But above
the chimney-piece there was a large print, more respectable than
its neighbours, 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
achievements; 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 honour
to humanity, and deserves the tallest monument ever raised within
the shores of Britain.
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