MALTA
We left for Malta, which was reached in two days, and cast anchor in the harbor of Valetta, the capital. The island is celebrated as the home of the Knights of Malta, the original birth-place of the Maltese cat, and the spot where the Maltese cross was invented—but not patented. This island was conquered by the Romans 259 B.C.; afterward by Napoleon, from whom it was taken by England in 1800, and now indeed it's "quite English, you know." Oh my! how English it is, to be sure! It's nothing but Tommy Atkins here, and Files-on-parade there; battle-ships "beyant," and cruisers in the "offin'," mixed up with gunboats and bumboats and "gundulas," till you would think you were standing on the pier at "Suthampton."
The marine bands mostly play Rule Britannia, but some of them essay Annie Laurie, and when these airs get mixed, it would try the soul of Richard Wagner to stand the discord without resorting to profanity. Anyway, Mr. Bull has this island all to himself. Its fortifications and harbor are the finest to be found on the globe, but how sad to think they have been rendered useless by the modern battle-ship with the long guns. (I was going to say the "long greens," as they and battle-ships always go together, no matter who pays the taxes.) But still it charms the visitor with its fine climate and gay people. It was Carnival Day when we arrived, and the motley crowds in the street, in variegated raiment, pelted the "Corks" with all kinds of flowers with the utmost good humor.
There is a church on the water-front that is lined with the skulls and bones of the various armies of defenders: its name is "Old Bones," which certainly bears out its character.
A whole lot might be written about how the Knights of Malta became very great, then very small and degenerate, and finally were pushed into the discard by the relentless hands of time and public opinion. Valetta has quite a number of people living there besides the soldiers and sailors, some 80,000 I believe, but most of them are tired of climbing the steep streets, many of which contain stairs. Lord Byron, having a game foot, got angry at them when he wrote:
"Adieu, ye cursèd streets of stairs,
How surely he who mounts you swears!"
We were shown the spot where St. Paul was ship-wrecked. The Maltese erected a colossal statue to Paul on Selmoon Island about fifty years ago. They hold an annual feast there on February 10th, the alleged date of his shipwreck, and as they have two hundred additional feast days they have just one hundred and sixty-four days left for their regular business—loafing. They have novel names for their hotels and saloons,—the "Sea and Land Hotel," "The Pirates' Roost" saloon, the "Quick Fire" lunch-room, "The Englishers' Chop-House," and "The Camel's Drink," are some examples. Not from greed, but purely out of curiosity, mind you, we tested the latter, and it would have taken three of what they gave us to make a regular "Waldorf highball." Thus does the retributive principle of temperance put the rod in pickle for