_Rob Rough_, you smell of rosin, and your look is stern, nevertheless, or all the rather, give me your hand. What a grip! You have been the most sceptical of all my hearers; you like to try everything, and you hold fast only what you consider good; and then on your _crepida_ or stool, you have your own think about everything human and divine, as you smite down errors on the lapstane, and "yerk" your arguments with a well-rosined lingle; throw your window open for yourself as well as for your blackbird; and make your shoes not to pinch. I present you, sir, with a copy of the book of the wise Switzer. And nimble _Pillans_, the clothier of the race, and quick as your needle, strong as your corduroys, I bid you good night. May you and the cooper be like him of Fogo, each a better man than his father; and you, _Mungo_ the mole-catcher, and _Tod Laurie_, and _Sir Robert_ the cadger, and all the other odd people, I shake your fists twice, for I like your line. I often wish I had been a mole-catcher, with a brown velveteen, or (fine touch of tailoric fancy!) a moleskin coat; not that I dislike moles,--I once ate the fore-quarter of one, having stewed it in a Florence flask, some forty years ago, and liked it,--but I like the killing of them, and the country by-ways, and the regularly irregular life, and the importance of my trade. And good night to you all, you women-folks. _Marion Graham_ the milkwoman; _Tibbie Meek_ the single servant; _Jenny Muir_ the sempstress; _Mother Johnston_ the howdie, thou consequential Mrs. Gamp, presiding at the gates of life; and you in the corner there, _Nancy Cairns_, gray-haired, meek and old, with your crimped mutch as white as snow; the shepherd's widow, the now childless mother, you are stepping home to your _bein_ and lonely room, where your cat is now ravelling a' her thrums, wondering where "she" is. Good night to you all, big and little, young and old; and go home to your bedside, there is Some One waiting there for you, and his Son is here ready to take you to him. Yes, he is waiting for every one of you, and you have only to say, "Father, I have sinned,--take me"--and he sees you a great way off. But to reverse the parable; it is the first-born, your elder brother, who is at your side, and leads you to your Father, and says, "I have paid his debt"; that Son who is ever with him, whose is all that he hath. I need not say more. You know what I mean. You know who is waiting, and you know who it is who stands beside you, having the likeness of the Son of Man. Good night! The night cometh in which neither you nor I can work,--may we work while it is day; whatsoever thy _hand_ findeth to do, do it with thy might, for there is no work or device in the grave, whither we are all of us hastening; and when the night is spent, may we all enter on a healthful, a happy, an everlasting to-morrow! Cambridge: Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. VEST-POCKET SERIES OF Standard and Popular Authors.