The Middy and the Moors: An Algerine Story

One beautiful summer night, about the beginning of the present century, a young naval officer entered the public drawing-room of a hotel at Nice, and glanced round as if in search of some one.

Many people were assembled there—some in robust, others in delicate, health, many in that condition which rendered it doubtful to which class they belonged, but all engaged in the quiet buzz of conversation which, in such a place, is apt to set in after dinner.

The young Englishman, for such he evidently was, soon observed an elderly lady beckoning to him at the other end of the salon, and was quickly seated between her and a fragile girl whose hand he gently took hold of.

“Mother,” he said, to the elderly lady, “I’m going to have a row on the Mediterranean. The night is splendid, the air balmy, the stars gorgeous.”

“Now, George,” interrupted the girl, with a little smile, “don’t be flowery. We know all about that.”

“Too bad,” returned the youth; “I never rise to poetry in your presence, Minnie, without being snubbed. But you cannot cure me. Romance is too deeply ingrained in my soul. Poetry flows from me like—like anything! I am a midshipman in the British Navy, a position which affords scope for the wildest enthusiasm, and—and—I’ll astonish you yet, see if I don’t.”