It used to be accounted a merit in a man to rise to high station from humble beginnings; but we now perceive that humble beginnings are favorable to the development of that force of character which wins the world’s great prizes.  Let us never again commend any one for “rising” from obscurity to eminence, but reserve our special homage for those who have become respectable human beings in spite of having had every advantage procured for them by rich fathers.  Henry Clay found an Eton, and an Oxford in Old Virginia that were better for him than those of Old England.  Few men have been more truly fortunate in their education than he.  It was said of a certain lady, that to know her was a liberal education; and there really have been, and are, women of whom that could be truly averred.  But perhaps the greatest good fortune that can befall an intelligent and noble-minded youth is to come into intimate, confidential relations with a wise, learned, and good old man, one who has been greatly trusted and found worthy of trust, who knows the world by having long taken a leading part in its affairs, and has outlived illusions only to get a firmer footing in realities.  This, indeed, is a liberal education; and this was the happiness of Henry Clay.  Nothing in biography is so strange as the certainty with which a superior youth, in the most improbable circumstances, finds the mental nourishment he needs.  Here, in the swampy region of Hanover County, Virginia, was a barefooted, ungainly urchin, a poor widow’s son, without one influential relative on earth; and there, in Richmond, sat on the chancellor’s bench George Wythe, venerable with years and honors, one of the grand old men of Old Virginia, the preceptor of Jefferson, signer of the Declaration of Independence, the most learned man in his profession, and one of the best men of any profession.  Who could have foreseen that this friendless orphan, a Baptist preacher’s son, in a State where to be a “dissenter” was social inferiority, should have found in this eminent judge a friend, a mentor, a patron, a father?

Yet it came about in the most natural way.  We catch our first glimpse of the boy when he sat in a little log school-house, without windows or floor, one of a humming score of shoeless boys, where a good-natured, irritable, drinking English schoolmaster taught him to read, write, and cipher as far as Practice.  This was the only school he ever attended, and that was all he learned at it.  His widowed mother, with her seven young children, her little farm, and two or three slaves, could do no more for him.  Next, we see him a tall, awkward, slender stripling of thirteen, still barefoot, clad in homespun butternut of his mother’s making, tilling her fields, and going to mill with his bag of corn strapped upon the family pony.  At fourteen, in the year 1791, a place was found for him in a Richmond drug-store, where he served as errand-boy and youngest clerk for one year.