The capital is well-built in solid masses of dwellings, presenting an unmistakable air of prosperity. One is reminded here and there of Oriental Tangier, with a suggestion of scenes borrowed from Spanish Granada. There are fascinating combinations everywhere, a succession of attractive novelties and surprises constantly greeting the eye. The town seems to be full of sunshine, of bright faces, and of flowers; at least it is so here on the Strada Reale. Everybody is gay and animated. The fountains laugh with rippling melody in the warm atmosphere, and the blossoms on the fruit trees are more lovely and fragrant than the bouquets which the pretty Maltese girls offer at such minimum prices. There is a rich and constant glow of shifting color, the yellow buildings reflecting light like burnished gold. Surely it is good to be here, good to behold this charming phase of foreign life, and to contrast it with other scenes more famous but far less attractive. Paris is said to be the city of art and poetry, but Valletta embodies both within itself, adding a third allurement as being the city of romance and vivid history, which leaves upon the visitor's brain a memorable vision of light, life, and color. Lord Beaconsfield wrote of Valletta as being equal in its architecture to any capital in Europe, but this is an exaggeration, and is incorrect. It may, however, be fairly said to vie with any town on the shores of the Mediterranean for the elegance of its construction and its general effect. "If that fair city," says the authority which we have just quoted, "with its streets of palaces, its picturesque forts and magnificent church (that of St. John), only crowned some green and azure island of the Ionian Sea, Corfu, for instance, I really think that the ideal of landscape would be realized."