The procession of the grain closed the harvest home and in the evening of the same day began the proceedings relating to the Return of the Madonna to Custonaci. At 8 p.m. another procession started. First came the band to clear the way, then a man beating a drum; this is a feature of Sicilian processions and is said to date from the time when the Saracens had possession of the island; it continues as long as the procession lasts, which may be for hours, and produces an unexpected effect. There is so much else going on that after a time you forget to notice it. But you have not really got away from it; you are being unconsciously saturated, and after the festa is over you become aware that you are suffering from a surfeit of drum; the rhythm runs in your head and keeps you awake at night; when you go out of doors you expect to hear it in the distance; when you turn a corner you listen for it, and as it is not there you find yourself listening for it all the more anxiously. But this wears off after two or three days.

Behind the drum came peasants walking two and two, carrying candles and an occasional banner; then the Society of the Misericordia, wearing those mysterious dresses that cover them entirely from head to foot, with holes for the eyes; then priests and men with lamps, 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 rhythm. As the picture passed among the people one of the women cried out

“See how pale the face of the Madonna has become; it is with sorrow to leave the Mountain.”

Another lifted up her voice and prayed that it might not be long before a calamity befell the comune as that it might not rain till December, for example in order that she might soon return. The bearers stopped at the little church, where a large chest had been prepared in which she was to repose during the rest of the journey, and the people’s grief culminated as the chest received her out of their sight.

In The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, Blake tells us that, when the Prophets Isaiah and Ezekiel dined with him, he asked, “Does a firm persuasion that a thing is so make it so?” and Isaiah replied, “All poets believe that it does, and in ages of imagination this firm persuasion removed mountains; but many are not capable of a firm persuasion of anything.” Certainly most of the Ericini are capable of a firm persuasion of something and probably, if Blake could have visited them at a time when the Madonna was going away from the mountain or coming back to it, he would have agreed that the age of imagination still lingers in this classic spot.

Those who did not accompany the picture beyond Santa Maria delle Grazie now proceeded to the balio, and the beating of the drum floated up continuously as the chest, followed by an immense crowd on foot, in carts, and on horseback, was carried down the zigzags and along the winding road to Custonaci. In many places booths had been erected, where wine and bread were given freely to all while the bearers rested. At other points were pulpits, and here they stopped to listen to a short sermon. A crowd had come out from Paparella to meet and join the throng, other crowds from Fico, Ragosia, Crocevia, Palazzolo and the other villages forming the comune, were waiting at various points along the road. From the balio the whole journey was visible, except when the windings of the road hid part of the crowd, and, with the help of glasses, the arrival at the sanctuary could be seen distinctly at about 5 p.m., nearly nine hours after the morning start. On ordinary occasions the journey takes about three hours. In the evening there were fireworks and illuminations at Custonaci and bonfires in many of the other villages.

When the picture is on the mountain it is the custom for the women of the town to go to the Matrice in the evening to pray. When it is at Custonaci they go to the balio, where a stone prie-Dieu has been built for them from which they can see the sanctuary. Here they will go and pray every evening until such time as the next calamity brings the picture up among them again.