On Sunday morning, February 11, 1810, I was standing in St. Nicholas churchyard, in company with two old friends. We were waiting the arrival of the congregation, and the commencement of the morning service. The second bells were chiming. We had been looking on the river with that interest which is always felt in gazing upon such a scene. Our conversation had turned upon the benefits which a good sound Christian education must confer upon the lower classes of society. Education at the period to which I refer was then beginning to take hold of the public mind, as an essential to the well-doing of the people. This subject in later years, as is known, has become an absorbing question. Our remarks had been evoked by the neat appearance of the children of the Moorfields Schools, who had just passed near where we stood, as they entered the church. One of us remarked in reference to the Tower close by, that it was the dower of the Lady Blanche, the daughter of John O'Gaunt, who, although occupying so eminently marked a place in history, was a man so narrow-minded that he would not allow any of his vassals to receive the least education as he held that it unfitted them for the duties of their station, and gave them ideas far above their lot in life. A curious speculation was hazarded by one of my friend's that as Water-street was anciently called "Bank-street," whether the word "Bank" ought not to have been "Blanche"-street; a name given to it in honour of the lady to whom the principal building in the street belonged, when, just as he had finished speaking, we heard, as if above us, a smart crack. On looking round to ascertain the cause, a sight burst upon our view, that none who witnessed it could ever forget. The instant we turned, we beheld the church tower give way, on the south-west side, and immediately afterwards the spire fell with a frightful and appalling crash into the body of the building. The spire seemed at first to topple over, and then it dropped perpendicularly like a pack of cards into a solid heap, burying everything, as may be supposed, below it. There were many persons in the churchyard, waiting to enter the sacred edifice, and, like ourselves, were struck dumb with horror and dismay at the frightful catastrophe. We were soon aroused to a state of consciousness, and inaction gave way to exertion. In a very short time, the noise of the crash had brought hundreds of persons into the churchyard to ascertain the cause. Amidst the rising dust were heard the dreadful screams of the poor children who had become involved in the ruins; and not long after, their screams were added to by the frantic exclamations of parents and friends who, in an incredibly short time had hurried to the scene of the disaster. Crowds of people rushed into the churchyard, some hurrying to and fro, scarcely knowing what to fear or what to do. That the children were to be exhumed