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up and down a wet stone pavement without a moment's cessation.
That is exactly the noise they make.

The ruined chapel, on the picturesque and beautiful sea-shore, was
dedicated, once upon a time, to Saint John the Baptist. I believe
there is a legend that Saint John's bones were received there, with
various solemnities, when they were first brought to Genoa; for
Genoa possesses them to this day. When there is any uncommon
tempest at sea, they are brought out and exhibited to the raging
weather, which they never fail to calm. In consequence of this
connection of Saint John with the city, great numbers of the common
people are christened Giovanni Baptista, which latter name is
pronounced in the Genoese patois 'Batcheetcha,' like a sneeze. To
hear everybody calling everybody else Batcheetcha, on a Sunday, or
festa-day, when there are crowds in the streets, is not a little
singular and amusing to a stranger.

The narrow lanes have great villas opening into them, whose walls
(outside walls, I mean) are profusely painted with all sorts of
subjects, grim and holy. But time and the sea-air have nearly
obliterated them; and they look like the entrance to Vauxhall
Gardens on a sunny day. The court-yards of these houses are
overgrown with grass and weeds; all sorts of hideous patches cover
the bases of the statues, as if they were afflicted with a
cutaneous disorder; the outer gates are rusty; and the iron bars
outside the lower windows are all tumbling down. Firewood is kept
in halls where costly treasures might be heaped up, mountains high;
waterfalls are dry and choked; fountains, too dull to play, and too
lazy to work, have just enough recollection of their identity, in
their sleep, to make the neighbourhood damp; and the sirocco wind
is often blowing over all these things for days together, like a
gigantic oven out for a holiday.

Not long ago, there was a festa-day, in honour of the VIRGIN'S
MOTHER, when the young men of the neighbourhood, having worn green
wreaths of the vine in some procession or other, bathed in them, by
scores. It looked very odd and pretty. Though I am bound to
confess (not knowing of the festa at that time), that I thought,
and was quite satisfied, they wore them as horses do--to keep the
flies off.

Soon afterwards, there was another festa-day, in honour of St.
Nazaro. One of the Albaro young men brought two large bouquets
soon after breakfast, and coming up-stairs into the great sala,
presented them himself. This was a polite way of begging for a
contribution towards the expenses of some music in the Saint's
honour, so we gave him whatever it may have been, and his messenger
departed: well satisfied. At six o'clock in the evening we went
to the church--close at hand--a very gaudy place, hung all over
with festoons and bright draperies, and filled, from the altar to
the main door, with women, all seated. They wear no bonnets here,
simply a long white veil--the 'mezzero;' and it was the most gauzy,

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