ells in the World, at least of such a TONE. These Bells
are hung, silent but ready in their upper chamber of the Tower, and
the gigantic Crown or apex is to go on; then will 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! Forty dwelling-houses went; but not
the Powder-Magazine; not Berlin utterly (so to speak) by the
Powder-Magazine. On the morrow St. Peter's and neighborhood lay black,
but still inwardly burning; not for three days more could the ruins be
completely quenched.

That was the news for Friedrich Wilhelm, before sunrise, on the point
of his departure for Muhlberg and King August's scenic exhibitions.
"HM;--but we must go, all the same! We will rebuild it!" said he.--And
truly he did so. And the polite King August, sorry to hear of the
Peterskirche