=The Palm Forest of Elché= (100-103). The only palm forest in Europe. It numbers more than 115000 trees, and is also a Moorish heritage. They caused the water to flow to this spot from a distance of 5 kilometres in order to create an oasis here in the desert--for the district is to-day little else. Palms must grow with their roots in the water and their crowns in the glaring sun. For years no rain has fallen on this spot. The view is strange from the church-tower down on white houses over which the palm tops are spread like a canopy. Beyond the palm forest the grey-yellow desert plain surrounds this isle of peace. In the far distance the blue ocean sleeps in proud majesty. Death and life are here in close juxtaposition. * * * * * =Easter in Seville.= The train is rushing southwards over the arid Castillian high plateaux, which in summer are as empty as a beggar’s palm. The bare treeless Mancha has put on its modest spring garment which now shows in the distance like delicate green velvet. A short-lived joy! In but a few weeks the scorched ground will again be covered with a yellowish-gray pall. At present the fresh breeze comes down from the mountains of the Sierra de Guadarrama. Scarcely, however, has the train wound its way through the wild cañons of the Sierra Modena, when spring opens wide her gate. A warm damp hot-house atmosphere is wafted into the carriage windows. We are soon surrounded by meadows that are like a great flower-garden in which the blood-red poppy and golden-yellow primrose struggle for supremacy. Once in a while a village is seen dreaming like Sleeping Beauty among the flower groves. For a long stretch agaves and cacti fringe the track. Finally Seville sends forth her messengers in the shape of blossoming rose-gardens and orange groves laden with their ripe golden fruit. An ancient mangolia stretches a rosy blossom branch towards us, lingering on in its old age in this scene so full of yearning life. Tall slim palms nod to us, and yet new children of Flora crowd upon us to bring us Seville and spring’s friendly welcome. Heedlessly the train clatters past all this beauty towards the white maze of Seville’s houses, above which towers that beautiful emblem of the town, the Giralda. At last the engine snorts noisily into the station. But how different is everything to-day in front of the station. No yelling hotel porters, no carriages awaiting the passengers, no electric-car with clanging bell, no hooting of motor-cars.--The square is lifeless at this early afternoon hour. It is the “Semana santa", Passion-week, that has cast this almost oppressive spell of silence over the great city. Even the brazen voices of the church-bells are muffled, as though that had gone into sacred mourning. The wooden banging of the Matraca calls hoarsely to prayers with dry and unmelodious voice.