The good ship Leopold, the large steamer which plies between Marseilles and Naples, had just doubled Cape Procida. The passengers were all on deck, suddenly cured of their sea-sickness by the sight of land, a more efficacious remedy than Malta pills and other recipes prescribed by physicians for this purpose.
A group of Englishmen were assembled on the upper deck, reserved for first-class passengers. They were all close-shaven, their cravats were tied with religious care, and their high, straight collars were as stiff as bristol-board; their hands were encased in Suede gloves; and the varnish on their boots shone brightly in the sun. This group was composed of lords, members of the House of Commons, great merchants, Regent Street tailors, and Sheffield cutlersall very serious, very dignified, and unspeakably bored. There were women in profusion, too, as Englishwomen are not as sedentary as the females of other countries, and rarely miss an opportunity to get away from their little island.
These charming persons murmured the sacramental phrase: “Vedi Napolie poi mori,” with the most delicious English accent, while they consulted their tourist guides or made notes of their impressions in their little memorandum-books, without paying the least attention to the tender glances cast upon them, a la don Juan, by a number of conceited Parisians who hovered about this bevy of loveliness, while the indignant mammas read long lectures to these fair misses on the impropriety of the French.