Hour by hour passes. Night falls. And now hundreds of wax-candles blaze forth on the daises, and each penitent carries a gigantic taper in his hand. Thus this endless and mysterious procession of lights moves on to the cathedral, passes through its magnificent nave, and out again through the other doors into the streets. The cathedral has opened its treasure-house for the “Semana santa" and displayed all its pomp. The candles of the gigantic bronze candelabrum (the renowned Tenebrario) as well as on the altar the sacred wax-candle weighing several hundredweight. A huge sepulchre has been erected to the glory of Christ, in which the Holy of Holies is kept during Passion week. Hundreds of lamps and candles illuminate the golden-white four-storey edifice, which is over 30 metres high, and flooded with a wondrous glowing halo. The celebrated miserere of Eslava is performed in the cathedral on the night of Good Friday. But, alas! it is impossible to enjoy the sacred tunes owing to the general noisy inattention around. Weary forms are sitting on the steps of the chapels and around the grave of Columbus. Here a mother is suckling her infant, there an animate heap of rags is wrapt in sleep, and all the while there is a continual pushing and elbowing to get to the front. However we must not judge of all this in the light of serious northern church festivals. This would only lead us to drawing both severe and wrong conclusions. Perhaps this manner may be an historical development. Has not our Teutonic Christianity also wedded itself to much that is ancient heathenism? For instance Christmas and the winter solstice festival. Much that is Moorish obtains in Spain to this day. Perhaps even--unconsciously--the conception of the purpose of a place of worship. Was not the mosque often enough a secular place of meeting for the Moslems, and at the same time a university? However, enough of conjectures. It is a fact that the worship of the Lord and the Virgin Mary is for the Spaniard a service of love. Whether the occasion be Trinity or Passion week, it is one of joyful praise of Heaven. I shall always remember one quiet hour permeated with the holy spirit of Easter among these joyful and yet pious Easter days.--I had mounted the Giralda, that jewel of erstwhile Moorish minaret architecture, the cathedral tower. At my feet lay the white sea of houses. The town was bathed in sunshine. The beautiful blue dome of heaven spread its mighty arch over the holiday-making land as though protecting and blessing it. The faint music of the mass far below was wafted up to me, when suddenly a booming vibration filled the air, and all the tower bells, which had been silent so long, peeled out across the sunlit country: Christ is arisen! The sister bells of all the other towers echoed the message across the spring clad country. * * * * *