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: