o," replied the gentleman, smiling, and correcting the
officious cadman, who had caught at the noble euphony, "Mr.
Crafter's."

That we are attached to wet weather, a single comparison with our
neighbours will abundantly prove. A Frenchman seldom stirs abroad without
his _parapluie_; notwithstanding he is, compared with an Englishman, an
_al fresco_ animal, eating, drinking, dancing, reading, and seeing
plays--all out of doors. A shower is more effectual in clearing the streets
of Paris than those of London. People flock into _cafes_, the arcades of
the Palais Royal, and splendid covered passages; and as soon as the rain
ceases, scores of planks are thrown across the gutters in the _centre_ of
the streets, which species of _pontooning_ is rewarded by the sous and
centimes of the passengers. In Switzerland too, where the annual fall of
rain is 40 inches, the streets are always washed clean, an effect which is
admirably represented in the view of Unterseen, now exhibiting at the
_Diorama_. But in Peru, the Andes intercept the clouds, and the constant
heat over sandy deserts prevents clouds from forming, so that there is no
rain. Here it never shines but it burns.

_Wet-weather in the country_ is, however, a still greater infliction upon
the sensitive nerves. There is no club-house, coffee-room, billiard-room,
or theatre, to slip into; and if caught in a shower you must content
yourself with the arcades of Nature, beneath which you enjoy the
unwished-for luxury of a shower bath. Poor Nature is drenched and drowned;
perhaps never better described than by that inveterate bard of Cockaigne,
Captain Morris:

Oh! it settles the stomach when nothing is seen
But an ass on a common, or goose on a green.

We were once overtaken by such weather in a pedestrian tour through the
Isle of Wight, when just then about to leave Niton for a geological
excursion to the Needles. Reader, if you remember, the Sandrock Hotel is
one of the most rural establishments in the island. Think of our being
shut up there for six hours, with a thin duodecimo guide of less than 100
pages, which some mischievous fellow had made incomplete. How often did we
read and re-read every line, and trace every road in the little map. At
length we set off on our return to Newport. The rain partially ceased, and
we were attracted out of the road to Luttrell's Tower, whence we were
compelled to seek shelter in a miserable public-house in a village about
t