I heard a very pretty compliment paid to Queensland women as a whole the other day by an English gentleman. He remarked (I hope my readers will not become too vain after hearing this) that they are the neatest and nicest dressed girls he had seen anywhere, and were an example—with the exception of some over-dressed ones—to many English women. But to return to our own “moutons.”
How the smell of very old furniture will make one’s memory retrace its steps. The past stands out sadly or joyously, and sometimes it is so subtle and suggestive as to convey one back to a confused memory, like a thread of a pre-existence, which most of us have experienced. It is very vague and uncertain. Yet there it is.
Yes! scents are strong connecting links between the past and present, and we have a sense of gratitude, for it gives us something very pleasant to think about—and sometimes has the charm of making our existence free from feelings of ennui.
MALTA.
JUST A GLIMPSE.
It had been a very rough passage through the Bay of Biscay, and it was an immense relief to run into calm water, so, hugging the coast of southern Spain, we could distinctly see the shore, with trees standing out in bold relief against the sky. So (I shall never as long as I live forget the beauty of the scene) we approached the great, brown rock of Gibraltar, with its hundred eyes of hate, bristling with guns, and with the now fashionable watering place of Algiers on our left, we passed through the great “Pillars of Hercules,” the extremities of Europe and Africa almost meeting into the Mediterranean. The passage appears much narrower than it really is, sea distance being deceptive. We steamed along in the pinken glow of dawn, the change being very pleasant, and the air gradually becoming warmer, until within a few miles of Malta (which island, as you know, is off the southern coast of Sicily), when it suddenly became quite hot. And, how shall I describe the impression, under perfect weather conditions? The white rock, so imposing and important politically, as well as commercially. A jewelled island, set in a sapphire sea. A green vista of terraces of white houses, with green shutters and awnings of scarlet and white, flapping in the breeze. Pedestrians we could see in the distance with the ubiquitous umbrellas and hats, green lined to keep off the glare of the sun. Presently we anchored, and, hey presto! we were almost immediately surrounded by vendors of all sorts of things in the shape of coral earrings, bracelets, and brooches, good and bad Florida water, perfumes, real Maltese lace and bad imitation. We inspected their wares, and amid a babel of French and Italian (we being in a hurry), we purchased some good lace and eau de Cologne.
Then, we decided we would go ashore, which three of us did, and we passed the casinos and shipping offices, and wended our way up those famous streets of stairs described by Lord Byron, and we no longer wondered, when we thought of his poor deformed foot, how difficult he must have found the ascent. Each house rose imperially above its neighbour up those flights, and, peeping from some of the doors, were dark-eyed Madonna-looking Spanish beauties, their classic heads draped gracefully with mantillas. But the dominating smell, which spoilt it all, was that of garlic. It assailed our nostrils; it seemed to be everywhere, and we were told that, in some form or another, it was found at every meal. At last we gained the top, after much stifled laughter, and made for the barracks and the fort, after which we visited the armoury, and imagined we had known the brave knights themselves, after the kind information tendered by our guide in mixed Anglo-Saxon, French and Italian.
We then went to the Cathedral of St. John, saw the Alexandrian Gate, and the places set apart for worshippers of different sects, after which we joined in a service in the central portion. Later on towards sunset, we hired a fiacre with a Pegasus-like winged steed attached, and the way that sorry horse flew along was marvellous. No whip was needed, and to say he was as thin as a herring would be a libel on the herring. Anyhow, we arrived safely at Valetta, the Government residence, and visited the famous orange gardens. We returned to the ship, dined on board, and then in the evening went toiling up again to the Royal Opera House. The scene was very brilliant. An Italian Company was performing, and the artistes were loaded with floral tributes. The next day we were off again, and steamed to Cape Malea—but “that’s another story.”