The few Piazze, or squares, of Genoa, open round the principal churches, while every viccolo, or narrow passage, abounds with shrines, oratories, and stations, of which an Amazonian Madonna is always the sign: votive candles, hourly renewed, burn before these public altars, and the street piety of Genoa is only exceeded by that of Naples, which in this respect it resembles. Every where offerings are making, processions are moving, hymns are selling, and monks and nuns are invoking or begging. In all this, however, there is neither gloom nor austerity. The monks are jolly—the nuns are gay— and the votarists, more zealous than meditative, are bustling, elbowing, laughing, praying, whispering, and chanting. In every stall psalms and legends are hung up, like rows of ballads in the less devout streets of other cities. The stories of sinners become Saints are set forth in strains that belong rather to the frailty, than contrition of the penitent. The Magdalen here tells her story in phrases adapted to the passionate melodies of PAESIELLO; and Saint Therese leaves the enamoured "Didone" of the Opera far behind in the expression of pathetic ardour. The warm-souled Italians see nothing in all this contrary to the sacred sobriety of religion, and sing Saint Theresa's invocation of 

“Dammi morte, o dammi amore,” &c.

with the same faith and unction as they would chant the seven penitential Psalms, or the canticles of Job.