AN absurd affair took place during our short stay at Malta. The officers of a French royalist regiment patronised a fancy ball, for which I purchased a ticket. The dress chosen was that of a sailor — in fact, a tolerable imitation of my worthy friend, Jack Larmour, in one of his relaxing moods.*

My costume was, however, too much to the life to please French royalist taste. On entering the ball-room, further passage was immediately barred, with an intimation that my presence could not be permitted in such a dress. Good humouredly expostulating that a British seaman was a character quite as picturesque as an Arcadian shepherd, a brusque answer was returned that such a dress was not admissible, whereupon I as brusquely replied that having purchased my ticket, and chosen my own costume in accordance with the regulations, no one had any right to prevent me from sustaining the character assumed. Upon this a French officer came up, and rudely seized me by the collar with the intention of putting me out; in return for which insult he received a substantial mark of British indignation, and an uncomplimentary remark in his own language.