Madrid is by far the most flourishing town of Spain; and if there is such a thing as progress, artistic, political, or social, it is of course to be found therein. It suffers, however, under an unfortunate agglomerate of disadvantages, such as a river without water;[8] a great elevation in the midst of barren sandy plains, over whose treeless surface the winds are ever blowing--in summer hot and blighting, in winter with keen and piercing breath, from the snows of the Guadarrama range; streets periodically liable to showers, not of rain, but of bullets; careless government; a distrustful population; and a total want of private enterprise, which has been all but stamped out. One hears, however, a great deal about _Progresista_ ministers, who have certainly instituted various companies of credit, to which is owing the web of railways which is rapidly spreading throughout the country, and connecting the capital with the Mediterranean, the Atlantic, and the North. Drought, which was once much dreaded, is now at least rendered impossible, as a river, the Lozoya, has been conducted from twelve leagues off, amongst the Guadarrama mountains, to the city;[9] an engineering feat that the Progresistasts are never tired of bringing before the notice of the intelligent foreigner, and which the priests look upon with great suspicion, as some of the first-fruits of the great Antichrist, Civilisation, the attendant fiends on which, in their opinion, are Industry and Progress. A fountain of real water(!) now plays in the centre of the Puerta del Sol, of which the inhabitants are extremely proud.