the faithful Spanish nature, I gave myself to the shining
gorgeousness of the procession that advanced chanting in the blaze of
the Sevillian sun. There was every rank of clergy, from the archbishop
down, in robes of ceremonial, but I am unable honestly to declare the
admiration for their splendor which I would have willingly felt. The
ages of faith in which those vestments were designed were apparently
not the ages of taste; yet it was the shape of the vestments and not the
color which troubled the eye of unfaith, if not of taste. The archbishop
in crimson silk, with his train borne by two acolytes, the canons in
their purple, the dean in his gold-embroidered robes, and the priests
and choristers in their black robes and white surplices richly satisfied
it; and if some of the clerics were a little frayed and some of the
acolytes were spotted with the droppings of the candles, these were
details which one remembered afterward and that did not matter at the
time.

When the procession was housed again, we went off and forgot it in the
gardens of the Alcazar. But I must not begin yet on the gardens of the
Alcazar. We went to them every day, as we did to the cathedral, but we
did not see them until our second morning in Seville. We gave what was
left from the first morning in the cathedral to a random exploration of
the streets and places of the city. There was, no doubt, everywhere some
touch of the bravery of our square of San Fernando, where the public
windows were hung with crimson tapestries and brocades in honor of St.
Raphael; but his holiday did not make itself molestively felt in the
city's business or pleasure. Where we could drive we drove, and where we
must we walked, and we walked of course through the famous Calle de las
Sierpes, because no one drives there. As a rule no woman walks there,
and naturally there were many women walking there, under the eyes of
the popular cafes and aristocratic clubs which principally abound in Las
Sierpes, for it is also the street of the principal shops, though it is
not very long and is narrower than many other streets of Seville. It has
its name from so commonplace an origin as the sign over a tavern door,
with some snakes painted on it; but if the example of sinuosity had been
set it by prehistoric serpents, there were scores of other streets which
have bettered its instruction. There were streets that crooked away
everywhere, not going anywhere, and breaking from time to tim