42 THE CALL OF THE SEA 



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. 



Alice Meynell. 



