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these iron days of the dominance of steam, the crowning wrong that is wrought us of furnace and piston-rod lies in their annihilation of the steadfast mystery of the horizon, so that the imagination no longer begins to work at the point where vision ceases. In happier times, three hundred years ago, the seafarers from Bristol City looked out from the prows of their vessels in the grey of the morning, and wot not rightly whether the land they saw might be Jerusalem or Madagascar, or if it were not North and South America. 'And there be certaine flitting islands,' says one, 'which have been oftentimes scene, and when men approached near them they vanished.' 'It may be that the gulfs will wash us down,' said Ulysses (thinking of what Americans call the 'getting-off place'); 'it may be we shall touch the Happy