with the blinds down, we have communed with ourselves, with as great
freedom, and as little fear of interruption, as if we had been crossing
the Zahara. The caleche men too are a peculiar and happy race--attentive
to their fares--masters of their profession--and with a cigar in their
cheek dexter, will troll you Maltese ditties till your head aches. Their
costume is striking. Their long red caps are thrown back over their
necks--their black curls hang down on each side of the face--and a
crimson, many-folded sash, girds in a waist usually extremely small.
Their neck, face, and breast, from continued exposure to the sun, are a
red copper colour. They are always without shoes and stockings; and even
our countrywomen, who pay much attention to the costume of their
drivers, have not yet ventured to encase their brawny feet in the
mysteries of leather. They run by the side of their caleches, the reins
in one hand--the whip in the other--cheering on their animals by a
constant succession of epithets, oaths, and invocations to their
favourite saint.

They are rarely fatigued, and may be seen beside their vehicles, urging
the horses, with the thermometer at 110 deg., and perhaps a stout-looking
Englishman inside, with white kerchief to his face, the image of languor
and lassitude.

Their horses gallop down steeps, which no English Jehu dare attempt; and
ascend and descend with safety and hardihood, stone steps which occur in
many parts of Valletta; and which would certainly present an
insurmountable obstacle to our steeds at home.

The proper period, however, to see a caleche man in his glory, is during
the carnival. Every caleche is in employ; and many a one which has
reposed for the twelvemonth previous, is at that time wheeled from its