cations, 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 s