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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
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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。
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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 sees this
multitude of things with invincible simplicity is what proves him an artist；
nevertheless； for such perception as his there is no peace。 For when it is
not the trivialities of other men's habits but the actualities of his own mind
that he follows without rest； for him there is no possible peace but sleep。
To him； more than to all others； it has been said； 〃Watch！〃 There is no
relapse； there is no respite but sleep or death。
To such a mind every night must come with an overwhelming change；
a release too great for gratitude。 What a falling to sleep！ What a
manumission； what an absolution！ Consciousness and conscience set
free from the exacted instant replies of the unrelapsing day。 And at the
awakening all is ready yet once more； and apprehension begins again： a
perpetual presence of mind。
Dr。 Johnson was 〃absent。〃 No man of 〃absent〃 mind is without some
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hourly deliverance。 It is on the present mind that presses the burden of
the present world。
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SHADOWS
Another good reason that we ought to leave blank； unvexed； and
unencumbered with paper patterns the ceiling and walls of a simple house
is that the plain surface may be visited by the unique designs of shadows。
The opportunity is so fine a thing that it ought oftener to be offered to the
light and to yonder handful of long sedges and rushes in a vase。 Their
slender grey design of shadows upon white walls is better than a tedious；
trivial； or anxious device from the shop。
The shadow has all intricacies of perspective simply translated into
line and intersecting curve； and pictorially presented to the eyes； not to the
mind。