the basket-work of scaffolding be peeled away, and the Steeple
stretch, high and grand, into the air, for ages it is hoped.

Far otherwise. On Monday evening, between eight and nine, there
gathered thunder over Berlin; wild tumult of the elements:
thunder-bolt "thrice in swift succession" struck the unfinished
Steeple; in the "hood" of which men thereupon noticed a light, as
of a star, or sparkle of the sun; and straight-way, in spite of
the rain-torrents, there burst out blazes of flame.
Blazes unquenchable; grand yet perilous to behold. The fire-drums
beat, the alarm-bells clanged, and ceased not; all Berlin
struggling there, all night, in vain. Such volumes of smoke:
"the heavens were black as if you had hung them with mortcloth:"
such roaring cataracts of flame, "you could have picked up a
copper doit at the distance of 800 yards."--"Hiss-s-s!" what
hissing far aloft is that? That is the incomparable big Bells
melting. There they vanish, their fine tones never to be tried
more, and ooze through the red-hot ruin, "Hush-sh-sht!" the last
sound heard from them. And the stem for holding that immense
Crown-royal,--it is a bar and bars of iron, "weighing sixteen
hundred-weight;" down it comes thundering, crashing through the
belly of St. Peter's, the fall of it like an earthquake all round.
And still the fire-drums beat, and from all surviving Steeples of
Berlin goes the clangor of alarm; "none but the very young
children can have slept that night," says our vigilant old friend.

Wind was awake, too; kindling the neighboring streets;--
storming towards the Powder-Magazine; where labor innumerable
Artillerymen, "busy with hides from the tan-pits, with
stable-dung, and other material;" speed to them, we will say!