Tuesday, May 8th.—­A fine morning, with a cold strong head breeze.  At noon we rejoiced to think that Malta was not more than a few miles ahead, or we should assuredly have failed to reach our port before nightfall.  About three we closed in with the land about Marsa Scirocco and Delamara Point, and, after one or two tacks, rounded the Point of Ricasole, and leaving Port St. Elmo on our right, we swiftly glided into the grand harbour of Valetta.  We have been here so often that it feels quite like reaching home.  We soon found ourselves in our old quarters in the Dockyard Creek, and had scarcely moored before one of the officers came on board with the usual complimentary offers of assistance, whilst directly afterwards came an invitation to a farewell ball at the Palace, given to the Duke of Edinburgh.  Our old boatman, Bubbly Joe, took us ashore to dinner, and we found everything looking as bright and cheerful and steep as it always does and always will do; not the least bit altered or modernised.  The landlord of the Hotel d’Angleterre was delighted to see us again, and so were his servants, who came flocking from all parts of the house, nearly pulling the children to pieces, and plying our own servants with questions in their anxiety to know all about us.

[Illustration:  Faldetta, Malta.]

We had to go back on board the yacht to dress, and then return for the ball, by which time I was so thoroughly tired, and had so bad a headache, that I could not enjoy it much, pleasant as it was.  Very soon after supper we came away and had a charming row across the harbour to our snug quarters on board the ‘Sunbeam.’  These sudden bursts of dissipation on shore are a delightful change after days and weeks at sea.

Wednesday, May 9th.—­I was up soon after sunrise and admired this often-abused creek as much as I always do.  The stone houses, the carved and coloured verandahs of bright flowers, the water lapping the very door-steps, the gaily painted boats with their high prows at either end, the women in their black dresses and faldettas, and black-robed priests, all helped to carry the imagination over the Mediterranean and up the Adriatic to lovely Venice.  At this hour in the morning there were not many English soldiers or sailors to spoil the illusion.

Malta is essentially a border-land—­African by geographical configuration, European politically, and assuredly Asiatic in its language, its buildings, and in the manners and customs of the natives.  We gave everybody on board a holiday, and the chance of a run ashore to-day to stretch their legs after their long sea voyage.  Tom went on board the ‘Sultan’ to see the Duke of Edinburgh and his splendid ship.  Whilst at breakfast I received an intimation that the Duke of Edinburgh wished to come and examine the yacht.  His Royal Highness arrived soon afterwards, quite unattended, in a beautiful ten-oared barge, and paid us a long, visit, inspecting