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.
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