Gruesome Maltese Chapel of Bones

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 98, 16 July 1927, Page 24

Gruesome Maltese Chapel of Bones

(Written for THE SUN

9 HE most gruesome job in the world, certainly one which would have entitled the workman to membership in the Club of Queer Trades, only that he was a priest and not a tradesman, was undertaken about three or four hundred years ago in Malta, that “beautiful heap of stones” in the Meriterranean, visited the other day by the Duke and Duchess of York on their journey home in the Renown. The Chapel of Bones remains a grisly monument to the zeal of that long-forgotten priest. If you enjoy “creeps” come along and see for yourselves. We cannot enter the Chapel of Bones without a permit, so we walk to the Government office at the rear of Valetta Palace, where the Duke of York held an investiture, and there answer a few questions. The official satisfied, we are given a written document for presentation to the priest in charge of the chapel. Coming at last to an old church and introducing ourselves to a priest whom we find walking in a small enclosure at the side, we show our permit and he at once leads the way to where a few stone steps burrow downward into the earth. Close on each other’s heels we follow. A silence has fallen upon us. There is no idle chatter now, for we feel the solemn influence which, though the door of the chapel has not yet opened, has descended upon us with uncanny weight. There is a harsh grating and creaking as our conductor turns a large key

in the old lock of the seldom-opened door. Peering over his shoulder we gaze forward into blackness. With a backward* smile of understanding at our state of anticipation P ries t disappears for a moment, when he returns he has in his hand a lighted taper. Beckoning to us he leads the way down some more steps, and in the dim light we descend until t , le shhsbine and noisy streets are I out a >together. We feel absoI lately cut off from the busy world I A C f ollow the flickering taper ■ '“'til suddenly it stops. Before us, as ■ W e come up into the group, we dimly

by E. J. L.)

see the outline of a vaulted chamber, with fitful, dancing shadows playing across the walls at the bidding of our spluttering light. In a moment the whole scene leaps to life, or rather to visibility, seeing how long it is since life has fled from the grim relics which surround us. Yet somehow a leaping to life can best describe the sudden change from dimness to light which takes place as the priest touches the taper to a suspended lamp. We gaze around in awed amazement. Look which way we will, an array of bones—human bones—greets our eyes. Ceiling and walls, all are covered with a fantastic design worked in the last visible remains of what were once living, laughing people. They could fight as well as they could laugh, as we learn later from the priest, who tells us the history of this strange resting place. At the far end of the chamber is an altar on which is arrayed a row of skulls and crossed leg bones. Over the altar hangs a swinging oil lamp, the light from which strikes upward and illumines the under side of an arch, which is seen to bear an intricate design in bones of all sizes and shapes. Each edge of the arch is adorned with a row of skulls. With such care have the /walls been decorated that one could almost imagine them hung with lace. We trace the shapes of flowers outlined in skulls, the delicate points and borders marked by finger bones. Here and there a star or circle contributes to the lacey effect. The priest commences to speak and his voice echoes strangely. With remarkable distinctness we hear the story he tells. Right back through history this little island of Malta has suffered persecution at the hands of first one foe and. then another. Always her children have been brave in defending their island. Away back in the year 1565, when Mustapha Pasha was leading his soldiers against the Knights of St. John, who were valiantly withstanding the Turkish siege, an incident occurred which ranks with any of the noble deeds recorded in history.

Finding themselves in an untenable position, and being badly pressed by the Turkish invaders, these gallant knights, feeling their position hopeless, prayed to be removed. Their leader, La Valette, knowing the value of example, reminded them of their oath to die for the "Order,” and that the time had now arrived for them to show their devotion. No further encouragement was necessary. They took the Sacrament and next morning every man fell upon the beach, bravely defending his post to the last. Again, in after years, misfortune fell upon these harassed people in the form of an invasion by the French A certain priest, fearing that the burial grounds might be desecrated, disinterred the bones of the fallen warriors and brought them all to rest in safety in the Chapel of Bones. Never more will they be disturbed. The narrator has finished his story. We turn and leave this hallowed place Once more in the sunshine we take a deep, deep breath. Sunshine seems better than sentiment, yet none of us inclined to speak above a whisper. What the guardian priest is thinking as we leave him, pacing up and down above the gruesome dungeon, we do not know. One thing is certain—none of us wants his job.