The weekly Anglo-African., 1860-04-28
THE SONS OF POOR MOTHERS.
BY MRS. N. A. DENIsoN.

and well connected persons OF ner acqnaln-
lance The young man preferred to tread
the ground like neither prince nor lord,
but like man conscious of his power; like
an American citizen every way worthy of
the name. He had trampled under footthe
sneers of the scornful and pretentious, and
stood before the world with his foot upon
the neck of their meanness. Step by step
he had disputed the ground with adverse
circumstances, and they had yielded, step
by step, till he stood now where he could
look down upon and use every obstacle
that had striven to hinder his progress,
and make it slave to his bidding. He
had taken calumny, and pride, and envy
by the throat, and flung them from him
with such force that they covered at his
glance, nor dared so much as to lift their
skinny fingers at his shadow when his
back was turned. Through weary strug-
giles against frightful obstacles that the
poor alone know-battling with the tide
of oppression, buffetted by the waves of
adversely, still upward he rose, onward he
went, till to-day no man is acknowledged
with louder acclamation-no man bowed
down to with deeper reverence--no man
whose recognition is greater honor, than
this son of poor woman.
His mother was poor woman
Look over the list of earth's magnates-
her royal kings of intellect-her lords of
genius patents of whose greatness origi-
mated in the courts of the Most High, ere
this little world brought forth its mock no.
bility, and tell us what proportion of those
great ones were the sons of rich mothers
Very, very few. The best statesmen, the
proudest poets, the hottest divines-those
thunderers by whom the earth was shaken
to its centre-men who have dethroned
kings and founded nations-the masters of
rhetoric and elocution-the most profound
philosophers bravest generals the
poor women, some of them widows who
suffered in loneliness and sorrow.
In our own day, our best and brightest
names have been given to little babes by
the lips of poor women, their heads Graded
upon coarse pillows, their little bare feet
trained over carpetless floors.
Daniel Webster was the son of a poor
woman. The first grandeur he knew was
that of the hills that lifted their granite
brows in eternal worship toward heaven
the only splendor, that of majestic clouds
and leaping torrents, the triumphal entry
of the sun through avenues of golden
glory, and his western march like that of
monarch, wrapping robes of crimson and
ermine about him. And yet for greatness,
Intellectually speaking, the world hath
scarcely his equal. Who knows if the
babe, Daniel Webster, had been rocked in
a rosewood cradle and lulled to sleep with
silver rattle in his hand, reared in the
midst of a city street, with no wild anthems
Of the forest-no thunder leaping from
crag to crag to bring out the stronger ele-
ments of the mind-no birds in the branch
es, and no silver streams to awaken the
more ethereal and picturesque Characters
tics of his intellect and group them into
harmony; who knows but that the world
had sighed over greatness born to blush
unseen, to droop, to die in comparative
solitude2"
Sons of poor mothers! What host of
them have sealed the summit of immortal
ity 4! They have left their impress in the
land of the idols, and many dark browed
heather has learned the way of salvation
through their almost superhuman exer-
tons. Every where throughout the world,
how do they stand forth and challenge our
homage Not with glossy kids and fault
less coats, patent boots and slender canes,
do they go forth, the admired whiskeran-
does of thoughtless girls, with sturdy steps
and clouted shoes-with signs of the much
used needle here and there seriously show
ing-with patched knees and elbows, and
with many an evidence besides that they
were the sons of poor mothers.
All honor to the sons of poor mothers
To them the nation look for statesmen and
defenders. For them there will always
be vacancies in the halls of science, seats
in the temples of our legislatures, and pull
pits in our churches. For them the doors
of the White House have sprung wide
open, and shall again, while the people
gather in crowds to do them reverence.
she was the son of poor woman !"
Let it never be spoken with a sheer of
self-sufficient shallowness, for it is in the
hearts of poor women the noblest resolves
have birth.-They make sacrifices that
would put to blush the Incidence and neg
ligence of the purse-proud. their
humble homes shine the stars that herald
ed the advent of heaven-born intelligence
1t has ever been so since the star of Beth
lehem blazed above the spot where Christ,
the King of Heaven, lay upon the bosom
Of poor woman. While they toll with
tears, and struggle with adversely, angels
whisper the destination of the babes that
sleep against their hearts. AT their lowly
hearthstones the young mind is imbued
with the holy principles of the Bible.
When the child comes sobbing home,
grieved and indignant, because those who
were better dressed have scorned him, the
poor mother, her heart filled with faith,
points out his noble destiny She it is
who inspires him with glowing hopes,
teaches him that merit lies not in the pal
try adornments of the outward man; that
in the years coming those who sheer at
him now may feel honored by his careless