It was his custom to keep open house at breakfast and luncheon time; but the evening meal was, as a rule, reserved so that he might see and enjoy his own family and intimates. He lived exceedingly plainly himself; he did not smoke; his drink was water: but he delighted in setting a goodly repast before his guests. He loved a romp with his children, and spared an occasional hour from the afternoon for that enjoyment. The same energy entered into his play that was seen in his work. A craze ran through fashionable circles in the fifties for _tableaux vivants_, and was taken up by the Simpson household. He entered with spirit into the new amusement, perhaps more keenly because he saw an opportunity of combining in such representations instruction with amusement. Historical personages and scenes were represented, as well as illustrations of poetry and fiction. With his infective enthusiasm he pressed poets and painters, grave and gay, into service, and there is a record of one highly successful entertainment at 52, Queen Street, in 1854, to which young and old alike were invited. On this occasion most of the scenes represented serious events in Scots history, but Simpson himself seems to have supplied a little comedy. Sandwiched between a scene of "Flora Macdonald watching Prince Charlie" and one of "Rebecca and Eleazar at the Well" came that of "The Babes in the Wood." Simpson and a professional colleague disported themselves as the Babes, and appeared sucking oranges and dressed as children--short dresses, pinafores, frilled drawers, white socks, and children's shoes. They wandered about a while, and then lay weeping down to die to an accompaniment of roars of laughter and to the great delight of the juveniles. It is but a small incident to chronicle, but it shows in his home life the great physician who was beloved by thousands. His deep sympathies made him delight in the society of children. As years increased, and with them work became overwhelming and worries and troubles persistent, he appreciated more and more the refreshment of a frolic with his children. He echoed Longfellow's pure words:-- "Come to me, oh ye children, For I hear you at your play, And the questions that perplexed me Have vanished quite away. . . . . . . . . . . For what are all our contrivings, And the wisdom of our books, When compared with your caresses And the gladness of your looks." His affectionate disposition and kindly manner gained the devotion of his many child patients; and his own family bereavements made him a sympathetic physician and friend to many a sorrowing mother. There was no cant or affectation in his sympathy; it grew out of his large heart.