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.