The next important event in this year was the building of the Presbyterian Church. This edifice was erected on the west side of Fourth Street, between Market and Jefferson, on the north-west corner of the alley. It was a neat, plain, but spacious building. The interior was divided into three rows of pews, and was furnished with galleries on three sides; the exterior was brick, and was adorned with a steeple in which was a belfry and a superb bell. Its first pastor was Rev. D. C. Banks. This church was destroyed by fire in 1836. All who were residents in the city at that time will remember this conflagration. The building took fire in the evening during a meeting of the church. The efforts of the citizens to preserve it from destruction were energetic and continued, but unavailing. When it was found that it was no longer possible to save the building, all efforts were directed toward the preservation of the bell. This splendid instrument, the first large bell ever in the city, was esteemed and venerated to a degree far beyond that which is usually felt for inanimate objects; it had a hold upon the affections of all ages, sexes and classes of people, as well the inhabitants as those who visited the city periodically. It was used to announce all public tidings, whether of meetings, fires, or deaths. Its clear and silvery notes were heard for miles around, and brought joy, or terror, or wo to a thousand hearts; all within the sound of its mighty tongue had learned to know and love its voice; and now, that its destruction was threatened, a thousand hearts thrilled with fear of its loss or throbbed with hope of its salvation. Still the devouring element crept on apace, and still, like the old sacristan of Saint Nicholas, stood the ringer at his post, and still went on the loud clanging alarum of the bell. Soon the pillars which supported the dome of the belfry were wrapt in sheets of flame, but the alarm peal still rang on as if the imprisoned monster was yet undespairing, and cried aloud "to the rescue!" Then the falling timbers and flakes of fire drove the ringer from his post. For a while the bell still pealed on "in a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire," till at last the wheel on which it hung was wrapped in flames. Then came its despair, and as spoke after spoke burnt from the wheel, it slowly tolled--tolled its own death-knell; heedless it was of the brilliant coruscations of flame that fell in showers around it, as the covering of the dome broke from its fastenings and shot upward in the light and then fell, leaving a train of fire to mark its path; heedless of the soaring flames, of the upgazing crowd; thinking only of its approaching dissolution. Slowly and solemnly it tolled the funeral knell, and with the last stroke of its hammer, and the last dazzling off-shoot from the dome, tower, bell, and dome all came down with a tremendous crash. The crowd had ceased to work, had ceased to