the year, there is nothing to break its course,
and naturally, a Madrileno, crossing from the sheltered corner, where
he has been "taking the sun," to the shady side of the street and the
full force of the chilly blast, will be very likely to "catch an air,"
as the Spaniard expresses it. But that _tan sutil aire de Madrid_, which
Ford seems to have discovered, and which every guide-book and slip-shod
itinerary has ever since quoted, might very well now be allowed to find
a place in the limbo of exploded myths; it has done far more than its
duty in terrifying visitors quite needlessly. That _pulmonia fulminante_
(acute pneumonia) is a very common disease among the men of Madrid,
there is no doubt, and in the days when Ford wrote, they were no doubt
immediately bled, and so hastened on their way out of this troublesome
world by the doctors; but one has not very far to seek for the cause of
this scourge when one notices the habits of the Madrileno. In the first
place he hates nothing quite so much as fresh air, and the cafes, clubs,
taverns, and places where he resorts are kept in such a state of heated
stuffiness that it seems scarcely an exaggeration to say that the air
could be cut out in junks, like pieces of cake. If he travel by train,
all windows must be kept closely shut, while he smokes all the time.
When, at last, it is necessary to brave the outer air in order to reach
home, he, carefully and before leaving the vitiated atmosphere he has
been breathing, envelops himself in his cloak, throwing the heavy cape,
generally lined with velvet or plush, across his mouth and nose, barely
leaving his eyes visible; he thus has three or four folds of cloth and
velvet as a respirator. It often happens that at the corner of some
street the long arm of the icy "Guadarrama" reaches him; a sudden gust
of wind plucks off his respirator, and the mischief is done. But should
he reach the safe closeness of his own house, he has certainly done his
level best to charge his lungs with unwholesome and contaminated air.

You have only to see the women on the coldest day in winter with nothing
over their heads but a silk or lace mantilla, or a mere _velo_ of net,
and the working-women with nothing but their magnificent hair, or, at
most, a kerchief, to be certain that it is not the "air" that is to
blame. I have seen the women going about Madrid in winter, both by day
and night, when the men were muffled to the eyes, with thicker dresses,