the feet of one of the stewards and were replaced by an immense tour de force on the table, from which the book eloped again,—­this time in company with an overcoat; but it seemed the coat was too miserable to go far:  it stretched itself at full length on the floor, and suffered the book to dance over it, back and forth, I know not how many times.  At last, as the actions of the book were becoming unendurable, and the general sea-sickness was waxing into a frenzy, a heavy roll, that made the whole ship shriek and tremble, threw us all from our lockers; and gathering myself up, bruised and sore in every fibre, I lay down again and became sensible of a blissful, blissful lull; the machinery had stopped, and with the mute hope that we were all going to the bottom, I fell tranquilly asleep.

IV.

It appeared that the storm had really been dangerous.  Instead of being only six hours from Naples, as we ought to be at this time, we were got no further than Porto Longone, in the Isle of Elba.  We woke in a quiet, sheltered little bay, whence we could only behold, not feel, the storm left far out upon the open sea.  From this we turned our heavy eyes gladly to the shore, where a white little town was settled, like a flight of gulls upon the beach, at the feet of green and pleasant hills, whose gentle lines rhymed softly away against the sky.  At the end of either arm of the embracing land in which we lay, stood gray, placid old forts, with peaceful sentries pacing their bastions, and weary ships creeping round their feet, under guns looking out so kindly and harmlessly, that I think General ——­ himself would not have hesitated (except, perhaps, from a profound sentiment of regret for offering the violence) to attack them.  Our port was full of frightened shipping—­steamers, brigs, and schooners—­of all sizes and nations; and since it was our misfortune that Napoleon spent his exile in Elba at Porto Ferrato instead of Porto Longone, we amused ourselves with looking at the vessels and the white town and the soft hills, instead of hunting up dead lion’s tracks.

Our fellow-passengers began to develop themselves:  the regiment of soldiers whom we were transporting picturesquely breakfasted forward, and the second-cabin people came aft to our deck, while the English engineer (there are English engineers on all the Mediterranean steamers) planted a camp-stool in a sunny spot, and sat down to read the “Birmingham Express.”

Our friends of the second cabin were chiefly officers with their wives and families, and they talked for the most part of their sufferings during the night.  They spoke such exquisite Italian that I thought them Tuscans, but they told me they were of Sicily, where their beautiful speech first had life.  Let us hear what they talked of in their divine language, and with that ineffable tonic accent which no foreigner perfectly acquires, and let us for once translate the profanities Pagan and Christian, which adorn common parlance in Italy:—­