building, such as this, is in constant need of attention. The problem has ever been the vexed one of renewing without destroying. But any one who enters Allhallows to-day will feel that the problem has been solved here with complete success. The later restorations, including the reroofing, restoration of the ancient battlements, and preservation of the lower parts of the outer walls, has cost, in round figures, twelve thousand pounds, and every penny has been wisely spent in handing down to future generations so wonderful a memorial of the past.
The period of the Commonwealth has left its mark in most sacred buildings as a time of pulling-down; but this church has the singular advantage of remembering it as a time of setting-up. The old stone tower which stood at the south-west corner of the building—the foundations of which were uncovered a few years ago during the erection of that amazing indiscretion, the warehouse which now stands upon the site—was severely disturbed in 1649, when, on January 4 of that year, “a blow of twenty-seven barrels of gunpowder, that took fire in a ship-chandler’s house on the south side of the church,” created havoc in the immediate neighbourhood. The explosion is described in Strype’s edition of Stow’s Survey. “It seems that the chandler was busy in his shop barrelling the powder, about seven o’clock in the evening, when it became ignited and blew up, not merely that house, but fifty or sixty others. The number of persons destroyed was never ascertained, for the next house but one was a tavern, known as ‘The Rose,’ which was full of company, in consequence of a parish dinner: it must have been very great, however, judging from the number of limbs and bodies which were dug up from the ruins. The hostess of the tavern, sitting in the bar, and the waiter standing by with a tankard in his hand, were found beneath some fallen beams, but were dead from suffocation. It is recorded that, the morning after this disaster, a female infant was discovered lying in a cradle on the roof of the church neither bruised nor singed.” The parents of the babe were never traced. The child was given the surname “Barking,” adopted by the parish, and “lived to an adult age.” But, while the baby was saved, the heavy tower was doomed. As a result of the shock it became so insecure that complete demolition was necessary. During the Protectorate the present tower was set up, and, though it is about as uninspired a piece of ecclesiastical brickwork as one can imagine, yet it has a certain interest not only for having arisen during the days of Cromwell, but for having just barely escaped destruction when the Great Fire came to its base. It was up this tower that the ever-curious Pepys, who lived near by, in Seething Lane, climbed hurriedly to see the devastation of Old London. The event will be found recorded in the Diary under the date September 5, 1666.
The building of this tower brings to mind an amusing episode in the records of the church. It appears that over the clock (the “dyall of Barking Church,” mentioned by Pepys) the wardens then in office put up a huge effigy of St. Michael, weighing nearly twenty tons. “Its right hand held a trumpet and in its left was a leaden scroll, inscribed, ‘Arise, ye dead, and come to judgment.’” St. Michael, having been scorched and blistered by the Fire of London, was taken down in 1675—there was no “hustling” in those days—repainted, and placed “over the Commandments at the east end of the church.” Two smaller figures which had supported the central effigy on the wall of the tower were put up over the organ in the new organ-loft at the west end, where, reclining gracefully, they remain to this day. St. Michael had a rougher time of it, and was the cause of one of those absurd squabbles that too often mar the harmony of a quiet parish. One or two of the congregation indicted the churchwardens “at Old Bailey, under the statute of Edward VI., against images,” but the prosecution was abandoned on the ground of expense. A Mr. Shearman supported the parishioners, “and upon his own responsibility destroyed the image.” This occasioned “a furious war of words between him and the lecturer, Jonathan Saunders,” acting as curate of the parish. Shearman wrote virulent pamphlets which were “published by a friend of the Author’s, to prevent false reports,” and addressed them to the Vicar, Dr. Hickes, and his wardens. The latter part of this entertaining publication asserts—as a dig at Saunders as compared with the Vicar—that “men of the least learning are always the most formal.” It goes on to insinuate “that Barking parish was then as famous for its love of drinking ceremonies as for its dislike of religious formality.” The drinking ceremonies have certainly passed away. The pamphlet concludes thus: “I hope our parish shall not lose an inch of its reputation, nor be censured as irregular, but remain a primitive pattern for all London, yea, and all England.” Mr. Saunders replied with double-shotted guns, and the Shearman battery opened fire again with unfailing vigour. The parishioners soon tired of the troublesome and cantankerous Shearman and all his ways. His statements were considered “rude, scurrilous, and scandalous,” and it was recorded in the minutes of the vestry, held on April 24, 1681, that his attack “tends to the dishonour of the Church of England as now established, and is a libel upon the Vicar and the whole parish.” So ends this seventeenth-century turmoil.
Before we enter the church by the north porch, our attention will be attracted by the three carved figures above the doorway. That in the centre represents the Virgin (the church being dedicated to St. Mary and All Saints), with St Ethelburga, Abbess of Barking, on one side and Bishop Andrewes (who was baptised in Allhallows) on the other. This group, as has been well said, “combines in one
