With the proper carrying out of the Act the 40,000 boat children of school age, not ten per cent. of whom can read and write, will be educated, and the boatmen’s homes made more healthy and happy; industrious habits will be encouraged, and the country will also be made richer by increasing the happiness of her water toilers upon our rivers and canals.
“Oh, help them, then, if ye are men, And, when thy race is run, Turn not aside, nor think with pride Thy work in life is done.”
My papers passed off in the midst of smiles and kindly and lengthy _press notices_. Editors have always been more kind to me than I have deserved, much more than I had anticipated. The fact is, I had expected some rough handling, and armed myself with a few little rough, awkward facts. Perhaps it was fortunate for me that the majority of my hearers were of the gentler sex. Bless their dear hearts! Their encouraging smiles and words have helped me through many a difficulty in pushing on with the cause of the children. May God reward them a thousandfold.
The act was ended, and the curtain dropped. I therefore “picked up my crumbs,” and bade my friends goodbye till—D.V. and if all’s well—we meet again next year at Huddersfield. I then made my way to the station, and home. Upon Leicester platform I met with a few old friends, who had pleasant greetings for me, including Mr. Thompson, Mr. Fox, and a literary friend, the Rev. W. L. Lang, F.R.G.S., who has given myself and the cause I have in hand many lifts—bless him for it. Onward and upward may he travel to the time when it shall be said, “It is enough.” And to my many other friends who have helped me by their influence and with their pens, I repeat the same thing over and over again.
My little stock of the “one thing needful” had begun to turn quite modest, and crept into the corners of my pocket, so as to be scarcely felt among the keys of boxes, drawers, cupboards, and lockers, knives, and other pocket trifles. I took my ticket to Rugby, which left me with one shilling. I had not gone far before my ticket was missing out of my hand. I was in a minute “all of a stew.” Cold perspiration crept over me. In a twinkle, before any one could say “Jack Robinson,” my hands were at the bottom of my pockets using their force to persuade Mr. “Ticket” to turn up; but no! it was not to be found. Fortunately a porter came panting after me and asked if I had not lost my ticket. He had lifted a ton weight off my shoulders, and I thanked him very much. At Rugby I spent my last coin in copies of the _Times_, _Standard_, _Daily News_, _Telegraph_, _Daily Chronicle_, _and Morning Post_. In nearing our old antiquated village along the lovely green lanes, little village children were to be seen gathering blackberries. The sun was shining most beautifully in my face. The autumnal tints and hues were to be seen upon the trees. The gentle rustling wind brought the decaying and useless leaves hesitatingly and in a zigzag fashion to the ground, as if they were loath to leave the trees which had given them birth, before settling among the mud to be trampled upon by tramps and gipsies. While climbing the last hill, with a heavy heart and light pocket, weighed on all sides with nervous hope, trembling doubts, and anxious fears, I never more fully realized the force of John Wesley’s hymn, as I tried to hum it over. In soft but faltering accents I might have been heard by the village children singing—