Thus a late writer, whose pen has charmingly described her life in this lovely island.
At noon we anchored in the finely sheltered harbour, the finest, indeed, in the Mediterranean. The commerce and shipping of Messina are most extensive, and make her quite cosmopolitan. The city undulates with a gentle rise, so as to present to the highest advantage every fine building, the exceeding purity and whiteness of which is thrown up by the dark green forest behind. In speaking of Genoa, I remarked that its situation was unequalled in its imposing grandeur; and here in Messina we have a beauty equally unsurpassed, though of a different kind; perhaps as a bit of our English landscape would compare with the grander Scotch loch scenery—a soft, bewitching, and enticing loveliness. The style of architecture resembles that of Pisa.
We had only a few hours here, as the steamer for Malta was to leave the same evening. There was sufficient time, however, to take a walk through the town, which has fine and well-paved streets. There is but little of antiquity left in Messina, except the old Cathedral, which contains some good mosaics and bas-reliefs; and perhaps a few mementoes of the gallant Knight Crusaders, who sorrowfully made this their temporary home about the year 1523, after surrendering Rhodes to the hated Moslem. The constant earthquakes, as well as the many vicissitudes of war it has passed through, has destroyed all other relics of the past.
The hotel charges and living generally were exceedingly moderate, more so than we had experienced since leaving England. I believe this is the case with all the hotels in Sicily, the soil being so prolific and productive. At 5 p.m. I saw my wife on board the Florio steamer Electrico, which carried the mails, and was due at Malta the next morning about six. It was a nice little paddle vessel, and her captain a very gentlemanly officer; the stewardess, though a Maltese, spoke English, and so I felt my wife would be comfortable and well cared for during the voyage. Unfortunately, however, the wind increased, and by morning there was quite a gale blowing, which made me a little anxious about her safe arrival.
I was pleased that my wife should visit this small but most memorable island, though I was unable to accompany her, as there are so many historic associations attaching to it. During my Naval career from the Crimean War days, I had myself often been to Malta, but to her it would indeed be a new world.
Malta, or Melita, is probably chiefly interesting to English people as their great Mediterranean stronghold and Naval Arsenal; to Christendom, for the glorious deeds of the brave and self-sacrificing Knights of St. John, and as the place where the great apostle to the Gentiles was cast ashore and bitten by the viper, and where he preached so fervently and effectually. These are probably the best-remembered events touching the history of Malta. That it was originally colonized by the Phœnicians, and taken from them by the Greeks some eight hundred years B.C.; then captured by the Carthaginians, and afterwards by the Romans, Vandals and Goths, Saracens and Normans successively; and, finally, was attached to the Government of Sicily—few would care perhaps to go far enough back to remember, content simply to commence with its glorious and imperishable history in connection with the chivalrous Knight Crusaders.
Owing chiefly to the labours of the brave Knights, under their grand old masters, L'Isle Adam and La Valette, and their skill and heroism in defending it from the repeated assaults of the Moslem,—of the Crescent against the Cross, the fortifications are a marvel of almost impregnable strength and engineering ability, and, owing to its wonderful provision of underground granaries, etc., could stand a siege for years. These great mathematical, dazzling granite walls, bristling with big guns, and rising defiantly and almost abruptly out of the blue sea, form a proud sight to Englishmen when approached from seaward. And, then, glancing at its geographical position, almost in the centre of the Mediterranean, in proximity to three Continents, and taking into consideration that other great stronghold (the door to the Mediterranean, of which Englishmen are even more proud), Gibraltar—and our interest in the East, one gets some idea of its great maritime importance to England. The harbours, the great docks (capable of holding the largest ironclads) and stores for the equipment of our fleets, the frowning ramparts rising tier upon tier above and around, amply confirm this impression.
But how different the Malta of to-day, with its marvellously cultivated soil; its teeming, peaceful, and prosperous population, great docks, fine city, and developed industries,—to the days when the valiant Knights of St. John, under their brave old Grand-Master, L'Isle Adam, almost sorrowfully took possession of it, as the permanent home of the Order, when, alas! all seemed nearly lost to them! Yes, it was then indeed but a barren, arid rock. Though wondrously fertile, considering the small quantity of soil, Malta is still little else than a huge fortress and series of sun-smitten rocks; and therefore, beyond the great docks and fortifications, not very interesting except for its history and mementoes of past glory—for there is little or no beautiful country to see, no undulating plains, hills, lakes, or forests, but endless rocks, stone walls, old palaces, guns, soldiers, churches, and priests.
On arriving, however, from the sea, it is a lively scene inside the harbour; the moles and creeks crowded with shipping, all trimly stowed in serried rows. Hundreds of gaily painted Venetian-like boats dart off from the shore, with their picturesquely dressed boatmen curiously facing one another while pulling and pushing the boat along—for, says the legend, one day the man pulling stroke suddenly missed the bowman, and as he was never found, it was gravely supposed the devil had walked off with him (a little before his time, for the Maltese are great rascals, and are exceedingly superstitious), and ever since they have faced each other, for self-protection against another Diabolical surprise! Shoals of these boats dart off from the shore immediately on the arrival of a ship. The "bumboat," laden with delicious fruits and every kind of fresh provender to tempt the Blue jacket and hungry midshipman—in my own days, utterly sick of the "salt-horse" (salt meat) and weevilly biscuit; but now, alas! the sailor is a spoilt child and quite daintily fed, hence the bumboat is not so great a treat to him when coming from "blue water." Then there are legions of washwomen (much to the relief of the officers' marine servants, who in "olden times" had to do all their masters' washing when at sea), declaring, of course, that they have done your washing "ages ago." Hungry tailors and other tradesmen also besiege the ship, swarming on board to make the most out of the new arrivals. And oh, what a Babel-like jargon of tongues alongside—with a hundred church bells ringing and clanging around—and the fierce though harmless quarrelling of the Maltese boatmen! Then, on landing at one of the quays, after having, of course, been cheated in the fare (for the Maltese will never lose an opportunity of robbing you, though, to give the creature his due, he will not let any one else do so if he can prevent it—you are his own sweet pastures, and his solely), we pass through the motley, swarthy crowd of boatmen and fishermen, and, holding our nose to exclude the rancid smell of fish, boiling oil, and powerful odours of garlic, commence the ascent of the dreaded endless series of stone stairs up to the city of Valetta. And, when under a powerful sun such as one can experience at Malta in, say, July, and before we reach the top, how often do Byron's truthful words occur to us:
"Adieu, ye joys of La Valette!
Adieu, scirocco, sun, and sweat!
Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs!
How surely he who mounts you swears!"