The day after starting there was no wind; but on Saturday, June 12th, a breeze sprung up, and, with screw hoisted and fires raked out, the Agamemnon bowled along at a rare pace under "royals" and studding-sails. The barometer fell fast, and squally weather coming on with the boisterous premonitory symptoms of an Atlantic gale, even those least versed in such matters could see at a glance that they were "in for it." The following day the sky wore a wretched mist--half rain, half vapor--through which the attendant vessels loomed faintly like shadows. The gale increased; till at four in the afternoon the good ship was rushed through the foam under close-reefed topsails and foresail. That night the storm got worse, and most of the squadron gradually parted company. The ocean resembled one vast snowdrift, the whitish glare from which--reflected from the dark clouds that almost rested on the sea--had a tremendous and unnatural effect, as if the ordinary laws of nature had been reversed. Very heavy weather continued till the following Sunday (June 20th), which ushered in as fierce a storm as ever swept over the Atlantic. The narrative of this fight of nautical science with the elements may best be continued in the words of the representative of The Times, especially as it is probably the most intensely realistic description of a storm that has ever been written by an eye-witness: The Niagara, which had hitherto kept close, while the other smaller vessels had dropped out of sight, began to give us a very wide berth, and as darkness increased it was a case of every one for himself. Our ship, the Agamemnon, rolling many degrees--not every one can imagine how she went at it that night--was laboring so heavily that she looked like breaking up.