o me to remember,--that
it was by a _picture_ I was first led to take an interest in ragged
schools,--by a picture in an old, obscure, decaying burgh that stands on
the shores of the Firth of Forth, the birth-place of Thomas Chalmers. I
went to see this place many years ago, and, going into an inn for
refreshment, I found the room covered with pictures of shepherdesses
with their crooks, and sailors in holiday attire, not particularly
interesting. But above the chimney-piece there stood a large print, more
respectable than its neighbors, which represented a cobbler's room. The
cobbler was there himself, spectacles on nose, an old shoe between his
knees,--the massive forehead and firm mouth, indicating great
determination of character, and, beneath his bushy eyebrows, benevolence
gleamed out on a number of poor ragged boys and girls, who stood at
their lessons round the busy cobbler. My curiosity was awakened; and in
the inscription I read how this man, John Pounds, a cobbler in
Portsmouth, taking pity on the multitude of poor ragged children left by
ministers and magistrates, and ladies and gentlemen, to go to ruin on
the streets,--how, like a good shepherd, he gathered in these wretched
outcasts,--how he had trained them to God and to the world,--and how,
while earning his daily bread by the sweat of his brow, he had rescued
from misery and saved to society not less than five hundred of these
children. I felt ashamed of myself. I felt reproved for the little I had
done. My feelings were touched. I was astonished at this man's
achievement; and I well remember, in the enthusiasm of the moment,
saying to my companion (and I have seen in my cooler and calmer moments
no reason for unsaying the saying),--'That man is an honor to humanity,
and deserves the tallest monument ever raised within the shores of
Britain.' I took up that man's history, and I found it animated by the
spirit of Him who had 'compassion on the multitude.' John Pounds was a
clever man besides; and, like Paul, if he could not win a poor boy any
other way, he won him by art. He would be seen chasing a ragged boy
along the quays, and compelling him to come to school, not by the power
of a policeman, but by the power of a hot potato. He knew the love an
Irishman had for a potato; and John Pounds might be seen running
holding under the boy's nose a potato, like an Irishman, very hot, and
with a coat as ragged as himself. When the day comes when honor will be
do