My foot is in the house,
My bath is on the sea,
And, before I take a souse,
Here's a single note to thee.
It merely says that the sea is in a state of extraordinary sublimity;
that this place is, as the Guide Book most justly observes, "unsurpassed
for the salubrity of the refreshing breezes, which are wafted on the
ocean's pinions from far-distant shores." That we are all right after
the perils and voyages of yesterday. That the sea is rolling away in
front of the window at which I indite this epistle, and that everything
is as fresh and glorious as fine weather and a splendid coast can make
it. Bear these recommendations in mind, and shunning Talfourdian
pledges, come to the bower which is shaded for you in the one-pair
front, where no chair or table has four legs of the same length, and
where no drawers will open till you have pulled the pegs off, and then
they keep open and won't shut again.