These quaint lines of our native poet Churchyard, with the illustrative vignette, describe the situation which the spacious cruciform church of Old Saint Chad occupied on the southern eminence of the town.
The period of its early foundation has been already alluded to, and the nearly total destruction of the fabric was occasioned by workmen having very injudiciously commenced under-building (contrary to the advice of an experienced architect,) one of the pillars that supported the large central tower, which had shrunk considerably from graves having been carelessly made too close to its foundations. The slight vibration occasioned by the chimes proclaiming their matin tune at four o’clock, on July 9th, 1788, caused the decayed pillar to give way, when the ponderous tower rent asunder, and with the heavy peal of bells it contained, falling on the roofs of the nave and transepts; crushed those parts of the edifice into ruinous desolation, producing a scene of horrid confusion more easily to be imagined than described. The masons had a narrow but fortunate escape, and were only waiting at the adjoining house of the sexton for the keys of the church, to pursue their misdirected scheme of economy.
The event excited a great consternation in the town, and the exemplary vicar, the Rev. Thomas Stedman, addressed an affectionate pastoral letter to his parishioners on the improvement that should be made of so remarkable an interposition of Providence, which occurred at a time when not a single person was within the reach of any injury from it.
Before the church fell, apprehensions were entertained that some fatal consequences might follow, from the appearances of decay in different parts of the building; these fears, however, were comparatively slight, and no immediate danger expected. But after the event took place it was found that the shattered state of the edifice was such, that instead of exciting surprise that it should fall when it did, there were just grounds for amazement that it should have stood so long. Had the decayed state of the building been thoroughly understood before it gave way, the probable opinion would have been, that whenever the disaster happened, it would be at a time when the effects of it might have been dreadful to many;—as when the greatest weight was in the galleries, or when the tower had been shaken by the motion of the bells. Only a month previous, 3000 persons, it is considered, were assembled in the church to witness the interment of an officer under military honours.
The old church was a majestic edifice, erected in the reign of Henry III. in the style when the round Norman arches were giving way to the beautiful lancet style. In 1393 the roofs and tower, with the wooden spire covered with lead, were destroyed by a calamitous fire, occasioned by the negligence of a plumber while repairing the leads. The damage being considerable, Richard II. granted to the inhabitants a remission of their fee-farm rent, and certain other taxes, towards the re-edification.
From the fragments of Saxon sculpture discovered in portions of the walls after the fall of the late fabric, the edifice which preceded it must have been considerably adorned.
The dawning light of the Reformation in Shrewsbury first beamed in this church in 1407, by William Thorpe, a priest and disciple of the doctrines promulgated by Wickliff. This Salopian reformer, in a sermon before the bailiffs on the third Sunday after Easter, boldly, preached against the prevailing and favourite tenets of the Romish church; for his temerity he was thrown into the prison of the town, by command of the local authorities, where he remained about a month, and was afterwards removed to Lambeth for examination before the archbishop, the bailiffs preferring the charge of heresy and schism against him.
The conduct of Thorpe before his spiritual superior was decent and respectful, but at the same time he remained zealous in his vindication of scripture, and firm in support of that which he considered the truth,—thus intrepidly answering the archbishop, “I’ll tell you at one word, I dare not from the dread of God submit unto you, notwithstanding the tenure and sentence that you have rehearsed to me.” He was accordingly sent back to prison: his subsequent fate is nowhere recorded, but it is conjectured on good grounds he was liberated after the death of the archbishop, so that what Fox has asserted of his having died a martyr to hard usage is probably incorrect.
The exercise of the Protestant religion in this town also began in this church in 1573, under the direction of the Bishop of Lichfield and the Lord President of the Marches, as special commissioners from Queen Elizabeth.
The portion of the ruins now remaining stood south of the choir, and formed a chantry chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary; after the Reformation it was called the Bishop’s Chancel, from the circumstance of its being used at the visitations of the bishop and archdeacon. The two wide semi-circular arches (now walled up) separated it from the transepts and choir. On the outside north wall are three stone stalls having pointed arches, the concaves of which are groined; these originally adjoined the high altar, and formed the seats of the priest, deacon, and sub-deacon, during a part of the high mass. The east and south sides display two mullioned windows; one adjoining the newel staircase in the south-west pier, which once led to the belfry is of an earlier design than the rest, and was probably introduced when the building was repaired in 1496; the others have elegant trefoiled tracery, and were erected in 1571, when the chapel was nearly rebuilt by Humphrey Onslow, Esq. to the dilapidations of which he appears to have been liable by the lease granted to him of the deanery when the dissolution of the college was anticipated in 1542–3.