Thoreau writes in his journal:
When I am going out for an evening I arrange the fire in my stove, so that I do not fail to find a good one when I return, though it would engage my frequent attention present. So that when I know I am to be at home, I sometimes make believe that I may go out, to save trouble… I hear the faint sound of a viol and voices from the neighboring cottage, and think to myself, “I will believe the Muse only for evermore.” It assures me that no gleam which comes over the serene soul is deceptive. It warns me of a reality and substance, of which the best that I see is but the phantom and shadow. O music, thou tellest me of things of which memory takes no heed; thy strains are whispered aside from memory’s ear.
