“Very well, then,” he replied, “there is no use worrying any more about my health.  I shall do my best to enjoy the little time I may have left.”  He threw all his medicines and remedies out of the window, he looked out for the most unhealthy place he could find, where he would be most certain of never meeting another consumptive patient; and in the course of the search he came across the well-worn chestnut about the air of Madrid.  “That is the place for me,” he exclaimed; “only strong and healthy people can live there.  At any rate, so long as I do live, I shall be amongst sound lungs, and shall see no more fellow-sufferers.  The aire tan sutil will kill me, and that will be the end of the matter.”  So far from killing him, the fine champagne-like air of Madrid went as near curing him as was possible for a man with only one lung.  He took no precautions, never wrapped up, went out at night as well as by day, and when he died, fourteen years later, it was not of consumption.  He used to come to Madrid for the winter to escape the damp of England, and revelled in the warmth and freshness of that sun-steeped air.

The climate of Madrid has sensibly altered since I have known it, and will continue to do so as vegetation increases and trees spring up and grow to perfection within and around it.  In the old times, before the splendid service of water of the Lozoya Canal was in common use, the air was so dry as to make one’s skin uncomfortable, and one’s hair to break off into pieces like tinder under the brush; there was also a constant thickening in the throat, causing slight discomfort, and a penetrating, impalpable dust which nothing ever laid, and which formed a veritable cloud reaching far above the heads of the promenaders in the Salon del Prado.  A very short time changed all this.  Twice a day the streets were watered with far-reaching hose, a constant stream ran about the stems of the trees in the Prado, gardens were planted and constantly watered, and while the hitherto barren, dust-laden places began to blossom as the rose, the air itself became softer, less trying, and, perhaps, there is rather more uncertainty about the weather, or at any rate a greater rainfall.  At one time there were but two rainy seasons—­spring and autumn—­and never a cloud in between.  For about three days clouds would be gathering gradually in the sky, beginning with one literally “no bigger than a man’s hand.”  Whenever there was a cloud, you might be certain of rain, past or to come.  Then one day, when there was no longer any blue to be seen, the heavens opened and the rain came down.  There could be no mistake about it.  When it rains or thunders in Madrid, it tries to get it all over as quickly as possible.  There is nothing like doing a thing well when you are about it, and Madrid thoroughly understands this matter of rain.  It never ceases, never tempts people to go out and then drowns them.  No, if you go out, it is with a thorough understanding of what you are undertaking;