The change from school to college life is in every case an important one. With the majority it involves emancipation, in a large degree, from enforced and distasteful studies, and their exchange for congenial pursuits. The youth begins for the first time to estimate knowledge at its real worth, and to shape out plans of study for himself. But the novel arena is no less important as that in which the companionships of the playground give place to that discriminating choice of congenial associates in which life-long friendships have so often originated. It is the joyous season in which the springtide is just merging into life’s early summer; when youth is animated by all generous aspirations, and hope’s rainbow arch spans the horizon. The period of William Nelson’s admission as an undergraduate of the University of Edinburgh was in some respects a brilliant one in its history; and even more so in relation to its students than its professors. Dr. John Lee, the learned Church historian and black-letter scholar, was principal, and Dr. Chalmers occupied the chair of divinity; the chair of natural philosophy was successively occupied by Sir John Leslie and by James D. Forbes. Before the abrupt close of William Nelson’s academic career, Sir William Hamilton had assumed the lead in its school of mental science; and the fame of John Wilson, its professor of moral philosophy, under his pseudonym of “Christopher North,” attracted many to his class-room for whom his professed theme would have had no charm. But in the department of classics, for which all William Nelson’s previous training had been specially directed, the faculty was imperfectly equipped. Dunbar, a poor representative of Hellenic scholarship, had then filled the Greek chair for upwards of a quarter of a century. On the other hand, the professor of humanity was James Pillans, an elegant scholar, and, in the words of Sir Alexander Grant, “a born teacher and educator;” though latterly more prone to dwell on little critical niceties than to give himself up to the drudgery which was indispensable for the training of his large and often inadequately prepared class. Among other traits that his old pupils will recall was the never-failing protest at the opening of a new session, which reminded the class that he enjoyed the dubious fame of being pilloried by Byron in his “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.” The irate bard, in his indiscriminate _furor_, had characterized the professor of humanity as “Paltry Pillans;” and William Nelson used to quote this incident of his own experience in justification of the title:--He had an essay to give in on a certain day, and not having finished it till late on the previous night, instead of walking to the professor’s remote residence at Inverleith Row, he dropped his manuscript into the nearest post-box. Next day, when the class assembled, the first intimation from the professor was, “I will thank Mr. William Nelson to hand twopence to the