As we draw aside the heavy matting which always hangs before the entrance to the church, it is impossible not to be impressed by the magnificence which is everywhere displayed.
An oppressive odor of floating incense at first salutes the senses, as is the case in all Roman Catholic churches; but a few moments serve to accustom one to the musty, unventilated place. It does not seem to occur to the custodians of these edifices that such a place of public assemblage requires change of atmosphere just as much as a domestic residence. Architecturally, the church of St. John has no pretension whatever, either inside or out, though its proportions are very grand. The mosaic pavement is doubtless the most perfect specimen of the kind in existence,—a mosaic of tombs, and an example of sepulchral magnificence. The whole effect is rich beyond description, from pavement to roof. Yet there is, strange as it may seem, a cold emptiness, not to say gloom, which overcomes the stranger amid all this plethora of furnishing and fresco. The detail is too infinite to be taken in as a whole. Only a general impression of the place is retained by the average visitor. To the thoughtful and unprejudiced it must surely prove to be more pagan than Christian.
Where we stand upon its tessellated floor, each square yard is sacred to the memory of some departed Knight; the marbles bearing their names are also emblazoned with their arms. One can readily imagine the many festive occasions, elaborate and pompous ceremonials, military, civic, and religious, which have taken place within these walls while the Knights were at the acme of their power. The chairs of state were then filled with gaudily dressed officials. Priests, in glittering robes, bearing gold and silver mitres, filed hither and thither in long processions, accompanied by banners, and preceded by youths in spotless white, who swung burning and pungent incense in silver vases, while the ponderous organ breathed forth its solemn, reverberatory notes. The tapestried alcoves were brilliant with numberless candles, and the high altar was ablaze with burning wax, while the figures in the sacred paintings must have looked down from their canvases with weird and cynical expression. No doubt these church ceremonials were solemn and impressive, where one and all assumed a virtue, if they had it not. Is it surprising that this cunningly devised and gaudy display, these elaborate performances, should be awe-inspiring to an ignorant and superstitious people? One can even conceive that the actors themselves, in such a theatrical show, having been brought up in the Roman Catholic faith, may believe that they, poor, finite creatures, individually glorify the great and good God by this hollow mummery.
To-day, only a score of nun-like Maltese women, clad in black, kneel here and there before some favorite saint. If the stranger catches a glance of their dark eyes from behind the screening faldetta, he finds them more redolent of earth than of heaven,—dreamy, persuading eyes, glancing from beneath downcast lids, and shaded by long lashes. Only two male visitors are present,—the author and his guide, while a single priest, robed in a velvet surplice, goes through a pantomime of kneeling and crossing himself in front of the high altar, with his back toward the scanty audience. This man's voice is so low, if he speaks at all, that the solemn silence of the place is quite unbroken. If he could be heard, no worshiper of the class who come hither would understand the Latin tongue in which he is supposed to read the service.
We can remember but two other churches of its class which equal this of St. John in tawdry, yet costly and useless decorations, namely, those of Burgos and Toledo, in Spain. It was the former church that was considered so exquisite, and delicately artistic in every appointment, that Charles V. said it ought to be placed under glass. The Toledo cathedral rivals any Romish church we have visited, in its riches of gold, silver, precious stones, and art treasures. It contains also more stained glass windows than any other ever built, with the possible exception of St. Peter's. Statues and pictures abound in the church of St. John; gold and silver accessories, added to the original expense of the carved lapis lazuli, render the high altar, as a whole, of great aggregate cost. The railing in front is composed of solid silver. The keys of Jerusalem, Acre, and Rhodes, esteemed of priceless value as memorials, are deposited beneath the high altar,—relics of the early possessions and the old chivalrous days of these warriors of the cross. Just behind the altar hangs a famous painting of the Beheading of St. John, by Caravaggio, painted in 1609. There is also an elaborate group, in marble, representing the Baptism of Christ. It is the work of Maltese artists of the seventeenth century, forming a remarkable monument of native talent.
Before the altar of this Valletta church, on the right and left, richly upholstered chairs are placed, raised above the level of the floor, and draped with canopies of rich crimson velvet. These chairs are designed for the bishop and the representative of the sovereign power in Malta. They are occupied only on state occasions. Over the last mentioned is placed the British coat of arms. In the spacious sacristy are a score or more of fine old paintings variously ascribed to great masters. One or two of these are very old, and were brought by the Knights from Rhodes when they evacuated the island.
The most celebrated relic of this Maltese cathedral was the reputed right hand of St. John the Baptist, brought originally from Antioch to Constantinople by the Emperor Justinian, who, in the intensity of his veneration, built a church expressly for its preservation. After the capture of Constantinople by the Turks, the Sultan Bajazet gave it to the Grand Master D'Aubusson at Rhodes, whence it was brought to Malta by L'Isle Adam. The hand was incased in a glove of wrought gold covered with precious stones, among which was a large diamond of unusual value. This gem, Bonaparte, as usual, stole and placed upon his own hand. "You may keep the carrion," said the French general flippantly, as he handed the relic to the Grand Master, minus the ring. It was a curious act of destiny that the Corsican scourge should have carved his name upon this rocky island of Malta,—this granite page of history.
When Hompesch treacherously and in the most cowardly manner surrendered the Maltese group to the French, he carried the hand of St. John away with him, and afterward presented it to Paul I., Emperor of Russia, when he was chosen Grand Master of the order, under peculiar circumstances. This singular relic is still preserved in the Winter Palace at St. Petersburg.
The tapestries in the church of St. John are known to have cost originally thirty thousand dollars, and were from the famous manufactory of De Vas Frères of Brussels, for whose looms Rubens did not disdain to work. On the way to Malta they were captured by a Moorish corsair, and ransomed by the payment of their full value in gold. Thus they cost the church just sixty thousand dollars.
Among other relics which are shown to the visitor is a thorn from the crown worn by Christ, a fragment of the infant Jesus' cradle, one of the stones which slew St. Stephen, the foot of Lazarus, some bones of St. Thomas of Canterbury, and so on.