That is why, in moments of exaltation, our only refuge is silence, and the
world of memory within answers the world of suggestion without.
"And what does the seaweed remind you of?" said one, as I looked up after
smelling it. "It reminds me," I said, "of all the seas that wash our
shores, and of all the brave sailors who are guarding these seas day and
night, while we sit here secure. It reminds me also that I have an article
to write, and that its title is 'A Bit of Seaweed.'"
ON LIVING AGAIN
A little group of men, all of whom had achieved conspicuous success in
life, were recently talking after dinner round the fire in the smoking-room
of a London club. They included an eminent lawyer, a politician whose name
is a household word, a well-known divine, and a journalist. The talk
traversed many themes, and arrived at that very familiar proposition: If it
were in your power to choose, would you live this life again? With one
exception the answer was a unanimous "No." The exception, I may remark, was
not the divine.
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