How joyous is the promenade, in every nation on this earth, a venue for strolling and taking the air whose plenitude all men do breathe. The Brit and the Dutchman, the Norse and the Frenchman, the Guinea-Coaster and the Swede goes each at his appointed hour along bright esplanades that give way to the sea, across moors in the mist and on greenways through parks. The American gentleman is no different. He too treads with vigour the promenade’s windings with colleagues and relatives, lovers and friends and he goes with his hat on, his cane striking earth, his footsteps as evenly paced as a waltz. He meets the stares that rub him raw. He greets the rumours said about him, sober, with an even mouth. He skirts the wallow of despair. And in many a mind he walks taller, this man, American in every sense.