The Sarno is about as wide as the Bronx at West-Farms, and much such a river. Like the Bronx, it meanders through low meadows, all of which have probably been formed since the destruction of Pompeii. We could not get quite up to the town, as it was; but, leaving the boat, we walked, by a footpath, to the highway, entering the ruins on the side of the tombs. In this visit we examined the walls, and entered more into details than at the former. The progress of the workmen had been slow; but an entire house, and that of some importance, had been opened in the interval. I endeavoured to find some traces of the port, unsuccessfully; but, judging from the present appearance of the country, I think there can be little question that the town stood on a low promontory, and that the haven lay considerably below it. Excavations in the right spot would very probably bring to light a mole. We left Pompeii, on this occasion, an hour sooner then we should otherwise have done, on account of an approaching gust. For nearly two months, and this in August and September, we had seen nothing resembling a storm in the bay, and scarcely any rain. Indeed, I can safely say; after having now passed near a twelvemonth on this side the Alps, that I have witnessed neither thunder nor lightning that would attract any attention in America. This may have been a peculiar season; but, after all I had been told, especially by the English, I had expected something of the sort particularly awful. While we were among the ruins, however, there was every symptom of something better than common in this way, or certainly better than anything we had yet seen; and fearing a swell would get up on the bar, I hurried the party off to the boat. We got out of the Sarno better than we had come into it, and were soon in the bay. The wind was light at the north-west, and as we stretched over, under the promontory of Vico, the heavens in the direction of Pausilippo became lowering and grand. A polacre was beating out of the bight of Castle-a-mare, and was tacking, about half a league to windward of us. Just as she filled, with her head to the northward, I observed that she was starting her tacks and sheets, or whatever else these nondescript craft term their gear. I ordered our own luggs to betaken in, and the oars shipped. It was a grand moment, for I scarcely remember a more beautiful opening of a gust, and the effect was greatly increased by the sublimity of the surrounding land. As for the bay itself, it reminded me of a beauty covered with frowns. The water curled and foamed, but retained its limped blue; and there were openings between the lurid and wheeling clouds through which the void of heaven gleamed brightly, and of its deepest tint, giving one the idea of nature in a mask.