With the exception of his work in journalism, almost the whole of Andrew Wilson's literary remains have been first given to the public in the pages of the magazine. From his frequent absences in the East, in China, and India, he would return with his mind richly stored with impressions of travel, and, settling down in some quiet nook, would proceed to record them in a spirit of philosophic

ing before the arrival of the grand duch- | books, that the reader imagines himself ess Catherine of Russia. That the grand in the company of Speke, or Grant, or duchess contributed to fortify her objec- Ruxton, rather than in that of a confirmed tion to the marriage seems to have been invalid who is taking refuge amid the the conviction of Prince Metternich and wilder beauties of nature from an oppresof other high personages likely to be well sive sense of bodily infirmities. informed, but the princess was a person far less amenable to external pressure than the gossip of the day represented, and Lady Rose Weigall herself considers that the fluctuating conduct of the princess was attributable to the independent workings of her own mind. Such also we believe to be the true explanation of her final decision. Our wish accordingly has been to preserve the memory of the facts, which to her own mind justified reflection. He wrote, as he travelled, in that decision, and we would reverently place a humble wreath of immortelles upon the tomb of an illustrious lady, to whom the Fates were not kind during her childhood, and whose thread of life was prematurely snapped asunder to the heartful sorrow of an entire nation, of which we have a vivid personal recollection, at a moment when her youth seemed to have attained to the certainty of hap: pier days.

From Blackwood's Magazine.

THE LATE ANDREW WILSON.

a mood of thoughtful leisure, and had no sympathy with the modern explorer who dashes off his diary for the book-market with the same haste as he has galloped across a continent. Among his earliest contributions to the magazine were papers descriptive of his travels and adventures among the wild tribes of the Sindh frontier and Beloochistan, a region which at that time could be traversed by the European only at great personal risk. His experiences as a journalist in China opened up to him the further East, and on his return numerous articles contributed to our pages showed to what good account his opportunities had been turned. Among these an account of the "Inland Sea of ACCUSTOMED as the magazine has Japan,” and “Six Weeks in a Tower," always been to interest itself in those a graphic narrative of his residence among who have identified their literary careers the Chinese in a post in the Kwei-shin with its fortunes, it cannot pass over with-district, about a hundred miles from Canout an expression of feeling the death of Andrew Wilson, which took place at Howtoun, on Ullswater, in the Lake country, on the ninth of June. It is now a quarter of a century since a little essay called "Wayside Songs" appeared in these columns, and raised hopes that the graceful mastery of prose, combined with the delicate appreciation of poetry of the then unknown writer, would win for his gifts a ready recognition in the higher circles of criticism. Andrew Wilson's work has justified these expectations; and though his health denied him that power of unremitting application which is essential to the highest literary success, he has still done enough to keep his name green in the literary history of his generation. In his own particular line of travel he has hitherto been without a rival, and though his aims were not those of the explorer or the sportsman, personal incident and picturesque description are scattered so lavishly throughout his

ton, where he beguiled the time in study. ing native manners, contrasting Chinese with English character, writing poetry, and recalling verses from favorite authors - attracted most notice. His Chinese experiences during the Taiping Rebellion mostly appeared as papers in the maga zine, and were subsequently republished in his successful volume, "The EverVictorious Army." Another epoch in his travel life was a summer and autumn which he spent in Switzerland later on, and of which he contributed an account to the magazine in the years 1865-66.

During his last visit to the East he undertook the adventurous Himalayan journey which he has described in "The Abode of Snow," and which forms his best claim to rank among accepted travellers. Probably no journey of the same extent and difficulty was ever undertaken by one so physically unfitted to undergo severe fatigue and privation. His spirit and endurance, stimulated by his enthusiasm

taste.

The last excursion made by Wilson was a run through the wild state of Kathiawar shortly before his final departure from India, a narrative of which appeared in the magazine in the autumn months of 1876. His last contribution was written in the following spring-"Twenty Years of African Travel," an interesting retrospect of the discoveries made by Speke and Grant as compared with those of more recent explorers.

for natural scenery, supplied the place of | and it was this invaluable kind of advice which bodily strength, and enabled him to ac- Mr. Blackwood freely tendered, pointing out complish a journey of nearly five months' where the treatment of my subject required duration across passes thirteen thousand expansion, or aiding me by his knowledge of feet high, and encountering ascents be- the world and profoundly appreciative literary fore which even Alpine Club men might have paused. The circumstances under which Wilson crossed the Himalaya would of themselves have made the journey sufficiently remarkable; but the account which he has given of it in "The Abode of Snow," with its glowing pictures of the unknown beauties of the Himalayas, its poetical interpretation of the charms of the mountain landscape, its genial humor, and its endless fund of story and quotation, will effectually stand between it and oblivion. We have a pleasure in looking back to the warm réception which Wilson's Himalayan travels received as they appeared in our columns; and he himself has put his own feelings on record. In the preface to "The Abode of Snow," he writes:

Andrew Wilson was the founder of a school of travellers which as yet has had no other representative except himself. He had no thirst for discovery, no ambition to take rank as a sportsman, no desire to encounter sensational dangers. His was a genial delight in natural beauty and grandeur, which seldom rose to feelI feel deeply indebted for its having been written at all to the encouragement, considera-ings of sublimity, but which, neverthetion, and advice of Mr. Blackwood, the editor of the famous magazine which bears his name, and in which a great part, but not the whole, of this narrative originally appeared. From the outset he sympathized warmly with my plan, and throughout he never failed to cheer my flagging spirits with generous praise, not to speak of other encouragement. Then he gave me a great deal of admirable advice. There is nothing that is commoner in this world than advice-nothing that is showered down upon one with more liberal profusion; but there is nothing rarer than judicious useful advice, the first condition of which is sympathetic appreciation of what one would be at;

less, sank deeply, if quietly, into his na-
ture. His well-stored mind, his extensive
reading, and the aptness of his memory,
made him thoroughly independent of so-
ciety; and when his attention was ar-
rested in his wanderings, passages from
his favorite authors readily crowded about
his memory, like old friends, to aid and
there a more delightful guide through the
stimulate his enjoyment.
jungle path or over the mountain pass
than Andrew Wilson; and his name will
long continue to suggest pleasant memo-
ries to the readers of "Maga.”

Never was

|

CONDORS AT REST.-The condor is pecul- which continues to fly about in regions where iar to the New World, but it approaches very the air is so rarefied, descends all at once to closely to the vultures of the old Continent. the edge of the sea, and thus in a few minutes The immense mountain-chain of the Andes, passes through all the variations of climate. which runs down the continent of South Amer- When driven by hunger, the condor descends ica, is the native stronghold where these birds into the plains, but leaves them as soon as its dwell securely. There, in the regions of per- appetite is satisfied. Like the rest of its petual snow, and of terrific storms, fifteen thou-species, it subsists on carrion, and often gorges sand feet above the level of the sea, on some isolated pinnacle or crag, the condor rears its brood, and looks down on the plains beneath, yet far away, for food. Though here these birds find their home, they build no nest, but deposit their eggs on the naked rocks, without surrounding them either with straw or leaves. Of all birds the condor mounts highest into the atmosphere. Humboldt describes the flight of it in the Andes to be at least twenty thousand feet above the level of the sea. He says it is a remarkable circumstance that this bird,

itself so as to become incapable of flight. The Indians, who are well acquainted with this effect of voracity, turn it to account in the chase. For this purpose they expose the dead body of a horse or a cow. Some of the condors, which are generally hovering in the air in search of food, are speedily attracted. As soon as they have glutted themselves on the carcass, the Indians make their appearance, armed with the lasso, and the condors being unable to escape by flight, are pursued and caught by this singular weapon.

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From The Fortnightly Review. ITALY; HER HOME AND FOREIGN POLICY.

It is surprising to see how little charity there is among men; how unable or unwilling we are to make allowance for the circumstances by which our neighbors are swayed; how often we grudge common justice even though we profess exaggerated partiality.

Leaving the Greeks to plead their own cause as they can, I shall venture, as an Italian, to assert that my countrymen might be entitled to a little more consideration where they so long met with so much indulgence. I shall attempt an apology of that long-enthralled nation, which seems daily to sink in the estimation of those who had perhaps too great a pity on its durance, and who also, perhaps, too hastily and too loudly applauded its release.

The best-abused nations in Europe at this moment are those which the general consent and deliberate act of the European States combined to recall from polit- There are few words better deserving ical death to life the Roumans, the to be treasured up, with respect to Italy, Bulgarians, and other Wallach or Slavic than those which fell from Massimo races; but more especially the modern d'Azeglio, when, amidst the first exultarepresentatives of those two great races tion of the meeting of an Italian Parliaof antiquity-the Hellenes and the ment in Turin, in 1860, he exclaimed, Latins. Few of us remember how harshly "L' Italia è fatta, ma chi farà ora gl' Itamen's judgment had for centuries, and till | liani.” D'Azeglio, both the warmestvery recent times, gone against those hearted and the coolest-headed of Italian fallen people; how persistently Greeks patriots, well knew by what long and and Italians were looked upon as degen- painful stages freedmen must rise to the erate bastards; the mere dust of the dignity of freemen. Had the emancipanoble generations on whose graves they tion of the peninsula been the result of a trod; the maggots,” to quote the expres- few years' struggle with Austria, or, if sion of a crabbed German, "claiming de- need were, with the whole world, the scendance from the lion's carcass, out of energies called forth by a sustained acwhose putrefaction they swarmed." Few tion would have brought forth a new race, of us recollect how often it was asserted as it happened in Switzerland at the rise that the Turk or the Austrian was "too of the Forest Cantons, or in Italy itself good for them;" how expedient it was at the epoch of the Lombard League of that they should bear their yoke till, for- the twelfth century. But the Italy of our sooth, "slavery should ripen them for days was not - fortunately, as some peoself-government." ple think-sufficiently tempered by the fire of adversity. She came too easily through the ordeal of 1859; she fought but little in that year; she fought again in 1866, and not victoriously. She won by defeat. The generation of “patriots," "rebels," or conspirators," as men may prefer to call them, who gave their blood, their homes, or their fortunes for their country's cause, is rapidly dying away, and a new set of mere politicians" has sprung up, who seem to look upon the long trials Italy had to go through as a mere myth, and laugh to scorn the idea of a possibility of their recurrence. They do not inquire by what virtues or by what chances their country became their own; they do not expect to be called upon to produce their title deeds. It is their country, of course. "Italy for the Ital

But they had not to wait so long as that; their valor or despair, their good fortune or the interested policy of the great powers, wrought out their deliverance; Greeks and Italians were allowed the free guidance of their own destinies, and forthwith our expectations transcended all limits of reason. We looked for an immediate revival of heroic races; for a reproduction of the deeds and thoughts of ancient Athens, or Sparta, or Rome; and now, because stubborn reality does not come up to our ideal, we fall back on our fathers' ungenerous views, and look upon those "half-emancipated bondsmen as corrupt and debased past recovery." We lament our ill-bestowed sympathies, and almost wish our work undone.

66