Leaving the town by a gate opposite to that by which we had entered, we found ourselves on the sea-shore. The big waves came tumbling in on the beach in great angry masses, and as they poured back again with a sullen roar, the old walls of the town seemed to quiver to their foundations, as if many more high tides and stormy seas would speedily lay them low. But old and tottering as they appear, they have for nearly three centuries resisted the efforts of their enemy, and the waves, by their own violence, have helped to make a little sand-bank that now seems to protect the ancient walls from their too near approach. The air was heavy and oppressive, giving that sensation of nervous foreboding that so often precedes physical or mental trouble. A long line of lurid clouds showed where the sun had gone down with angry redness, and some very dark streaks on the grey waters at the horizon seemed to say that to-morrow's rising would be as stormy as to-night's farewell. The Austrian consul tells us that for some years the storm of the year has always taken place during the last week in September, the 26th being an especially fatal day. That luckless period is now over, so we venture to hope that the muttering tempest may but be moving on its way to other seas. Though the short twilight was scarcely over as we again crossed the Greek quarter, not a soul was to be seen--not a light glimmered at a window; every street was silent and deserted. After the customary dance the people of Sinope, like the birds, go to bed with the sun, and a feeling came over us as if we were guilty of some degree of fastness, almost of dissipation, in not also being at home and in bed, like other respectable people, though it was little past eight o'clock. A few hours later the storm burst forth in good earnest, and raged all night with great fury. Towards morning the wind somewhat suddenly went down, but a tremendous sea was running beyond the roadstead. Three large steamers put in soon after dawn. One of them close by us presents a really pitiable spectacle. There are between four and five hundred Persians on board, and the deck is a scene of dirt and wretchedness such as would be difficult to find equalled. The Persians will never separate from their luggage; they sit on their goods all day and sleep on them all night. During the heavy sea yesterday the waves washed completely over the vessel, drenching these miserable creatures as well as their goods. From the deck being so encumbered the water could not escape, and these wretched people were lying for hours as in a bath, and in a frightful state of prostration and suffering, the combined effects of terror and sea-sickness. Some of them are now trying to dry their rags in the occasional gleams of sunshine, and the ship is covered with sheep-skins, bits of old shawls, carpets, and the complicated articles of clothing only known to Eastern toilettes.