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. [...] 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. [...]
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 was an immediate
thought, and as immediately carried ... |
|
... into execution.
Men of all ranks were seen, quite regardless of
their Sunday clothes, busily employed in removing
the ruins, gentlemen, merchants, tradesmen,
shopmen and apprentices willingly aiding the
sturdy labourers in their good work, and, in a
short time, first one little sufferer, and then
another, was dragged out from the mass of stone
and brick and timber that lay in a confused heap.
Twenty-eight little ones were at length brought
out, of whom twenty-three were dead; five were
alive, and were taken to the Infirmary, but of
these, only three survived. They were horribly
maimed, and so disfigured that they were scarcely
recognizable. These twenty-eight poor little
bodies were at first laid in rows in the
churchyard to be claimed by their parents and
friends, many of whom were to be seen running to
and fro looking distracted with the great
calamity that had befallen them. Of all the
pitiable sights I ever beheld, the sight of these
little things laid on the grass was the most
piteous; and, as, one by one they were claimed
and taken away, in some instances parents
claiming two, and in one instance, three
children, the utmost sympathy was felt for those
who had been so suddenly bereft. [...] Beside the
children, there were only about twenty people
seated in the church, far from the scene of the
disaster, and they, on the first indication of
danger, had fled and sought safety outside the
building. How the bell-ringers escaped, it is
impossible to tell, but escape they did, and that
unhurt, with the exception of one, who rushed
back to get his clothes and was killed. It was to
their intense stupidity and obstinacy that this
catastrophe may be ascribed. Previous to the
accident, they had been told that the tower was
unsafe, and on that very morning, they were
advised not to ring the bells again, until an
examination of the building had taken place; but
ring they would, and ring they did, and the
result of their ringing was a death-knell
unmatched in local history. [ROL] |
|