There are moments when all anxiety and stated toil are becalmed in the infinite leisure and repose of nature.  All laborers must have their nooning, and at this season of the day, we are all, more or less, Asiatics, and give over all work and reform.  While lying thus on our oars by the side of the stream, in the heat of the day, our boat held by an osier put through the staple in its prow, and slicing the melons, which are a fruit of the East, our thoughts reverted to Arabia, Persia, and Hindostan, the lands of contemplation and dwelling-places of the ruminant nations.  In the experience of this noontide we could find some apology even for the instinct of the opium, betel, and tobacco chewers.  Mount Saber, according to the French traveller and naturalist, Botta, is celebrated for producing the Kat-tree, of which “the soft tops of the twigs and tender leaves are eaten,” says his reviewer, “and produce an agreeable soothing excitement, restoring from fatigue, banishing sleep, and disposing to the enjoyment of conversation.”  We thought that we might lead a dignified Oriental life along this stream as well, and the maple and alders would be our Kat-trees.

It is a great pleasure to escape sometimes from the restless class of Reformers.  What if these grievances exist?  So do you and I. Think you that sitting hens are troubled with ennui these long summer days, sitting on and on in the crevice of a hay-loft, without active employment?  By the faint cackling in distant barns, I judge that dame Nature is interested still to know how many eggs her hens lay.  The Universal Soul, as it is called, has an interest in the stacking of hay, the foddering of cattle, and the draining of peat-meadows.  Away in Scythia, away in India, it makes butter and cheese.  Suppose that all farms are run out, and we youths must buy old land and bring it to, still everywhere the relentless opponents of reform bear a strange resemblance to ourselves; or, perchance, they are a few old maids and bachelors, who sit round the kitchen hearth and listen to the singing of the kettle.  “The oracles often give victory to our choice, and not to the order alone of the mundane periods.  As, for instance, when they say that our voluntary sorrows germinate in us as the growth of the particular life we lead.”  The reform which you talk about can be undertaken any morning before unbarring our doors.  We need not call any convention.  When two neighbors begin to eat corn bread, who before ate wheat, then the gods smile from ear to ear, for it is very pleasant to them.  Why do you not try it?  Don’t let me hinder you.

There are theoretical reformers at all times, and all the world over, living on anticipation.  Wolff, travelling in the deserts of Bokhara, says, “Another party of derveeshes came to me and observed, `The time will come when there shall be no difference between rich and poor, between high and low, when property will be in common, even wives and children.’” But forever I ask of such, What then?  The derveeshes in the deserts of Bokhara and the reformers in Marlboro’ Chapel sing the same song.  “There’s a good time coming, boys,” but, asked one of the audience, in good faith, “Can you fix the date?” Said I, “Will you help it along?”