We are recalling balls enjoyed in thee, loved island! the valse spun round with the darling fleet-footed Maltese, who during its pauses leant back on our arm, against which her spangled zone throbbed, from the pulsations of her heart. Dreams of turtle and of grand master--the _fish_, not the _official_--and of consecutive iced champagne, mock our sight! But more--yes! far more than all, are we reminded of thy abode--thou dispenser of cheering liquids! thou promoter of convivial happiness! meek Saverio! How swiftly glided the mirth-loving nights as--the enchanting strains of the prima donna hushed--we adjourned to thy ever to be praised bottegua! With what precision didst thou there mete out the many varied ingredients--the exact relative proportions--which can alone embody our conception of the nectar of the Gods, punch à la Romaine! Whose cigars ever equalled thine, thou prince of Ganymedes? and when were cigars more justly appreciated, than as our puffs kept time with the trolling ditty, resounding through the walls of thy domain? The luxury of those days! Then would Sol come peeping in upon us; as unwelcome and unlooked-for a visitant, as to the enamoured Juliet, when she sighing told her lover that "'Twas but a meteor that the sun exhaled, To be to him that night a torch-bearer, And light him on his way to Mantua." Then, with head dizzy from its gladness, with heart unduly elate, has the Strada Teatro seen us, imperiously calling for the submissive calèche. Arrived in our chamber, how gravely did we close its shutters! With what a feeling of satisfied enjoyment, did we court the downy freshness of the snow-white sheet! Sweet and deep were our slumbers--for youth's spell was upon us, and our fifth lustre had not _yet_ heralded us to serious thoughts and anxious cares. Awoke by the officious valet, and remorseless friend, deemest though our debauch was felt? No! an effervescent draught of soda calmed us; we ate a blood orange, and smoked a cigar! We often hear Malta abused. Byron is the stale authority; and every snub-nosed cynic turns up his prominent organ, and talks of "sirocco, sun, and sweat." Byron disliked it--he had cause. He was there at a bad season, and was suffering from an attack of bile. _We_ know of no place abroad, where the English eye will meet with so little to offend it, and so much to please and impress.