alone can
digest such ill-gotten wealth." In Mexico, Sicily, and Spain the
banditti go to the priests when contemplating murderous crimes, and pay
to be shrived of their sins before committing them, promising also to
hand over to the church treasury a liberal portion of the proceeds of
their robberies!

But let us return to our description of this marvelously decorated
church of Valletta.

Below the cross which forms the apex of the front is a statue of the
Saviour, a masterpiece of art from the hand of Algardi, a famous
Bolognese sculptor. There are two heavy square towers, containing
numerous bells, whose metallic tongues are perfectly deafening on all
festal occasions, giving utterance at early morning hours, intended by
nature for sleep, and continuing all day long, the dread of unaccustomed
ears. They are not rung in the manner commonly adopted elsewhere, and
after what would seem to be the most legitimate fashion, but are beaten
with a hammer, in the stout hands of a native islander. In Japan they
ring their ponderous, low-hung bells, placed in front of the temples,
with a battering-ram of timber, driven by many hands, which, though it
sounds like veritable thunder, is no more malicious than the Maltese
sledge-hammer method.

The clock of this church has three faces, showing the current hour, the
day of the week, and the day of the month. It is a curious, though not
remarkable, piece of work, interesting, however, as being the product of
a native Maltese mechanic. This edifice was intended to be the
Westminster Abbey of the order, where the mortal remains of its members
should find a lasting and monumental sepulchre. The architect, Girolamo
Cassan, was a famous artist of his day, who laid out and designed the
city of Valletta as a whole, with its many palaces, under the immediate
direction of the Grand Master whose name it bears.

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 prete