CHAPTER IV.
Landing at Malta.—Description of the city and inhabitants.—Excursion into the interior.—Visit to the catacombs.—Wonderful subterranean abodes.—St. Paul’s Bay.
When we were through with the quarantine, we hauled round into the great harbor of Malta. The city, which is called Valetta, made a most stately appearance as we passed the castle of St. Elmo. It lies close to the sea, and the whole mass of buildings bursts upon you at once, with its long rows of castellated walls, bristling with cannon, tier upon tier, towering battlements, turrets and bastions and pinnacles in the most picturesque profusion—a grand and magnificent spectacle. The harbor was full of ships—men-of-war, merchantmen, and all sorts of small Mediterranean craft, rigged in the strangest style imaginable.
Whole fleets of row-boats came crowding round us, filled with people. Some of them had bands of music, playing “Yankee Doodle,” “Washington’s March,” and “Hail Columbia,” for which they expected we should give them a quarter of a dollar or so. Others brought fruit, fresh provisions, sea-shells and curiosities, for sale. Most of them spoke a little English, and, in their eagerness to sell their commodities, would make the most ludicrous speeches imaginable. One comical fellow had a pig for sale, which he praised very highly: “Buy pig, captain?—nice pig, sweet pig, ’merican pig: won’t heave nothing overboard, eat brick-dust, eat anything.” It was difficult to get rid of the importunities of these people. They would offer a thing for a dollar, and then gradually come down to nine-pence.
When we landed on the quay, we found a still greater crowd besetting us, offering to carry our trunks, amidst immense confusion and jabbering. Donkeys and mules were trotting about, but we saw no horses. We passed through a great gate in a wall, and went up into the city, by climbing flights of stone steps. The donkeys go up and down with heavy loads on their backs, and never stumble. All the streets were narrow, with high stone houses on each side, and full of people. The main street occupies the summit of the rock on which the city is built, and all the cross streets run up and down the hill, and are paved stair-fashion. The city is one of the handsomest in the world, and looks like an assemblage of palaces. The streets are straight, and all the houses are built of a light yellow stone. Nothing can be more picturesque than their architecture. The fronts are studded with bold masses of carved stonework, balconies, cornices, pilasters, projections, and sculptured ornaments of various descriptions. The prospect through one of the streets is a perfect picture. I could not help contrasting it with our American cities, with their quadrangular monotony of architecture!
After we had secured our baggage at the hotel, I walked out to take a view of the city. The population seemed to be all in the streets, and to live out of doors. The crowd was immense in every public place, and everything visible was full of character and variety. I do not believe there is a spot in the world that exhibits a more striking and motley spectacle than the streets of Malta. This island is the central point of the whole Mediterranean commerce, which brings it a constant succession of visitors from all the countries around. The crowd looks like a fancy ball, where the people dress so as to differ from each other. Here is the fantastical Greek in his picturesque drapery of red and white; the turbaned Turk with his bushy and flowing beard; the swarthy Arab in his coarse haick or cloak; the grave Austrian, the scowling Moor, the squab Dutchman, the capering Sicilian, the hawk-eyed and tawny Calabrian, the native Maltese; the Spaniard, the Frenchman, the John Bull, and the Yankee, all in strange mixture, and with their various manners and languages. The whole group is perfectly dramatic. Little boys, about as high as my knee, were running about, dressed in black small-clothes and those great cocked-hats which we call “three-cornered scrapers.” The women of the island looked like nuns in black silk hoods; they cover most of the face, and peep out with one eye. This habit makes almost all the women squint-eyed.
After I had gone over the greater part of the city and visited its elegant churches, of which it contains a large number, I set forth for a walk into the country. I went out at a massive gateway and across a draw-bridge, which offer the only passage-way into the interior of the island. I was struck with astonishment at the strength and extent of the fortifications. It seemed impossible that any force, either of human arms or cannon-balls, could ever break through the walls. The French took the place in 1800, and when Bonaparte entered at this gate, he said it was lucky there was somebody inside to open it, or they could never have got in. Immense walls and bastions, one above another, towered over my head. I looked down into one of the ditches; it appeared to be a hundred feet deep, and there were flower-gardens and orchards at the bottom. After travelling a few minutes, I saw before me a long row of arches, fifteen or twenty feet high, which I found to be an aqueduct: the road passed under it. Here I had the first glimpse of the country, and I was struck with the odd appearance of everything. There were no fields nor pastures, such as we have in our country, but the whole land lay in terraces, faced with thick stone walls, making little square inclosures, where crops of wheat and other vegetables were growing. The whole face of the island presented a succession of stripes of light yellow rock and fresh green vegetation. Here and there were low hills dotted with dark green locust trees, and a great many country houses and villas were scattered round. All along under these walls grew wild fig-trees and immense clumps of prickly pear, and thousands of lizards were darting up and down with the liveliest movements. Peasants were passing along the road driving donkeys loaded with bundles of grass, and now and then I met a chaise drawn by a mule, thumping over the stony road. I was surprised that any person could be found willing to risk his bones by such a jolting.
One would suppose, by the looks of the country here, that the inhabitants had covered it with stone walls to keep the grass from blowing away. Indeed, the soil is so thin, and the surface so irregular, that but for these walls, half the island would be washed bare by the rains. It is a solid rock, with only a foot or two of soil. Having gone several miles, I reached Citta Vecchia, or the old city, the ancient capital of Malta. It stands in the centre of the island, and looks very antique, being a confused assemblage of fantastical structures, gray with age. It is probably three thousand years old or more. I went into a little shop kept by an old woman, and amused myself with staring at the odd appearance of everything. A man sat at work cutting a pair of sandals out of a raw hide; a little boy, with a desperately dirty face, was munching a handful of green stuff in a corner; and a queer-looking blue cat, with half a tail, rolled her green eyes up at me: she had doubtless never seen a Yankee before. The old woman sold bread, greens, oranges, wine, &c. I drank a tumbler of wine, for which I paid a half-penny; it was a dark red wine like claret, and about the strength of common cider. Some wine is made in the island, but most of what is used comes from Sicily.
I went to the top of the great church, which has a very lofty dome, where I had a prospect of the whole island. The view is picturesque and striking in the highest degree. The island looks like an immense chess-board, the surface being chequered out into squares of green verdure and stone wall. Villages without number were scattered about in every direction, each with the tall dome of a church rising above its cluster of houses. Many of these churches I visited in my walk, and was astonished to find every one of them richly adorned in the interior with gold, silver, and precious stones. The private houses in these villages are very far from exhibiting the same wealth.
I had a guide with me, who showed me over the cathedral of Citta Vecchia, and then asked if I wanted to see the catacombs. I had never before heard of them, but replied in the affirmative; whereupon he led the way through a narrow street, till he came to a door, at which he thumped lustily. It was opened by a little tawny-faced fellow in a monk’s dress. He bustled about and got a bunch of keys, and some torches and candles. We each took a torch and candle, and followed him through a series of long narrow lanes, till we came to a great gate in a wall. Here we struck fire, lighted our torches and candles, and entered the passage. It looked dark and dismal, and we continued going down long flights of steps till we came to a sort of landing-place at a great distance below the surface. I know not how to describe the scene that I witnessed here. For miles around, there was a labyrinthian extent of dark passages cut in the rock, winding and zigzagging in all directions; sometimes expanding into the breadth and loftiness of spacious halls, and sometimes contracting into a strait so narrow as hardly to admit a single person.