"Jhon Farmer sat at his door one September
evening, after a hard day's work, his mind still running on his labor more or
less. Having bathed, he sat down to re-create his intellectual man. It was a
rather cool evening, and some of his neighbors were apprehending a frost. He
had not attended to the train of his thoughts long when he heard some one
playing on a flute, and that sound harmonized with his mood. Still he thought
of his work; but the burden of his thought was, that though this kept running
in his head, and he found himself planning and contriving it against his will,
yet it concerned him very little. It was no more than the scurf of his skin,
which was constantly shuffled off. But the notes of the flute came home to his
ears out of a different sphere from that he worked in, and suggested work for
certain faculties which slumbered in him. They gently did away with the street,
and the village, and the state in which he lived. A voice said to him—Why do
you stay here and live this mean moiling life, when a glorious existencia
is possible for you? Those same stars twinkle over other fields than
these.—But how to come out of this condition and actually migrate thither? All
that he could think of was to practise some new austerity, to let his mind
descend into his body and redeem it, and treat himself with ever increasing
respect.”
HDT (Walden, Higher Laws)
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