This, we feel, is no fit place for entering on the social or moral qualities of Professor Wilson. “Something we might have said, but to what end?” The depth and tenderness of his domestic affections are not themes for such discussion. His charities, his generosity, liberal and unfailing as they were, we would leave in that obscurity to which it was his own wish they should be consigned. His appreciation of all worth, however humble; his readiness to assist struggling merit; his utter absence of all affectation of superiority in himself; his toleration for the faults or presumption of others; his reluctance consciously to inflict pain on any one—a feeling which grew on him, as it grows on all good men, with advancing years; are they not written on the memories of all who were the objects of his aid or his forbearance? The charms of his social intercourse, who is likely to forget, whether first experienced “in life’s morning march, when his spirit was young,” or when added years and experience had pruned the luxuriance and softened the asperities of youth, but left all the bright and genial qualities of the mind undimmed, and the sympathies of the soul at once deepened and diffused? To those who had the privilege of enjoying his intimate acquaintance, as familiar friends or fellow-labourers in the same seed-field; to the many who have been indebted to him for that which he never failed to afford—wise and considerate counsel; to the thousands whom he has formed, guided, encouraged, admonished, or corrected, the thought of Professor Wilson will be among those recollections which they would most wish to arrest—those visions which, when they begin to fade, they would be most anxious to recall. As a proof how completely he was superior to any feeling of party where a question of literature and genius was involved, and how his kindly disposition could urge him to exertion, even under the pressure of disease, we may mention, that the last occasion on which he can be said to have appeared in public, was when he left his brother’s house, and, supported by a friendly arm, came up to record his vote for a political opponent, Mr Macaulay. The last occasion on which he left his own threshold, was when he drove out to congratulate a friend on an event, on which he believed his happiness in life was likely to depend.