an
that of which this most perfect flower of the English race was the centre.

In short, there is no formula for falling in love. Each one does it as the
spirit moves.

ON A BIT OF SEAWEED

The postman came just now, and among the letters he brought was one from
North Wales. It was fat and soft and bulgy, and when it was opened we found
it contained a bit of seaweed. The thought that prompted the sender was
friendly, but the momentary effect was to arouse wild longings for the sea,
and to add one more count to the indictment of the Kaiser, who had sent us
for the holidays into the country, where we could obey the duty to
economise, rather than to the seaside, where the temptations to
extravagance could not be dodged. "Oh, how it smells of Sheringham," said
one whose vote is always for the East Coast. "No, there is the smack of
Sidmouth, and Dawlish, and Torquay in its perfume," said another, whose
passion is for the red cliffs of South Devon. And so on, each finding, as
he or she sniffed at the seaweed, the windows of memory opening out on to
the foam of summer seas. And soon the table was enveloped in a rushing tide
of recollection--memories of bathing and boating, of barefooted races on
the sands, of jolly fishermen who always seemed to be looking out seaward
for something that never came, of hunting for shells, and of all the
careless raptures of dawn and noon and sunset by the seashore. All awakened
by the smell of a bit of seaweed.

It is this magic of reminiscence that makes the world such a storehouse of
intimacies and confidences. There is hardly a bird that sings, or a flower
that blows, or a cloud that sails in the blue that does not bring us some
hint from the past, and set us tingling with remembrance. We open a drawer
by chance, and the smell of lavender issues forth, and with that lingering
perfume the past is unrolled like a scroll, and places long unseen leap to
the inward eye and voices long unheard are speaking to us:--

We tread the path their feet have worn.
We sit beneath their orchard trees,
We hear, like them, the hum of bees,
And rustle of the bladed corn.

Who can see the first daffodils of spring without feeling a sort of
spiritual festival that the beauty of the flower alone cannot explain? The
memory of all the springs of the past is in their dancing plumes, and the
assurance of all the springs to come. They link us up with the pageant of
nature, and with the im