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SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON.[1]

Here I pause for everything that concerns in the remotest way the incidents of Professor Wilson’s life; one letter I mean to add, as I have already promised, on the particular position which he occupies in relation to modern literature; and then I have done. Meantime, let me hope that you have not so far miscalculated my purpose as to have been looking out for anecdotes (i. e. scandal) about Professor Wilson throughout the course of this letter; since, if in any case I could descend to cater for tastes of that description (which I am persuaded, are naturally no tastes of your family),–you must feel, on reflection, how peculiarly impossible it is to take that course in sketching the character of a friend, because the very means, by which in almost every case one becomes possessed of such private anecdotes, are the opportunities thrown in one’s way by the confiding negligence of affectionate friendship; opportunities therefore which must be for ever sacred to every man of honour.

Yours most faithfully,

PARMENIDES.