238 NATURE NEAR LONDON. 



then the still ships appear suspended in space. They 

 are as much held from above as upborne from 

 beneath. 



They are motionless, midway in space — whether it 

 is sea or air is not to be known. They neither float 

 nor fly, they are suspended. There is no force in the 

 flat sail, the mast is lifeless, the hull without impetus. 

 For hours they linger, changeless as the constellations, 

 still, silent, motionless, phantom vessels on a void sea. 



Another climb up from the sheep path, and it is 

 not far then to the terrible edge of that tremendous 

 cliff which rises straighter than a ship's side out of 

 the sea, six hundred feet above the detached rock 

 below, where the limpets cling like rivet heads, and 

 the sand rills run around it. But it is not possible to 

 look down to it — the glance of necessity falls outwards, 

 as a raindrop' from the eaves is deflected by the wind, 

 because it is the edge where the mould crumbles ; the 

 rootlets of the grass are exposed ; the chalk is about 

 to break away in flakes. 



You cannot lean over as over a parapet, lest such 

 a flake should detach itself — lest a mere trifle shoul() 

 begin to fall, awakening a dread and dormant inclina- 

 tion to slide and finally plunge like it. Stand back ; 

 the sea there goes out and out, to the left and to the 

 right, and how far is it to the blue overhead ? The 

 eye must stay here a long period, and drink in these 

 distances, before it can adjust the measure, and know 

 exactly what it sees. 



The vastness conceals itself, giving us no landmark 

 or milestone. The fleck of cloud yonder, docs it part 

 it in two, or is it but a third of the way ? The world 



