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.