There are days when I dream of an existence unfettered by the
thousand petty strings with which our souls lie bound to Lilliputia
land. I picture myself living in some Norwegian sater, high above
the black waters of a rockbound fiord. No other human creature
disputes with me my kingdom. I am alone with the whispering fir
forests and the stars. How I live I am not quite sure. Once a
month I could journey down into the villages and return laden. I
should not need much. For the rest, my gun and fishing-rod would
supply me. I would have with me a couple of big dogs, who would
talk to me with their eyes, so full of dumb thought, and together we
would wander over the uplands, seeking our dinner, after the old
primitive fashion of the men who dreamt not of ten-course dinners
and Savoy suppers. I would cook the food myself, and sit down to
the meal with a bottle of good wine, such as starts a man's thoughts
(for I am inconsistent, as I acknowledge, and that gift of
civilization I would bear with me into my hermitage). Then in the
evening, with pipe in mouth, beside my log-wood fire, I would sit
and think, until new knowledge came to me. Strengthened by those
silent voices that are drowned in the roar of Streetland, I might,
perhaps, grow into something nearer to what it was intended that a
man should be--might catch a glimpse, perhaps, of the meaning of
life.
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