On our way southward we pass through the beautiful, though small Indian
city of Jeypore, which is under native rule; those we have heretofore
visited are subject to Great Britain. It is quite ancient, though there
are no ruins here, everything giving evidence of present prosperity,
peace, and abundance. The houses are painted in rather gaudy colors, but
are neat and pretty. Queer little canvas-covered, two-wheeled carts,
their tops shaped like half an egg-shell, are drawn about the town by
bullocks at a lively trot. Some are closely curtained, containing women
of the harem. Oriental seclusion is the rule with the women. Under the
prince who rules here the population exhibits a marked contrast to those
of India generally, over which the authority of England extends. There
are no mud cabins here, no beggars, no visible want or poverty. The
people are decently clothed, and well lodged in neat-looking houses,
mostly two stories in height. The streets are broad and well kept, with
bright, bubbling fountains here and there. Our excursions in this
neighborhood are made upon camels or elephants. Wild animals are
abundant, the tiger especially being much dreaded. Here, as at
Singapore, men, women and children are daily sacrificed to their
rapacious appetites in various parts of the district. It is said to be a
fact, that these animals having once tasted human flesh, will be
satisfied with none other, but will leave the antelope and smaller game
unmolested, though they are known to abound in the vicinity, and lie in
wait for days to capture human prey, even invading the villages at
night. English hunters visit Jeypore in large numbers annually to
capture this dangerous game.
From this native city to Bombay is a distance of seven hundred miles by
railway, most of the route being very sparsely inhabited. The larger
portion of India is an immense plain, so that the road is generally very
monotonous. Nearly seven hundred thousand acres of these plains are
cultivated with poppies. A large share of these opium farms, as they may
be called, belong to the English government, and are cultivated by their
agents. Those which are conducted on private account are very heavily
taxed, and are mostly carried on in the interest of the Parsee merchants
of Bombay, who have for many years controlled the largest share of the
opium trade. We frequently see near these gorgeous poppy-fields ripening
acres of grain, which would be stripped of their valuable property by
the great flocks of birds, noticed at all times, floating like clouds
over our heads, were precautions not taken to drive them away. For this
purpose a tall platform is raised upon poles to a height of twenty feet
in the centre of each grain-field, with a slight straw shelter over it,
upon which a young boy or girl is stationed, and whence they overlook
several acres of grain. They have no firearms, but are supplied with a
simple sling and a few well-chosen stones: should a bird be seen too
near the precious grain, an unerring stone will find him, and his body
becomes a warning to the rest of the flock. The precision with which
these girls and boys will throw a stone a long distance is marvellous.
The monkeys which so abound in Southern India are not to be got rid of
in so easy a manner. Birds will not fly after dark, nor much before
sunrise, but the monkeys raid the fruit and vegetable fields by night,
and are capable of organizing a descent upon some promising point with
all the forethought of human thieves.
The opening of communication with England by the Red Sea route has given
to Bombay a great business impetus, and it possesses to-day more
elements of future greatness than any other city of Asia. The two
principal capitals of the country are situated on opposite sides of the
great peninsula, Calcutta being on the Bay of Bengal, and Bombay on the
Sea of Arabia. We have in the latter a population of a million and over,
one hundred thousand of whom are Parsees, a class of merchants
originally from Persia, who represent a large share of the wealth of the
city. They are by far the most enterprising and intelligent of the
natives of India, and are in entire sympathy with the English
government. Socially, they keep to themselves, strictly preserving their
well-defined individuality. This people settled here more than eight
centuries ago, after their expulsion from Persia. Their temples contain
no images, nothing but the altars bearing the sacred fire which their
fathers brought with them when they landed here so long ago, and which
has never been extinguished, according to their traditions. They worship
the sun as the representative of God, and fire in all its forms, as well
as the ocean, which would seem to be an antagonistic agent; but as their
religion recognizes one good and one evil principle ever contending for
the mastery of the universe, perhaps these emblems are no contradiction.
One of the first places to which we are attracted in Bombay is Malabar
Hill, a lofty eminence just outside the city. On the top are the five
famous "Towers of Silence," which constitute the cemetery of the
Parsees. When a death occurs among them, the body is brought here, and
after a brief ceremony the corpse is carried into one of the towers,
where it is exposed upon a grating. The bearers retire at once, and the
door is locked. These towers are open at the top, and on the cornices
hundreds of vultures are seen waiting; as soon as the body is left, they
swoop down to their awful meal, eagerly tearing and devouring the
corpse. The hideous detail is not visible, but the reappearance of those
evil birds in a gorged condition is only too significant of what has
occurred. The devouring flames which consumed the bodies at Calcutta and
at Benares did not shock us like this.
Bombay is made up of fine public buildings, sumptuous dwellings, and low
hovels, not mingled indiscriminately, as is often seen in European
cities, each class being found clustering in its special locality. In
Florence, Rome, or Naples, a half-starved cobbler will be found
occupying a stall beneath a palace; but though poverty and riches jostle
each other everywhere, the lines of demarcation are more clearly defined
in Bombay than elsewhere. A drive along the picturesque shore of the
Arabian Sea is an experience never to be forgotten. It will be sure to
recall to the traveller the beautiful environs of Genoa, with those
winding, rock-cut roads overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Here the
roads are admirably cool and half-embowered in foliage, among which the
crimson sagittaria flaunting its fiery leaves and ponderous blossoms,
everywhere meets the eye. About the fine villas which are set back a
short distance from the roads, delightful gardens of choice flowers are
seen, comprising an abundance of tropical plants, tall palms lining the
drive-ways up to the houses, where the merchant princes dwell. Most of
these are the residences of the Parsees, who in spite of their bigotry
and their adherence to ancient superstitions, know how to make their
homes beautiful.
In leaving India, a few thoughts naturally suggest themselves. Its
history runs back through thousands of years and remotest dynasties,
captivating the fancy with numberless ruins, which, while attesting the
splendor of their prime, form also the only record of their history. The
mosaic character of its population, the peculiarities of its animal
kingdom, the luxuriance of its vegetation, the dazzling beauty of its
birds and flowers, all crowd upon the memory in charming kaleidoscopic
combinations. There can be no doubt of the early grandeur and high
civilization of India. To the intellectual eminence of her people we owe
the germs of science, philosophy, law, and astronomy. The most perfect
of all tongues, the Sanskrit, has been the parent of many others, and
now that her lustre has faded, and her children fallen into a condition
of sloth and superstition, let us, at least, do her historic justice.
Nor should we neglect to heed the lesson she so clearly presents;
namely, that nations, like individuals, are subject to the unvarying
laws of mutability.
The government of India is a military despotism, England maintaining her
rule by force alone over a foreign people numbering four times as many
as the whole population of the United States. Order is preserved at a
cruel cost of life among an entire race who are totally unrepresented.
In travelling from city to city one is not surprised to see many signs
of restlessness among the common people, and to hear harsh expressions
against British rule. While we recall with a thrill of horror the awful
cruelties and the slaughter of human beings during the rebellion of the
native race against the English authority in 1857, we do not wonder that
a people, so goaded by oppression, should have made a vigorous and
bloody struggle to obtain their independence.
We embark at Bombay on a voyage of three thousand miles across the Sea
of Arabia and the Indian Ocean, through the Straits of Babelmandeb and
the entire length of the Red Sea. The most southerly point of the
voyage, taking us within fourteen degrees of the equator, carries us
into an extremely warm temperature. The ship holds on her southwest
course day after day, lightly fanned by the northeast monsoon, towards
the mouth of the Red Sea. At the end of the sixth day we cast anchor at
the Peninsula of Aden, a rocky, isolated spot held by English troops,
and very properly called the Gibraltar of the Indian Ocean. Like that
famous promontory, it was originally little more than a barren rock,
which has been improved into a picturesque and habitable place,
bristling with British cannon of heavy calibre. It is a spot much
dreaded by sailors, the straits being half closed by sunken rocks,
besides which the shore is considered to be the most unhealthy spot yet
selected by civilized man as a residence. The Arabs call the strait
Babelmandeb, that is, the "Gate of Tears," because of the number of
vessels which have been wrecked here in the endeavor to enter from the
open sea. Aden lies within the rainless zone, so that sometimes the
inhabitants see no rainfall for three years together. The remains of an
ancient and magnificent system of reservoirs hewn out of the solid rock,
are seen here, the construction of which is placed at a date previous
to the Christian era, and which have been adapted to modern use.
As we lie at anchor here, there come about the ship a score of young
natives, from ten to fifteen years of age. By eloquent gestures, and the
use of a few English words, they beg of us to throw small silver coin
into the sea, for which they will dive in water that is at least seven
fathoms deep. The instant a piece of money is thrown overboard, every
canoe becomes emptied, and twenty human beings disappear from sight like
a flash. Down, down go the divers, and in the depths struggle together
for the trifle, some one of the throng being sure to rise to the surface
with the coin displayed between his teeth. Nothing but otters and seals
could be keener sighted or more expert in the water.
The general aspect of Aden from the sea, though picturesque, is not
inviting, giving one an idea of great barrenness. The mountains and
rocks have a peaked appearance, like a spear pointed at one, as much as
to say, "better keep off." People who land, however, for the first time,
are agreeably disappointed by finding that every opportunity for
encouraging the growth of vegetation and imparting its cheerful effect
to the hard rocky soil has been carefully improved.
Our course after leaving Aden is nearly north; the headlands of
Abyssinia are long visible on our port side, while on the other we have
a distant view of Arabia. Jeddah, the seaport of Mecca, with its bright
minarets, is to be seen in the distance. In coasting along the shores of
Nubia, the dense air from off the land is like a sirocco, suffocatingly
hot. Suez is reached at last, a place which is all waste and barrenness,
so we hasten on by railway to Cairo, a distance of two hundred miles.
Long after leaving Suez we see only a sandy desert, the yellow soil
quivering in the heated atmosphere. It is a picture of desolation. Not a
blade of grass, not a shrub or tree, until by and by we come upon gently
undulating and fertile soil, enriched by the annual deposits from the
Nile, where intelligent cultivation produces its natural results. Small
herds of brown buffaloes or Eastern oxen are seen, and peasants plying
the irrigating-buckets. The pastures become alive with sheep and goats
and dromedaries. While we are approaching Cairo, and are yet two or
three leagues away, the dim outlines of the everlasting pyramids are
seen through the shimmering haze, softly outlined against the evening
sky. It is impossible not to recall the words of the Humpback, in the
Thousand and One Nights, as we see the pyramids and glistening minarets
of the Oriental city coming into view; "He who hath not seen Cairo hath
not seen the world; its soil is golden; its Nile is a wonder; its women
are like the black-eyed virgins of Paradise; its houses are palaces; and
its air is soft,--its odor surpassing that of aloes-wood and cheering
the heart,--and how can Cairo be otherwise, when it is the Mother of the
world?"
[Illustration: A WELL IN THE DESERT BETWEEN SUEZ AND CAIRO.]
This ideal city of the Arabian Nights is very Oriental, very original,
very curious. Its four hundred thousand souls form a strange
conglomerate of humanity. In its narrow, picturesque streets one is
jostled by gayly dressed Greeks and cunning Jews, by overladen donkeys
and by sober, mournful-looking camels. One half expects to meet Ali Baba
and the Forty Thieves, as we still look for Antonio and the Jew on the
Rialto at Venice. Like Paris, Cairo is a city of cafés. During the
evening and far into the night crowds of individuals of every
nationality are seen seated in groups before them in the open air,
drinking every sort of known liquid, but coffee takes precedence of all
others. In picturesqueness of costume the Turk leads the world. His
graceful turban and flowing robes are worthy of the classic antique,
while the rich contrast of colors which he wears adds to the striking
effect. As he sits cross-legged before his open bazaar, or shop, smoking
a long pipe, he looks very wise, very learned, though in point of fact
there is no doubt more intelligence under the straw hat of a Yankee
peddler than under three average turbans. The dark, narrow lanes and
endless zigzag alleys have an indescribable interest, with their
accumulated dirt of neglect and the dust of a land where rain is so
seldom known. One looks up in passing at those overhanging balconies,
imagining the fate of the harem-secluded women behind them, occasionally
catching stolen glances from curious eyes peering between the lattices.
Egyptian porters, bent half double, are seen carrying on their backs
loads that would stagger a brewer's horse. Women, who ride their horses
and mules astride, are very careful to cover their faces from view,
while their eyes gleam out of peep-holes. Other women, of a humbler
class, jostle us in the streets, with little naked children straddling
one shoulder, and holding on to the mother's head with both hands.
People who ride upon donkeys require a boy to follow behind them with a
stick to belabor the poor overladen creatures, without which they will
not move forward, being so trained. Those who drive through the streets
in carriages are preceded by a gorgeously draped runner bearing a white
wand, and who constantly cries to clear the way. These runners go as
fast as a horse usually trots, and seem never to tire. The common people
lie down on the sidewalk, beside the road, in any nook or corner, to
sleep off fatigue, just as a dog might do. Every public square has its
fountain, and there are two hundred in Cairo.
The bazaars present a novel aspect. Here an old bearded Turk offers for
sale odors, curious pastes and essences, with kohl for shading about the
eyes, and henna dye for the fingers. Another has various ornaments of
sandal wood, delicately wrought fans, and other trifles. His next-door
neighbor, whose quarters are only a degree more dingy, offers pipes,
curiously made, with carved amber mouthpieces, and others with long,
flexible, silken tubes. Turbaned crowds stroll leisurely about. Now a
strong and wiry Bedouin passes, leading his horse and taking count of
everything with his sharp, black eyes, and now a Nile boatman. Yonder is
an Abyssinian slave, and beyond is an Egyptian trader, with here and
there a Greek or a Maltese. Amid it all one feels curious as to where
Aladdin's uncle may be just now, with his new lamps to exchange for old
ones. We will ascend the loftiest point of this Arabian city to obtain a
more comprehensive view.
The mosque of Mehemet Ali, with its tapering minarets, overlooks Cairo,
and is itself a very remarkable and beautiful edifice. This spacious
building is lined throughout with Oriental alabaster, the exterior being
covered with the same costly material. It contains the sarcophagus of
Mehemet Ali, the most enlightened of modern rulers, before which lamps
are burning perpetually. The interior of this mosque is the most
effective, architecturally, of any temple in the East. There is a height
and breadth, and a solemn dignity in its aspect, which cannot fail to
impress every visitor. The exterior is much less striking, yet it is
admirably balanced and harmonized. The situation of the mosque commands
one of the most interesting views that can be conceived of. The city,
with its countless minarets and domed mosques, its public buildings, and
tree-adorned squares, its section of mud-colored houses and terraced
roofs, lies in the form of a crescent at the visitor's feet; while the
plains of Lower Egypt stretch far away in all directions. The tombs of
the Mamelukes (a body of mounted soldiery of Egypt massacred by Mehemet
Ali) lie close at hand, full of historic suggestiveness, and just beyond
stands the lonely column of Heliopolis, four thousand years old, marking
the site of the famous "City of the Sun." Towards the sea is the land of
Goshen, where the sons of Jacob fed their flocks. A little more
westerly, in the mysterious Nile, is seen the well-wooded island of
Roda, quietly nestling in the broad bosom of the river. Here is the
place where the infant Moses was found. The grand Aqueduct, with its
high-reaching arches, reminds us of the ruins outside of Rome; while ten
miles away are seen the time-defying Pyramids, the horizon ending at the
borders of the great Libyan Desert. Far away to the southwest a forest
of palms dimly marks the site of dead and buried Memphis, where Joseph
interpreted a monarch's dream. It is the twilight hour as we stand in
the open area of the mosque, and view the scene. The half-suppressed hum
of a dense Eastern population comes up to us from the busy, low-lying
city, and a strange, sensuous flavor of sandal wood, musk, and attar of
roses floats on the golden haze of the sunset, indelibly fixing the
scene upon the memory.
[Illustration: A LADY OF CAIRO AS SEEN IN PUBLIC.]
The Pyramids of Gizeh are situated about three leagues from Cairo, and,
after crossing the Nile by an iron bridge, guarded at either end by two
bronze lions, they are reached by a straight, level road, lined with
well-trimmed trees. This road terminates at a rocky plateau, which
serves to give these wonderful structures an elevated site, as well as
to form a firm, natural foundation for the enormous weight of solid
stone to be supported. There is always an importuning group of Arabs
here, who live upon the gratuities obtained from visitors. They help
people to ascend and descend the Pyramids for a fixed sum, or, for a few
shillings, will run up and down them like monkeys. On the way between
Cairo and the Pyramids, through the long alley of acacias, we pass
hundreds of camels bound to the city, laden with green fodder and newly
cut clover for stable use in town. Carts are not employed; the backs of
camels and donkeys supersede the use of wheels.
Nothing new can be said about the Pyramids,--monuments hoary with age;
the statistics relating to them are familiar. They simply show, standing
there upon the border of the desert, a vast aggregate of labor performed
by compulsion, and only exhibit the supreme folly of the monarchs, who
thus vainly strove to erect monuments which should defy all time and
perpetuate their fame. To-day not even the names of their founders are
surely known. There are plausible suppositions enough about them, each
writer upon the subject having plenty of arguments to support his
special convictions; but their history rests, after all is said, amid a
confusion of very thin speculation. There is little genius evinced in
the design or execution of the Pyramids. Neither art, taste, nor
religion is in any way subserved by these unequalled follies. There is
no architectural excellence in them, though great skill is evinced in
their construction, they are merely enormous piles of stone. Some
pronounce them marvellous as evidences of ancient greatness and power.
True; but if it were desirable, we could build loftier and larger ones
in our day. As they are doubtless over four thousand years old, we admit
that they are venerable, and that they are entitled to a certain degree
of consideration on that account. In the religious instinct which led
the Buddhists to build, at such enormous expense of time and money, the
cave-temples of Elephanta, Ellora, and Carlee; in the idolatrous Hindoo
temples of Madura and Tanjore, the shrines of Ceylon, the pagodas of
China, and the temples of Japan, one detects an underlying and elevating
sentiment, a grand and reverential idea, in which there may be more of
acceptable veneration than we can fully appreciate; but in the Pyramids
we have no expression of devotion, only an embodiment of personal
vanity, which hesitated at nothing for its gratification, and which
proved a total failure.
The immensity of the desert landscape, and the absence of any object for
comparison, make these three pyramids seem smaller than they really are;
but the actual height of the largest, that of Cheops, is nearly five
hundred feet. The theory that they are royal tombs is generally
accepted. Bunsen claims for Egypt nearly seven thousand years of
civilization and prosperity before the building of these monuments. We
do not often pause to realize how little of reliable history there is
extant. Conjecture is not history. If contemporary record so often
belies itself, what ought we to consider veracious of that which comes
to us through the shadowy distance of thousands of years? Not many
hundred feet from the nearest pyramid, and on a somewhat lower plane,
stands that colossal mystery, the Sphinx. The Arabs call it "The Father
of Terror," and it certainly has a weird and unworldly look. Its body
and most of the head is hewn out of the solid rock where it stands, the
upper portion forming the head and bust of a human being, to which is
added the body with the paws of an animal. The great size of the figure
will be realized when we mention the fact that the face alone is thirty
feet long and half as wide. The body is in a sitting posture, with the
paws extended forward some fifty feet or more. This strange figure is
believed to be of much greater antiquity than the Pyramids, but no one
can say how old it really is. Notwithstanding its mutilated condition,
showing the furrows of time, the features have still a sad, tranquil
expression, telling of the original dignity of the design.
From Cairo we take the railway to Ismailia, the little town situated
midway on the Suez Canal, between the two seas, at the Bitter Lakes,
through which the course of the canal runs. It is a pretty and
attractive place, containing four or five thousand inhabitants, and is a
creation of the last few years. Here we observe gardens filled with
choice flowers and fruit-trees, vegetation being in its most verdant
dress, promoted by irrigation from the neighboring fresh-water canal.
The place has broad, neat streets, and a capacious central square,
ornamented with large and thrifty trees. It was here that the
representatives of all nations met on the occasion of the inaugurating
ceremony on the completion of De Lesseps's canal. We take a small mail
steamer at Ismailia, through the western half of the canal to Port Said,
the Mediterranean terminus of the great artificial river. It is a fact
worthy of remembrance that, with all our modern improvements and
progressive ideas, the Egyptians were centuries before us in this plan
of shortening the path of commerce between the East and the West; or,
in other words, of connecting the Red Sea with that of the Mediterranean
across the Isthmus and through the Gulf of Suez. The purpose was
probably never thoroughly carried out until De Lesseps's consummation of
it as it now exists.
Port Said, like Suez, derives its only interest and importance from the
canal. It contains some seven thousand inhabitants, with a floating
population of two thousand. The region round about it is perfectly
barren, like Egypt nearly everywhere away from the valley of the Nile.
Through that part of the desert which we pass in coming from Suez, one
looks in vain for any continuous sign of vegetation. The entire absence
of trees and forests accounts for the lack also of wild beasts,
excepting the hyena and jackal, which are occasionally met with. Here
and there, at long intervals, an oasis of green is seen, like a smile
breaking over the arid face of nature. Once or twice we see a cluster of
palms beside a rude well, hedged in by a little patch of green earth,
about which a few camels or goats are quenching their thirst or cropping
the scanty herbage. Some Arabs, in picturesque costumes, linger hard by.
The tents pitched in the background are of the same low, flat-topped,
camel's-hair construction as have been used by these desert tribes for
many thousands of years.
Egypt has only her ruins, her antiquity, her Bible associations to give
her interest with the world at large. Japan is infinitely to be
preferred; China even rivals her in natural advantages; and India is
much more inviting. In looking at Egypt we must forget her present and
recall her past. The real Egypt is not the vast territory which we find
laid down by geographers, reaching to the Indian Ocean, the Red Sea, and
embracing equatorial regions; it is and was, even in the days of the
Pharaohs and Ptolemies, the valley of the Nile, from the First Cataract
to the Mediterranean Sea, hemmed in by the Libyan and Arabian deserts,
whence there came to the rest of the world so much of art, science, and
philosophy. The fellah or peasant, he who tills the soil, is of a fine
and industrious race, well built, broad chested, and lithe of frame. He
is the same figure that his ancestors were of old, as represented on the
tombs and temples of Thebes, and on the slabs one sees from Gizeh, in
the museum of Cairo. He still performs his work in the nineteenth
century just as he did before the days of Moses, scattering the seed and
irrigating by hand. He is little seen in the cities,--his place is in
the field, where he lives and thrives. Though his native land has found
such various masters in Greek and Roman, Arab and Turk, he has never
lost his individuality; he has ever been, and is to-day, the same
historic Egyptian.
The next point to which our course will take us is the Island of Malta,
which involves a sail of a thousand miles from Port Said. The city of
Valetta is the capital, having a population of a hundred and fifty
thousand. The island is an English outpost, similar to Gibraltar, and,
in a military point of view, is about as important. It is twenty miles
long and sixteen wide, and has held a conspicuous place in historical
records for nearly three thousand years. The houses of the city are
mostly large stone structures, and many have notable architectural
merit, fronting thoroughfares of good width, well paved, and lighted
with gas. An aspect of cleanliness and freshness pervades everything.
Many of the streets run up the steep hillside on which the town stands,
and are flanked by broad stone steps for foot-passengers, the roadway of
such streets being quite inaccessible for vehicles. The principal
thoroughfare is the Strada Reale, nearly a mile long, lined with
attractive stores and dwelling-houses, forming a busy and pleasant
boulevard. The houses over the stores are ornamented by convenient iron
balconies, where the citizens can sit and enjoy the cool evening breezes
after the hot days that linger about Malta nearly all the year round.
At the upper end of the Strada Reale we observe a large and imposing
stone opera-house, presenting a fine architectural aspect, being
ornamented with lofty Corinthian columns, a side portico and broad stone
steps leading up to the vestibule. A visit to the Church of St. John
will afford much enjoyment. It was built a little over three hundred
years since by the Knights of the Order of St. John, who lavished
fabulous sums of money upon its erection and its elaborate
ornamentation. Statuary and paintings of rare merit abound within its
walls, and gold and silver ornaments render the work of great aggregate
value. The entire roof of the church, which is divided into zones, is
admirably painted in figures of such proportions as to look life-size
from the floor, representing prominent Scriptural scenes. In this church
the Knights seem to have vied with each other in adding to its ornaments
and its treasures, so that the rich marbles, bas-reliefs, and mosaics
are almost confusing in their abundance. The floor is formed of inlaid
marble slabs, which cover the last resting-places of the most
distinguished Knights of the famous Order of St. John.
Snow is not known in Malta, but ice sometimes forms during the coldest
nights of winter, though only in very thin layers, the climate being
much like that of Southern Italy. Fruit and ornamental trees abound, and
flowers attract the eye in nearly every domestic window. There must be a
prevailing refinement of taste in this island city, otherwise the
abundance of flowers offered for sale in the Strada Reale would not find
purchasers. There is a section near the harbor named Casal Attand; that
is, the "Village of Roses." _Casal_ in Maltese signifies village. There
is also Casal Luca, the "Village of Poplars," and still another, Casal
Zebbug, the "Village of Olives," a natural and appropriate system of
nomenclature. It is extremely interesting to visit the armory of the
Knights of St. John, to see the rusty lances, dimmed sword-blades, and
tattered battle-flags which were borne by the Crusaders in the days of
Saladin and Coeur de Lion. A visit to Fort St. Angelo, perched upon
the summit of the island, enables us to look far away over the blue
Mediterranean, dotted by the picturesque maritime rig of these waters.
It is pleasant to stroll about the bright, cleanly streets of Valetta,
to chat with the smiling flower-girls who occupy the little kiosks
(flower-stands) on the corners of the Strada Reale, and to enjoy a
cooling ice in the gardens of the café adjoining the Knights' Palace.
But we must not linger here, whence we sail for Gibraltar, a thousand
miles away, at the other end of this great inland sea.
Arrived at the famous Rock, we are at once impressed upon landing with
its military importance. Every other person one meets is in uniform, and
cannon are as plenty as at Woolwich or West Point. The Signal Station is
fifteen hundred feet in height. The zigzag path leading to the summit is
lined with wild-flowers, though we come now and again upon embrasures,
whence protrude grim-muzzled guns. Further up we stoop to gather some
daphnes and disclose a battery screened by fragrant and blooming
flowers. From the top the view is magnificent; the white wings of
commerce which sprinkle the sea look like sea-gulls, and steamships are
only discernible by the long line of smoke trailing behind them. Far
below us, on the Spanish side, lies the town, a thick mass of yellow,
white, and brown houses; and nestling in the bay is the shipping,
looking like toy-boats. The mountain ranges of Ceuta and Andalusia, on
opposite continents, mingle with soft, over-shadowing clouds, while over
our heads is a glorious dome of turquoise blue, such as no temple raised
by the hand of man can imitate.
We find that England has thus established and maintains a line of
outposts from the Mediterranean to the far East, beginning at Gibraltar,
thence to Malta, Aden, Ceylon, Penang, Singapore, and Hong Kong,
completely dominating the South of Asia, and giving her a clear route to
her extensive possessions in India.