Nothing could surpass the fineness of the weather; the sky was uniformly clear, or only relieved by a passing cloud. The temperature was that of the finest June weather at Boston, and during the month, occasional showers of rain had sufficiently fertilized the earth. The year previous, I was told, had been remarkable for a drought; the wells dried up, and it was feared the cattle would have nothing but wine to drink; for a dry season is always most favorable to the vintage. The present season, I may remark in anticipation, proved as uncommonly wet, and the vintage was proportionally scanty. I stopped a few hours at Empoli, a large town on the road, which appeared quite dull and deserted; but I found most of the inhabitants had gone to Pisa. Journeying onward, the hills gradually sunk into a level plain, and at length I discerned an odd-looking structure raising its head above the horizon, which I knew instantly to be the leaning tower. Pisa was now about four or five miles distant, and the road became every instant more and more thronged with travellers, hastening toward the city; some in carriages, some in carts, some on horseback, some on donkeys, but the greater part were country people on foot, and there were as many women as men--a circumstance common to all great festivals and collections of people, out of doors, in this country. As I approached the city gate, the throng became so dense, that carriages could hardly make their way. Having at last got within the walls, I found every street overflowing with population, but not more than one in fifteen belonged to the place; all the rest were visiters like myself. Pisa is as large as Boston, but the inhabitants are only about twenty thousand. At this time, the number of people who flocked to the place from far and near, to witness the show, was computed at three hundred thousand. It is a well-built city, full of stately palaces, like Florence. The Arno, which flows through the centre of it, is here much wider, and has beautiful and spacious streets along the water, much more commodious and elegant than those of the former city. But at all times, except on the occasion of the triennial festival of the patron saint of the city, Pisa is little better than a solitude: the few inhabitants it contains have nothing to do but to kill time. I visited the place again about a month later, and nothing could be more striking than the contrast which its lonely and silent streets offered to the gay crowds that now met my view within its walls.