The "Edinburgh Review," in an article on this subject, says: "The progress of this famous plant has been somewhat like the progress of _Truth_;--suspected at first, though very palatable to those who had the courage to taste it; resisted as it encroached; abused as its popularity seemed to spread; and establishing its triumph at last in cheering the whole land, from the palace to the cottage, only by the slow and resistless efforts of time and its own virtues." Many substitutes for tea are in vogue among the Chinese, but in general only the very lowest of the population are debarred the use of the genuine article. Being the universal drink, it is found at all times in every house. Few are so poor that a simmering tea-pot does not stand ever filled for the visitor. It is invariably offered to strangers; and any omission to do so is considered, and is usually intended, as a slight. It appears to be preferred by the people to any other beverage, even in the hottest weather; and while Americans in the heats of July would gladly resort to ice-water or lemonade, the Chinaman will quench his thirst with large draughts of boiling tea. The Muse of China has not disdained to warble harmonious numbers in praise of her favorite beverage. There is a celebrated ballad on tea-picking, in thirty stanzas, sung by a young woman who goes from home early in the day to work, and lightens her labors with song. I give a few of the verses, distinctly informing the reader, at the same time, that for the real sparkle and beauty of the poem he must consult the Chinese original. "By earliest dawn I at my toilet only half-dress my hair And seizing my basket, pass the door, while yet the mist is thick. The little maids and graver dames, hand in hand winding along, Ask me, 'Which steep of Semglo do you climb to-day?' "In social couples, each to aid her fellow, we seize the tea twigs, And in low words urge one another, 'Don't delay!' Lest on the topmost bough the bud has now grown old, And lest with the morrow come the drizzling silky rain. "My curls and hair are all awry, my face is quite begrimed; In whose house lives the girl so ugly as your slave? 'Tis only because that every day the tea I'm forced to pick; The soaking rains and driving winds have spoiled my former charms. "Each picking is with toilsome labor, but yet I shun it not; My maiden curls are all askew, my pearly fingers all benumbed; But I only wish our tea to be of a superfine kind,-- To have it equal his 'Sparrow's Tongue' and their 'Dragon's Pellet.' "For a whole month where can I catch a single leisure day? For at the earliest dawn I go to pick, and not till dusk return; Till the deep midnight I'm still before the firing-pan. Will not labor like this my pearly complexion deface?