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 closenes