the spirit of place and other essays(地方的精神等)-第16章
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confessedly from the side of night； the side of sorrow and dreams； and
those dreams the dreams of little chimney…sweepers； all is as dark as he
can make it with the 〃bags of soot〃； but the boy's dream of the green plain
and the river is too bright for day。 So； indeed； is another brightness of
Blake's； which is also； in his poem； a child's dream； and was certainly
conceived by him in the hours of sleep； in which he woke to write the
Songs of Innocence：…
O what land is the land of dreams？ What are its mountains； and what
are its streams？ O father； I saw my mother there； Among the lilies by
waters fair。 Among the lambs clothed in white； She walk'd with her
Thomas in sweet delight。
To none but the hours claimed and inspired by sleep； held awake by
sufferance of sleep； belongs such a vision。
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Corot also took the brilliant opportunity of the hours of sleep。 In
some landscapes of his early manner he has the very light of dreams； and
it was surely because he went abroad at the time when sleep and dreams
claimed his eyes that he was able to see so spiritual an illumination。
Summer is precious for a painter； chiefly because in summer so many of
the hours of sleep are also hours of light。 He carries the mood of man's
night out into the sunshineCorot did so… …and lives the life of night； in all
its genius； in the presence of a risen sun。 In the only time when the heart
can dream of light； in the night of visions； with the rhythmic power of
night at its dark 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。
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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
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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
