Well here I be, and just as happy as an unsteamed clam. The sky is a rather dense gray, of a shade that in Southampton would have me humming “Gloomy Sunday” but here seems just another of Maine’s little miracles. Of course it helps to have it reflected on the bosom of the bay (which would place its cunt somewhere down around Vinalhaven) where for some reason it picks up a faint purplish flush.
For them the Continent had still the flavour of the eighteenth century Grand Tour, with perhaps a touch of Mark Twain's Innocents Abroad. For them Germany was still the Germany of Goethe; France, the France of the first English settlers on the Riviera; and Switzerland, devoid of sanatoriums and winter sports, the Switzerland of edelweiss, William Tell and the Merry Swiss Boy.