On returning from these scenes of real life and activity, to that most picturesque of cities, the Old Town of Edinburgh, I was plunged into tenfold gloom; and really do not know what I should have done had I not lighted accidentally upon Shakspeare’s description of the ship-boy reposing on the high and giddy mast. This idea was so congenial to the fancy of a sailor elect, and withal so exquisitely poetical, that I could not rest till possessed of a copy of the whole of his Plays, which were forthwith read over from beginning to end—to the total destruction, I am half ashamed to say, of all the little respect I then had for the ancient classics. The Tempest was soon learned almost by heart—the nautical part of it in particular—and I swore an eternal friendship with the boatswain, whose seamanship, by the way, though wild and strange, is, upon the whole, wonderfully correct. One would like to know how Shakspeare picked it up. About this period, also, when my thoughts presented a strange jumble of real and imaginary shipwrecks, with the intricate niceties of Latin grammar, I met my father one day in the streets, close to the late Lord Duncan’s house. “Well met!” he cried, “come along, master sailor, and you shall see the hero of Camperdown.” I was accordingly introduced as a future brother-seaman to this great officer, whose noble appearance was in such good keeping with his renown, that I felt my respect for him rise at every moment of the interview. “You are a youngster of some taste,” observed his lordship good-naturedly; “and if you will come here with me, I can shew you something to encourage you to stick to your business.” So saying, he led the way to another room, where a flag he had taken from Admiral de Winter, on the 11th of October, 1797, was hanging up. This sight was interesting, to be sure, but I was still more enchanted with the frankness and kindliness of the veteran’s manner,—and I could not help saying to myself, that if such a man saw reason to treat a boy with attention, I was surely entitled to something less disrespectful than I met with at school,—and I remember, next morning, shedding a torrent of tears as I entered the scene of what I considered my imprisonment, and contrasted the master’s reception with that of the admiral. Not long afterwards, I happened to meet Professor Playfair, of Edinburgh College, at a house in the country. It was the singular fortune of this amiable and accomplished philosopher, to be equally a favourite with the young as with the old. He won the regard and the confidence of children, not only by the matchless sweetness of his disposition, but by the generous encouragement he delighted to give to their opening thoughts; whilst among men of science, or of letters, he was not less admired for the extent and variety of his attainments, than for the clear, popular, and often eloquent facility which he possessed of giving expression to the most abstract branches of knowledge.