Travelers in foreign lands learn to rise betimes, stealing from sleep an hour full of intoxicating beauties. There is an interval between the soft mellow light of the breaking day and that of sunrise, so full of promise, of dewy fragrance, and of heavenly incense, that only poets can truly describe it. As one stands upon the upper Baracca of Valletta and faces the east at such a moment, the gradually advancing light seems to melt away the darkness, while angel hands swing wide the golden gates of day. The sky then dons its deepest blue, the encircling sea glows in violet blushes beneath the rosy light of the dawn, while the air, freshened by the dew, is clear and crisp even in this semi-tropical island. At first a dim uncertainty reigns over all things, but slowly the weird and phantom-like forms assume their real shapes. The picturesque town, with its diversified architecture, the tall, isolated lighthouses, the sleeping islands of Gozo and Comino, the delicate tracery formed of the rigging of the ships in the harbor, and even the lonely sentinels upon the battlements come out one by one in bold relief against the background of mingled gold and silver radiance. The heedless world still sleeps, and one cannot but feel half guilty at the selfishness of appropriating alone such an hour of glowing inspiration, while walking hand in hand with Nature. The Baraccas were originally roofed, consisting of arches facing the sea, but the wooden coverings were long since removed, and they now form favorite promenades, open to the sky.