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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