Who that has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness
and despondency; who that has pined on a weary bed in the neglect
and loneliness of a foreign land; but has thought on the mother
"that looked on his childhood," that smoothed his pillow, and
administered to his helplessness? Oh! there is an enduring
tenderness in the love of a mother to her son that transcends all
other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by
selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor
stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his
convenience; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she
will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity:- and, if
misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from misfortune;
and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and
cherish him in spite of his disgrace; and if all the world beside cast
him off, she will be all the world to him.
Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in sickness, and none
to soothe- lonely and in prison, and none to visit him. He could not
endure his mother from his sight; if she moved away, his eye would
follow her. She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he
slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, and look
anxiously up until he saw her bending over him; when he would take her
hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep, with the tranquillity of a
child.
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