For myself, this vast expanse, with the sense of immensity which we generally are only able to associate with the sea, has always had an extraordinary charm.  I have seen it at all times of the year, early in the morning, and at, or just before, sundown—­nay, even once or twice by moonlight, or with the marvellous blue vault overhead, that seems so much higher and greater there than elsewhere, studded with planet and star, luminous beyond all that we know in our little island, where the blue is so pale by comparison, and the atmosphere laden with moisture when we think it most clear.  I do not remember elsewhere in Spain, or in any other country, such a depth of sky or such brilliancy of moon and star light as in Madrid, where it is as easy to read by night as by day on some occasions.

Given plenty of water, and Madrid is an ideal place for flowers.  Such carnations as those which are grown in the nursery gardens there are never seen elsewhere—­they are a revelation in horticulture; nor are the roses any less wonderful.  The bouquet with which a Spaniard, whether hidalgo or one of your servants, greets your birthday is generally a pyramid almost as tall as yourself.  It needs to be placed in a large earthenware jar on the floor, and if you should be happy enough to have a good many friends, there is scarcely room for anything else in your gabinete.  The flowers one can raise in a balcony in Madrid merely by using plenty of water, syringing the dust off the leaves, and shading them occasionally from the worst heat, are more than equal to anything a hothouse in England can produce.  An idea may be formed of the really marvellous fertility of the soil and climate by the rapidity with which seeds develop.  I remember one summer, when some of the new gardens were being laid out in the Buen Retiro, a grand concert and evening fete was to be given as the opening function.  On the evening before this entertainment was to take place we happened to be near, and strolled in to see how the preparations were going on.  The gravel walks were all there, the stands for the bands, the Chinese lanterns hanging from the trees, but where was the grass?  Alas! wherever it ought to have been were to be seen brown, sad-looking patches of bare earth, not a blade springing anywhere; what was worse, an army of gardeners were, at that moment only, sowing the seed in some patches, while others were being rolled, and watered with hose. Cosa de Espana! of course.  It had been put off to manana, until now there might be fete, but no gardens.  The following evening, when in company with all Madrid we went to the concert, behold a transformation!  Soft, green, velvety sward—­not to be walked on, it is true, but lovely to behold—­covered the patches so absolutely bald twenty-four hours ago.  The seed we had seen sown had sprung up as thickly as finest cut velvet. Cosa de Espana, indeed!  It is not always in Spain—­the land of the unexpected—­that Manana veremos is foolishness.