She lay seemingly in a state of ecstasy,—the eyes half closed, the head leaning carelessly on the right hand, which was adorned with many rings. I could not sufficiently discern her face, but it seemed to be peculiarly charming. Her robe was made of gilded metal, which imitated excellently a texture wrought with gold. The head and hands were of white marble. I cannot say that the whole was in the lofty style, still it was executed so naturally and so pleasingly that one almost fancied it must breathe and move. A little angel stands near her, and with a bunch of lilies in his hand appears to be fanning her.
Meanwhile the clergy had come into the cave, taken their places, and began to chant the Vespers.
I took my seat right before the altar, and listened to them for awhile: then I again approached the altar, knelt down, and attempted to obtain a still more distinct view of the beautiful image. I resigned myself without reserve to the charming illusion of the statue and the locality.
The chant of the priests now resounded through the cave; the water was trickling into the reservoir near the altar; while the overhanging rocks of the vestibule—the proper nave of the church—shut in the scene. There was a deep stillness in this waste spot, whose inhabitants seemed to be all dead,—a singular neatness in a wild cave. The tinsel and tawdry pomp of the Roman Catholic ceremonial, especially as it is vividly decked out in Sicily, had here reverted to its original simplicity. The illusion produced by the statue of the fair sleeper, which had a charm even for the most practised eye—in short, it was with the greatest difficulty that I tore myself from the spot, and it was late at night before I got back to Palermo.
