The edifices on the Strada Reale are generally three stories high, many of them large and luxuriously planned. They are mostly occupied as dwelling-houses above the first floor, the latter being usually devoted to some sort of shop. When they are not improved for this purpose, the lower windows are guarded with large, protruding iron bars, such as are commonly seen in the cities of Italy,—more suggestive than ornamental. It is probably custom rather than necessity which prompts to this fashion. There is a certain incongruity in passing through a populous thoroughfare where the lower windows are thus barricaded, while bright children and happy family groups are visible behind the frowning bars. There is no absolute danger of mistaking these residences for prisons or insane asylums.
The taste displayed in the architecture upon the Strada Reale makes it both quaint and beautiful; though it is very irregular in expression and after no fixed order, still it is not without a certain fascination and harmony of general effect. The façades exhibit here and there curious armorial bearings, emblems of their former knightly occupants, but atmospheric influences are gradually obliterating these interesting mementoes. Many were purposely effaced by the French during their brief mastership, who waged a bitter warfare against all titles or insignia representative of other than military rank. Judging by this immediate neighborhood alone, one would surmise that the town was especially cleanly and quite devoid of low or miserable quarters; but that there are vile, unwholesome dens here, where decency is entirely lost sight of, in certain lanes, narrow streets, and out-of-the-way places, no one can deny. So it is in all large capitals. Are New York, Boston, and Chicago entirely exempt from such conditions? We do not agree, however, with those who have given Malta a specially bad name in this respect. There is a section of the town leading from the Strada Forni, known as the Manderaggio, which signifies "a place for cattle," where the poor and needy of the lowest class herd together like animals. Why some deadly disease does not break forth and sweep away the people is a mystery. Yet even this questionable neighborhood is no worse in its debasement than the Five Points of New York used to be within the writer's memory. There can be no reasonable doubt that the average condition of the place, as regards morality, is of a far more desirable character than it was during the sovereignty of the famous—we had almost written infamous—Knights, whose priestly harems were simply notorious, and whose dissolute lives were unrestrained by law or self-respect. One thing we can confidently assert: there is nothing here so vile and so grossly immoral as Chinatown in San Francisco, and nothing worse than may be seen any day in St. Giles's, London, or the Latin Quarter of Paris.
How closely the lines of civilization and of barbarism intersect each other in all populous centres!
Valletta is well policed; rowdiness does not obtrude itself upon the stranger. Even the annoying importunities of the beggars in some parts of the town are not carried beyond the bounds of respectful, though earnest solicitation.
Along the course of the Strada Reale,—the Broadway of the capital,—which the French called, after the style of that period, Rue des Droits de l'Homme, at the corners where the cross-streets intersect it, graceful little kiosks are erected, painted in fanciful colors, whose occupants, like those seen upon the Parisian boulevards and the busy thoroughfares of Rio Janeiro, sell flowers, bonbons, coffee, fruit, and newspapers. The pretty Maltese girls, with dark, brilliant, beseeching eyes, who preside in these kiosks, are natural coquettes. Like the occupants of the tall booths in the flower market of Marseilles, coquetry is a most available part of their stock in trade. A winning smile will sell a bouquet more readily than the most eloquent oral appeal. These flower girls are kept quite busy making up and disposing of buttonhole bouquets at certain hours of the day, to adorn strangers and native dudes, from whose presence no locality is quite exempt.
This main avenue is the highest street in the city, and runs along the crest of the hill upon which Valletta is situated. The site gives the place natural facility for drainage, and the sanitary conditions seem to be excellent. Every one agrees that the capital is a healthy one, all things considered.
Let us enter, for a moment, one of the dwellings on the main thoroughfare, and leave behind the hot sunshine, which seems striving to set everything on fire in the Strada Reale.
Passing in through a lofty vestibule leading to an open court or patio, as the Spaniards call it, we come upon a maze of flowering shrubs, small orange-trees in boxes, and other floral charms. A miniature fountain in the centre of the area is very busy in sustaining at the apex of its tiny stream a hollow glass ball of vivid hue, an innocent act of aquatic legerdemain. The air is perfumed with fragrant flowers, and there is a cooling sensation in the gurgle of the fountain. There rises from this area a winding stone stairway, conducting to a gallery, from which doorways lead into the several apartments. These rooms can be thrown together so as to give the effect of a large hall, by opening the wide connecting doors. The apartments are spacious and lofty, being at least twelve or fifteen feet in height. There is not much in the way of furniture to describe in this reception-room which we have entered, which typifies the rest. It is lined with comfortable divans, and the glazed tiles of the floor are covered here and there with small Persian rugs. A few quaint old portraits of the Knights of St. John hang upon the walls, grim and ghostly in their expression, together with a large oval mirror of Venetian make. A lesser one hangs opposite, which plays queer tricks with the faces and figures presented to its glistening surface. A spacious table of dark wood occupies the centre of this spacious room, having four or five antique chairs with tall backs ranged beside it. There are no books, no small articles of bricabrac to be seen, and there is a sense of emptiness and bareness which oppresses one. It must have been the residence of some bachelor Knight, say a hundred years ago; to-day it is a boarding-house. Out of this large room a bay window or balcony opens, containing a mass of fragrant flowers gracefully disposed, showing a woman's taste and a woman's hand. Such is a Maltese drawing-room on the Strada Reale. One can take an apartment here and dine at a neighboring restaurant, and live very cheaply, if economy be a special object.
Each of the steep, narrow passageways which run down to the water's edge from the Strada Reale bears the name of some patron saint. Strada Santa Lucia is a typical street of this character, with its many tiresome stone steps, not one of which is level from end to end. The Imperial Hotel, so called, is upon this street. English and American visitors who are passing a few days here generally choose the Hotel Angleterre, on the Strada Stretta. There are half a dozen avenues which run parallel with the main thoroughfare of the city. Strada Mercanti is the most important of them. On this avenue there are several large public institutions, including the post-office, the Monte di Pietà, and the principal market. The latter is situated in the centre of the town, at the back of the governor's palace. Flies and beggars congregate here in almost equal numbers, forcing upon one's attention the puzzling problem of hunger and plenty existing in juxtaposition. Here and there are seen the spacious and elegant palaces formerly occupied by the rich, comfort-loving, luxurious Knights, which are now devoted to English government offices, as barracks, a public library, and law courts, or are improved for club purposes. It is a wealthy nation which holds sovereignty in Malta to-day, and her officials, civil or military, are lodged like princes. The original Auberge de Provence, with its cool, attractive corridors and lofty apartments, is occupied by the Union Club, and the Auberge de l'Auvergne, equally palatial, is now used as the Court of Justice.
The Order of St. John began its career humbly enough among the pilgrims of Jerusalem, by taking upon itself vows of chastity, self-abnegation, and poverty; but it ended in palaces, gross immorality, and undisguised debauchery. Its lowly birth in that sacred Syrian city was grand and noble in purpose, but ultimate success, together with the acquirement of power, fame, and riches, acted as adulterants to the original conception. Being only mortals, the Knights gave way freely to the weaknesses of humanity. This perversion of the fundamental design of the order was the natural presage of its gradual decline and final downfall.