some Magnus Apollo-among our ideas, before which the lesser lights must bow? Haven't we some beautiful theory which, though supported it may be only by imagination, is nevertheless our mental darling, in whose presence every-day thoughts are ignored? Common sense is too often sacrificed upon the altar of specialities; and hobbyriders still invade the paths of science, the groves of literature, and even the sacred temples of religion.

Look at the science of medicine: The world has but few fields of more importance than this. Disease dwells upon the fair plains and along the bright rivers of earth. Death is reaping with rapid strokes a bountiful har vest; and while our energies are spent in evading, as long as may be, the sweep of his sickle, we look anxiously toward the world of medicine. But, alas! every "pathy" becomes a hobby, ridden with zeal by both physician and patients. The "Old School" ridicules the theory of "Similia Similibus Curanter," and grows mirthful and witty at the expense of high dilutions and tiny pellets; while the advocates of infinitesimals turn their anathemas upon bleeding and blisters, calomel and feverfeeders. But lo! the "Botanic" rider reins up his hobby, all laden with "roots and herbs," and gravely informs the disputants that he possesses a panacea for all the ills that mortals inherit or create. While the people look wonderingly on to see the "doctors disagree" while the sick man awaits the result with burning brain and bounding

pulse-while bells are tolling and graveyards are filling-"Hydropathy" comes near, with her well-washed garments, condemning without scruple all the sons of Esculapius, and promising to wash away the physical sins of the multitude. We find in her train an enthusiastic procession of pale-faced bran-eaters, riding the hobby of "hygiene;" ignoring the meat that was given for food, and consuming the husk of the grain and the wayside weeds. They give wise dissertations to prove that our long-lived grandfathers were wrong in their habits of diet, and that all the babies of a hundred years ago had their constitutions ruined by bad management. They forget that even the angels ate meat in the tents of Abraham; and as their shattered nerves and disgusted stomachs pass before us, we can but wonder how many of them will live as long as the less abstemious patriarch.

These hobby-riders are eccentric characters; but we want some variety among mankind, and we are blessed with an abundance of that commodity. Just look creation over and you will find any amount of similarities, but no duplicates. Adam's career began a long time ago, and since then the theater of earth has been well supplied with actors; but among them all no face has been the counterpart of another, no character has been repeated. Humanity is a peculiar combination, all made up of physical outlines and mental irregularities. See that old bachelor

over the way! His brain has been all one-sided for a quarter of a century. His hobby is "Female Perfection." He is always sneering at womankind as

it is, and commenting upon the imaginary virtues of the fortunate creature whom he still intends to honor some day with his name. But he has been looking for that rare combination some twenty years. He thought he had found her once; but, as he grew confidential, was surprised to learn that she was a little particular about the kind of man she married. Since then he has gradually grown into a chronic womanhater. Wonder what such left-hand ciphers were designed for! Can't Uncle Sam send them all on a mission to Central Africa? What an interesting colony they would make, and what a millennium they would have, unmolested by gaiters and crinoline!

But the old bachelors are not alone in their sinning. Don't we know of a woman that is ahead of them any day? There she is, with her gaunt visage towering far above the "sisterhood." To be sure, her style of beauty is slightly angular, and very suggestive of the science of anatomy; but hasn't she a "mission"? She was born long before "Woman's Rights" were, but woe to the unlucky human that dare question her rights! She is a reformer, gentlemen! She intends to revolutionize the world with that tongue of hers. Oh, that tongue! how it does rattle when she goes around the village to lecture the ladies on the faults of their husbands, until every loyal wife feels a pious inclination to box her ears. Let not all the "strong-minded" take offense, for we know of only two women in the world to whom the above description applies;-one is an old maid and the other a childless wife; and both of them are just now making a hobby of the "Management of Infants." Have you ever read Miss -'s "Lectures to Young Mothers"? Well, that isn't a circumstance to her personal supervision. These "reformers are death on babies, and rather abrupt on the question of discipline. Did you ever

see an individual of either sex who had wandered through the world "fancy free" for an indefinite number of years, that didn't know exactly how to manage their neighbors' children? But if they do "commit matrimony" late in life, and are blessed with human olive plants, we usually learn that they grow up "wild olives" from the want of culture.

The fields of literature are haunted with hobbies. Where did you ever see a novel that had not for its basis the same old story of love and matrimony that has echoed through the ages ever since Adam won the affections of Eve? And what a similarity among their heroines-pale-faced girls nearly all of them, with decided tendencies to consumption; but, strange to say, they live through trouble and hardship enough to kill half a dozen healthy women, and perhaps get well after their friends are dead. They have a faculty, too, of always looking well; if they cry, it doesn't make their noses red; and when reduced to poverty, and obliged to become servants, they can do all kinds of work without soiling their hands or the immaculate "white robe" in which they are always arrayed. Why don't they tell us how many white dresses they have, and where they can always get the everlasting "rose" to wear in their hair. And why, pray tell us, why do they all make such a hobby of consumption? Why can't they let somebody die with something else? Even dropsy would be an improvement by way of variety. Who ever heard of a heroine with dyspepsia, jaundice or erysipelas, or a hero who was troubled with rheumatism, sore throat, or even a cold in his head? No wonder that the persistent novel-reader becomes narrowchested and hollow-eyed; perhaps some of them die of consumption out of pure sympathy.

Novel-writers are not alone, however, in their tendency to specialities. Poets are troubled in the same way; but we

will only give one illustrious example. Homer, the grandest uninspired poet of any age, made a hobby of his mythology. What would the Iliad have been without it?

Hardly readable, perhaps; and yet his ancient divinities look quite objectionable to us. Jove was rather sublime, to be sure, but he was always hurling thunderbolts at somebody's head; and Vulcan was a fellow of some science-though we lack proof that his blacksmithing ever benefited anybody. Juno was probably fine looking, but she wasn't a bit agreeable when things didn't suit her. Venus was rather pretty-though no one knew it better than she; and Mars was always a fighting character. Apollo played the harp, and sometimes used a silver bow; but one he was heir to, and the other he found. Not a divinity among them all could have made either of them-mythology to the contrary notwithstanding. But then, mankind must have something to worship. We remember reading about a people that worshiped a golden calf once, and they knew, better too; but we regret to say that men will still worship such things, and between the gold, the calves and the greenbacks, there are lots of idols in the world now. We are growing very practical; and brownstone fronts, with accompaniments, command more worshipers than Jove and Juno ever did. Those classical deities have all lost caste, except Pluto, and he has more followers now than

ever.

There is no subject, perhaps, which has been carried to such extremes as that of religion. Pure and sacred in itself, its ideas and principles have been wrestled from their connection, distorted in their meaning, and made the hobbies of many fanatical riders. Here and there a bold reformer discovers a new and valuable truth; but instead of waiting modestly for more light, he jumps on to his new idea, and gallops across the pages of "Church History."

He is followed, of course, by a few; and, building up a new sect, he looks back into the fold he has left, and coolly informs its inmates that they are either "lost sheep," or have all turned to goats since his exit, and they have no chance of future happiness unless they will carefully step in every track he has made, pronounce his shibboleth, and acknowledge that but for him there could have been no salvation to the present age. Some are so jealous for their "faith" that they grow very careless about their work, while others think that it makes little difference what you believe if you can only keep your face straight. They mistake "the blues" for religion, and "settled melancholy" for sanctification. They see nothing but misery in the world; and, with longdrawn faces unknown to happiness, they take it for granted they are pious, when the truth is they are only bilious. They go to meeting to "bear the cross," when perhaps they have been as cross as bears all the week. He who "lived among the tombs" anciently was "possessed of devils ;" and we can not wonder at it much, when we consider the place of his habitation. These solemnities bring up their children on calomel and catechisms, and the young scions are sure to graduate on Dickens and dyspepsia. Why can't they see daylight in this bright world, all flooded with golden sunshine? The grand old trees are filled with singing birds, and every warbler is a rare music-box, tuned and wound by the hand of God. The hill-sides and prairies are enameled with pearly flowers, and their fragrance is borne upon the music-laden breeze. "Then cheer up, desponding pilgrim !" Let praise be heard instead of mourning, and grateful hearts give out the joyous notes of love. The woof of life is saddened by many a grief-worn thread, and marked by the dark stains of sin and death. Still, the Great Giver hath lent us more of joy than

HE modest tea-plant, without per

THE

fume or gaudy foliage, has a meaning hardly less bloody and significant than the rose of England; for it was the innocent occasion of the Revolutionary War. From that time on, nature's symbol of modesty has also been history's symbol of liberty. It is no mere poetic fancy that sees in the initial incident of our struggle for independence the prophecy of a future that is now just beginning to unfold. When the two great oceans were united by that vast chain of which the Pacific Railroad is the last and noblest link, the two continents of Asia and America were also brought together. The Chinese question had hitherto been confined to the Pacific States, but the last spike of our great continental railway gave this problem to the entire nation for practical solution.

In solving it, grave difficulties are sure to be encountered. Having disposed of Sambo, broken his chains, and, by giving him the ballot, eliminated him from politics (this task is so nearly completed that we may speak of it as an accomplished fact), we must next deal with Chang. The Asiatic question will not, we trust, approach the African in difficulty; but it will most assuredly lead to a stubborn and desperate conflict of opinion. Already the dominant democracy of California has for its cardinal doctrine hostility to Chinese immigration. As "John moves eastward, this hostility will follow him, and very likely gather strength as it goes. In a few years he will be as omnipresent and irrepressible as the ubiquitous Patrick. Deplore or desire it, hinder or aid it, when the time comes the tide of immigration will rise and sweep on

its course, laughing to scorn all puny opposition. The problem of China has, therefore, no parallel in importance. It is also complicated in the extreme, the popular ideas of Chinese civilization and character being for the most part wide of the truth. We shall in this paper confine ourselves to such facts and considerations as bear directly upon the solution of the practical question before us.

Upon the very outset one is struck by the resemblance between the United States and China, or Chung Kwoh, as the people themselves call it. The two countries occupy substantially the same relative positions in their respective hemispheres. Their eastern lines of sea-coast are very similar in extent and contour. The same varieties of climate are found in both lands. Their rivers and mountains present a striking resemblance to each other. These analogies are neither fanciful nor trivial. It is further noteworthy that the political divisions of that kingdom have a general likeness to those of this republic. The state, county and township divisions of this nation, correspond to the Shihpahseng, Fu and Hien of that. We may add, in passing, that while the area of China is nearly double that of this country, we have here about twice as many States.

Right here our chain of analogies abruptly breaks off, and a series of contrasts present themselves. The Chinese cities are walled. The country is densely peopled. Instead of railroads there are sedans; instead of steamers, junks; instead of labor-saving machinery, the most primitive implements of industry. While the American farmer, especially the Western, is noted