and, lastly, the sacred
picture out of the Matrice, carried by men, the whole frame quivering
with its fringes of jewellery. Every few yards the procession stopped,
partly to rest the bearers and partly to give the crowd an opportunity of
seeing the picture.

Every church that lay on the route was lighted up and not till long past
midnight, when the picture had been taken into each one of them to pay a
farewell visit, was it carried back to the Matrice.

On Thursday, 29th, the day appointed for transporting the picture back to
Custonaci, there was early Mass in the Matrice, where there was not
nearly room for all the people, and after Mass a short sermon. The
preacher contrasted the sadness of the present occasion with the joy of
that happy day in 1893 when the Madonna had come to dwell among them,
bringing the rain with her. He told them of her love for her people, of
all she had done for them, of all they owed her and of how deeply she
entered into the life of each one of them. He reminded them that the
first name they had been taught to lisp at their mother's knee was Maria;
that she to whom they raised their prayers in time of tribulation was
Maria; that the one they blessed for benefits received was always Maria.
And now her gracious presence was to depart from her beloved Mountain;
the time had come to utter the last farewell. Here the preacher spoke a
few words so touching in their eloquence that all the women and most of
the men burst into tears and made no attempt to conceal their emotion.

It would not occur to an Englishman to weep because a picture is taken
from one place to another. Not so long ago quite a number of pictures
were taken and put away in the Tate Gallery, and yet London looked
stolidly on and not a tear was shed. Had one been shed, it would have
been laughed at; and had only one or two of the congregation in the
Matrice been so powerfully affected, it might have passed unnoticed, but
the simultaneousness and spontaneity of their almost hysterical grief was
very impressive, and no one could have had any idea of laughing who saw
the weeping crowd that accompanied the Madonna out of the church while
the band played a funeral march. She was carried on men's shoulders, her
face constantly turned towards the town, through the Trapani gate and
down the road to the little church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, while the
drum went in front, filling the air with the mournfulness of its
perpetual