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 world--we 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 sea--let it only be
far enough--has 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 clouds--not a thunder sky--is 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.