the spirit of place and other essays-第12节

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noon　in　his　mind；　his　eyes　see　the　soaring　of　the　actual　sun。



He　himself　has　not　yet　passed　at　that　hour　into　the　life　of　day。　　To

that　life　belongs　many　another　kind　of　work；　and　a　sense　of　other

kinds　of　beauty；　but　the　summer　daybreak　was　seen　by　Corot　with　the

extreme　perception　of　the　life　of　night。　　Here；　at　last；　is　the

explanation　of　all　the　memories　of　dreams　recalled　by　these

visionary　paintings；　done　in　earlier　years　than　were　those；　better

known；　that　are　the　Corots　of　all　the　world。　　Every　man　who　knows

what　it　is　to　dream　of　landscape　meets　with　one　of　these　works　of

Corot's　first　manner　with　a　cry；　not　of　welcome　only；　but　of

recognition。　　Here　is　morning　perceived　by　the　spirit　of　the　hours

of　sleep。







THE　HORIZON







To　mount　a　hill　is　to　lift　with　you　something　lighter　and　brighter

than　yourself　or　than　any　meaner　burden。　　You　lift　the　world；　you

raise　the　horizon；　you　give　a　signal　for　the　distance　to　stand　up。

It　is　like　the　scene　in　the　Vatican　when　a　Cardinal；　with　his

dramatic　Italian　hands；　bids　the　kneeling　groups　to　arise。　　He　does

more　than　bid　them。　　He　lifts　them；　he　gathers　them　up；　far　and

near；　with　the　upward　gesture　of　both　arms；　he　takes　them　to　their

feet　with　the　compulsion　of　his　expressive　force。　　Or　it　is　as　when

a　conductor　takes　his　players　to　successive　heights　of　music。　　You

summon　the　sea；　you　bring　the　mountains；　the　distances　unfold

unlooked…for　wings　and　take　an　even　flight。　　You　are　but　a　man

lifting　his　weight　upon　the　upward　road；　but　as　you　climb　the　circle

of　the　world　goes　up　to　face　you。



Not　here　or　there；　but　with　a　definite　continuity；　the　unseen

unfolds。　　This　distant　hill　outsoars　that　less　distant；　but　all　are

on　the　wing；　and　the　plain　raises　its　verge。　　All　things　follow　and

wait　upon　your　eyes。　　You　lift　these　up；　not　by　the　raising　of　your

eyelids；　but　by　the　pilgrimage　of　your　body。　　〃Lift　thine　eyes　to

the　mountains。〃　　It　is　then　that　other　mountains　lift　themselves　to

your　human　eyes。



It　is　the　law　whereby　the　eye　and　the　horizon　answer　one　another

that　makes　the　way　up　a　hill　so　full　of　universal　movement。　　All　the

landscape　is　on　pilgrimage。　　The　town　gathers　itself　closer；　and　its

inner　harbours　literally　come　to　light；　the　headlands　repeat

themselves；　little　cups　within　the　treeless　hills　open　and　show

their　farms。　　In　the　sea　are　many　regions。　　A　breeze　is　at　play　for

a　mile　or　two；　and　the　surface　is　turned。　　There　are　roads　and

curves　in　the　blue　and　in　the　white。　　Not　a　step　of　your　journey　up

the　height　that　has　not　its　replies　in　the　steady　motion　of　land　and

sea。　　Things　rise　together　like　a　flock　of　many…feathered　birds。



But　it　is　the　horizon；　more　than　all　else；　you　have　come　in　search

of。　　That　is　your　chief　companion　on　your　way。　　It　is　to　uplift　the

horizon　to　the　equality　of　your　sight　that　you　go　high。　　You　give　it

a　distance　worthy　of　the　skies。　　There　is　no　distance；　except　the

distance　in　the　sky；　to　be　seen　from　the　level　earth；　but　from　the

height　is　to　be　seen　the　distance　of　this　world。　　The　line　is　sent

back　into　the　remoteness　of　light；　the　verge　is　removed　beyond

verge；　into　a　distance　that　is　enormous　and　minute。



So　delicate　and　so　slender　is　the　distant　horizon　that　nothing　less

near　than　Queen　Mab　and　her　chariot　can　equal　its　fineness。　　Here　on

the　edges　of　the　eyelids；　or　there　on　the　edges　of　the　worldwe

know　no　other　place　for　things　so　exquisitely　made；　so　thin；　so

small　and　tender。　　The　touches　of　her　passing；　as　close　as　dreams；

or　the　utmost　vanishing　of　the　forest　or　the　ocean　in　the　white

light　between　the　earth　and　the　air；　nothing　else　is　quite　so

intimate　and　fine。　　The　extremities　of　a　mountain　view　have　just

such　tiny　touches　as　the　closeness　of　closed　eyes　shuts　in。



On　the　horizon　is　the　sweetest　light。　　Elsewhere　colour　mars　the

simplicity　of　light；　but　there　colour　is　effaced；　not　as　men　efface

it；　by　a　blur　or　darkness；　but　by　mere　light。　　The　bluest　sky

disappears　on　that　shining　edge；　there　is　not　substance　enough　for

colour。　　The　rim　of　the　hill；　of　the　woodland；　of　the　meadow…land；

of　the　sealet　it　only　be　far　enoughhas　the　same　absorption　of

colour；　and　even　the　dark　things　drawn　upon　the　bright　edges　of　the

sky　are　lucid；　the　light　is　among　them；　and　they　are　mingled　with

it。　　The　horizon　has　its　own　way　of　making　bright　the　pencilled

figures　of　forests；　which　are　black　but　luminous。



On　the　horizon；　moreover；　closes　the　long　perspective　of　the　sky。

There　you　perceive　that　an　ordinary　sky　of　cloudsnot　a　thunder

skyis　not　a　wall　but　the　underside　of　a　floor。　　You　see　the　clouds

that　repeat　each　other　grow　smaller　by　distance；　and　you　find　a　new

unity　in　the　sky　and　earth　that　gather　alike　the　great　lines　of

their　designs　to　the　same　distant　close。　　There　is　no　longer　an

alien　sky；　tossed　up　in　unintelligible　heights　above　a　world　that　is

subject　to　intelligible　perspective。



Of　all　the　things　that　London　has　foregone；　the　most　to　be　regretted

is　the　horizon。　　Not　the　bark　of　the　trees　in　its　right　colour；　not

the　spirit　of　the　growing　grass；　which　has　in　some　way　escaped　from

the　parks；　not　the　smell　of　the　earth　unmingled　with　the　odour　of

soot；　but　rather　the　mere　horizon。　　No　doubt　the　sun　makes　a

beautiful　thing　of　the　London　smoke　at　times；　and　in　some　places　of

the　sky；　but　not　there；　not　where　the　soft　sharp　distance　ought　to

shine。　　To　be　dull　there　is　to　put　all　relations　and　comparisons　in

the　wrong；　and　to　make　the　sky　lawless。



A　horizon　dark　with　storm　is　another　thing。　　The　weather　darkens　the

line　and　defines　it；　or　mingles　it　with　the　raining　cloud；　or　softly

dims　it；　or　blackens　it　against　a　gleam　of　narrow　sunshine　in　the

sky。　　The　stormy　horizon　will　take　wing；　and　the　sunny。　　Go　high

enough；　and　you　can　raise　the　light　from　beyond　the　shower；　and　the

shadow　from　behind　the　ray。　　Only　the　shapeless　and　lifeless　smoke

disobeys　and　defeats　the　summer　of　the　eyes。



Up　at　the　top　of　the　seaward　hill　your　first　thought　is　one　of　some

compassion　for　sailors；　inasmuch　as　they　see　but　little　of　their

sea。　　A　child　on　a　mere　Channel　cliff　looks　upon　spaces　and　sizes

that　they　cannot　see　in　the　Pacific；　on　the　ocean　side　of　the　world。

Never　in　the　solitude　of　the　blue　water；　never　between　the　Cape　of

Good　Hope　and　Cape　Horn；　never　between　the　Islands　and　the　West；　has

the　seaman　seen　anything　but　a　little　circle　of　sea。　　The　Ancient

Mariner；　when　he　was　alone；　did　but　drift　through　a　thousand　narrow

solitudes。　　The　sailor　has　nothing　but　his　mast；　indeed。　　And　but

for　his　mast　he　would　be　isolated　in　as　small　a　world　as　that　of　a

traveller　through　the　plains。



Round　the　plains　the　horizon　lies　with　folded　wings。　　It　keeps　them

so　perpetually　for　man；　and　opens　them　only　for　the　bird；　replying

to　flight　with　flight。



A　close　circlet　of　waves　is　the　sailor's　famous　offing。　　His　offing

hardly　deserves　the　name　of　horizon。　　To　hear　him　you　might　think

something　of　his　offing；　but　you　do　not　so　when　you　sit　down　in　the

centre　of　it。



As　the　upspringing　of　all　things　at　your　going　up　the　heights；　so

steady；　so　swift；　is　the　subsidence　at　your　descent。　　The　further

sea　lies　away；　hill　folds　down　behind　hill。　　The　whole　upstanding

world；　with　its　looks　serene　and　alert；　its　distant　replies；　its

signals　of　many　miles；　its　signs　and　communications　of　light；

gathers　down　and　pauses。　　This　flock　of　birds　which　is　the　mobile

landscape　wheels　and　goes　to　earth。　　The　Cardinal　weighs　down　the

audience　with　his　downward　hands。　　Farewell　to　the　most　delicate

horizon。







HABITS　AND　CONSCIOUSNESS







Education　might　do　somewhat　to　control　the　personal　habits　for　which

ungenerous　observant　men　are　inclined　to　dislike　one　another。　　It

has　done　little。　　As　to　literature；　this　has　had　the　most　curiously

diverse　influence　upon　the　human　sensitiveness　to　habit。　　Tolstoi's

perception　of　habits　is　keener　than　a　child's；　and　he　takes　them

uneasily；　as　a　child　does　not。　　He　holds　them　to　be　the　occasion；　if

not　the　cause；　of　hatred。　　Anna　Karenina；　as　she　drank　her　coffee；

knew　that　her　sometime　lover　was　dreading　to　hear　her　swallow　it；

and　was　hating　the　crooking　of　her　little　finger　as　she　held　her

cup。　　It　is　impossible　to　live　in　a　world　of　habits　with　such　an

apprehension　of　habits　as　this。



It　is　no　wonder　that　Tolstoi　denies　to　other　men　unconsciousness；

and　even　preoccupation。　　With　him　perception　never　lapses；　and　he

will　not　describe　a　murderer　as　rapt　away　by　passion　from　the

details　of　the　room　and　the　observation　of　himself；　nor　will　he

represent　a　theologian　as　failingeven　while　he　thinks　out　and

decides　the　question　of　his　faithto　note　the　things　that　arrest

his　present　and　unclouded　eyes。　　No　habits　would　dare　to　live　under

those　glances。　　They　must　die　of　dismay。



Tolstoi　sees　everything　that　is　within　sight。　　That　he　se