LYDIA MARIA CHILD.
AUTHOR OF “AN APPEAL IN BEHALF OF THAT CLASS OF AMERICANS CALLED AFRICANS.”
EXT to Harriet Beecher Stowe, no woman, perhaps, has contributed more to the liberation of the black man than has the subject of this sketch. It was Lydia Maria Child who wrote the famous reply to Governor Wise, of Virginia, after the hanging of John Brown, and it was to her that the wife of the Senator from Massachusetts, the author of the “Fugitive Slave Law,” wrote, threatening her with future damnation for her activity against the operation of that law. Mrs. Child’s reply to Governor Wise, of Virginia, and Mrs. Mason was published with their letters in pamphlet form, and three hundred thousand copies were quickly distributed throughout the North. On the altars of how many thousand hearts they kindled the fires of universal liberty of person can never be known; but it is certain that after the appearance of this pamphlet, and Mrs. Stowe’s immortal book, the fate of slavery in the United States was sealed, and the rising star of the black man’s liberty and the setting sun of the accursed institution simultaneously rose and fell.
But Lydia M. Child was more than an abolitionist. She was one of the most prolific and varied writers of the second and third quarters of the nineteenth century, as subsequent reference to her books and letters will show.
Lydia M. Francis was born in Medford, Massachusetts, February 11, 1802, and was the daughter of David Francis. Her early education was received at the hands of an odd, old woman and her brother, Converse Francis, afterwards Professor of Theology in Harvard College. After leaving private instruction, she studied in public schools, and subsequently spent a year in the seminary. From 1814 to 1820 she lived with her married sister in Maine. At the age of eighteen she returned to Watertown, Massachusetts, to live with her brother. He discovered her literary ability and encouraged her to study and write. In 1823 “Hobomok,” her first story, was published. This proved to be successful, and she issued another book, under the title of “Rebels,” which was also well received. She then brought out, in rapid succession, “The Mother’s Book,” “The Girl’s Book,” “The History of Women,” and “The Frugal Housewife.” The first passed through twelve English and one German editions, while the last reached thirty-five editions. In 1826 she began to write for children, and published her “Juvenile Miscellanies.” In 1828 she became the wife of David Lee Child, a lawyer, and removed to Boston, Massachusetts, where they settled. In 1831 both wife and husband became interested in the then new “Anti-Slavery Movement.” Mr. Child became the leader of the Anti-Slavery Party; and, in 1833, Mrs. Child published her famous book, entitled “An Appeal in Behalf of that Class of Americans Called Africans.” When this work appeared, Dr. Channing, it is said, was so delighted with it that he at once walked from Boston to Roxbury to see the author, though a stranger to him, and thank her for it. This was nearly twenty years before “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” appeared, and, so far as the writer is aware, was the first book ever published—in America at least—opposing the institution of slavery.
There were at this time in the North very few people who were openly opposed to slavery, and the appearance of the book cut Mrs. Child loose from the friends of her youth. Both social and literary circles, which had formerly welcomed her, now shut their doors against her entrance. She was at this time editing a magazine, which had a large subscription, and her books were selling well. Suddenly, the sale of her books fell off, subscriptions were withdrawn from her paper, and her life became one of ostracized isolation and a battle for existence. The effect of this, was, however, to stimulate rather than intimidate her zeal in the cause which she espoused. Through it all she bore her trouble with the patience and courage worthy of a heroine, and in the midst of her disappointment and labors found time to produce the “Life of Madame Roland” and “Baroness de Staël,” and also her Greek romance “Philothea.” At the same time, with her husband, she editorially supervised the “Anti-Slavery Standard,” in which was published those admirable “Letters from New York,” and, during the same troublous times, prepared her three-volumed work on “The Progress of Religious Ideas,” which evinces a depth of study and inquiry into the history of various religions from the most ancient Hindoo records to recent times that perhaps no woman in more modern times has approached. In 1840 Mr. and Mrs. Child removed to New York City, where they resided until 1844, when they removed to Wayland, Massachusetts, where she continued to reside for the next thirty-six years of her life, dying there October 20, 1880, in the seventy-eighth year of her age. She lived to see a reversal of the opinions that greeted her first plea for the personal liberty of all mankind, and became once more the honored centre of a wide circle of influential friends.
The books of Mrs. Child are numerous. We mention beside those referred to above “Flowers for Children,” three volumes (1844–1846); “Fact and Fiction” (1846); “The Power of Kindness” (1851); “A True Life of Isaac P. Hopper” (1853); “Autumnal Leaves” (1856); “Looking Toward Sunset” (1864); “The Freedman’s Book” (1865); “Maria” (1867); and “Aspirations of the World” (1878), which was the last work of the long and busy life of the grand, old woman—issued just three years before her death. In 1882, two years after her demise, a volume of her letters was published with an introduction by the Anti-Slavery poet, Whittier, and an appendix by the Anti-Slavery orator, Wendell Phillips.
A LITTLE WAIF.
(FROM “LETTERS FROM NEW YORK.”)
HE other day I went forth for exercise merely, without other hope of enjoyment than a farewell to the setting sun, on the now deserted Battery, and a fresh kiss from the breezes of the sea, ere they passed through the polluted city, bearing healing on their wings. I had not gone far, when I met a little ragged urchin, about four years old, with a heap of newspapers, “more big than he could carry,” under his little arm, and another clenched in his small red fist. The sweet voice of childhood was prematurely cracked into shrillness by screaming street cries, at the top of his lungs, and he looked blue, cold and disconsolate. May the angels guard him! How I wanted to warm him in my heart.
I stood looking after him as he went shivering along. Imagination followed him to the miserable cellar where he probably slept on dirty straw. I saw him flogged after his day of cheerless toil, because he had failed to bring home pence enough for his parents’ grog; I saw wicked ones come muttering, and beckoning between his young soul and heaven; they tempted him to steal to avoid the dreaded beating. I saw him years after, bewildered and frightened, in the police-office surrounded by hard faces. Their law-jargon conveyed no meaning to his ear, awakened no slumbering moral sense, taught him no clear distinction between right and wrong; but from their cold, harsh tones, and heartless merriment, he drew the inference that they were enemies; and as such he hated them. At that moment, one tone like a mother’s voice might have wholly changed his earthly destiny; one kind word of friendly counsel might have saved him—as if an angel, standing in the genial sunlight, had thrown to him one end of a garland, and gently diminishing the distance between them, had drawn him safely out of the deep and tangled labyrinth, where false echoes and winding paths conspired to make him lose his way. But watchmen and constables were around him, and they have small fellowship with angels. The strong impulses that might have become overwhelming love for his race are perverted to the bitterest hatred. He tries the universal resort of weakness against force; if they are too strong for him, he will be too cunning for them. Their cunning is roused to detect his cunning; and thus the gallows-game is played, with interludes of damnable merriment from police reports, whereat the heedless multitude laugh; while angels weep over the slow murder of a human soul. God grant the little shivering carrier-boy a brighter destiny than I have foreseen for him.
TO WHITTIER ON HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY.
THANK thee, friend, for words of cheer,
That made the path of duty clear,
When thou and I were young and strong
To wrestle with a mighty wrong.
And now, when lengthening shadows come,
And this world’s work is nearly done,
I thank thee for thy genial ray
That prophesies a brighter day
When we can work, with strength renewed,
In clearer light, for surer good.
God bless thee, friend, and give thee peace,
Till thy fervent spirit finds release;
And may we meet, in worlds afar,
My Morning and my Evening Star!
POLITENESS.
N politeness, as in many other things connected with the formation of character, people in general begin outside, when they should begin inside; instead of beginning with the heart, and trusting that to form the manners, they begin with the manners, and trust the heart to chance influences. The golden rule contains the very life and soul of politeness. Children may be taught to make a graceful courtesy or a gentlemanly bow; but unless they have likewise been taught to abhor what is selfish, and always prefer another’s comfort and pleasure to their own, their politeness will be entirely artificial, and used only when it is their interest to use it. On the other hand, a truly benevolent, kind-hearted person will always be distinguished for what is called native politeness, though entirely ignorant of the conventional forms of society.
FLOWERS.
OW the universal heart of man blesses flowers! They are wreathed round the cradle, the marriage-altar, and the tomb. The Persian in the far East delights in their perfume, and writes his love in nosegays; while the Indian child of the far West clasps his hands with glee, as he gathers the abundant blossoms,—the illuminated scripture of the prairies. The Cupid of the ancient Hindoos tipped his arrows with flowers; and orange-buds are the bridal crown with us, a nation of yesterday. Flowers garlanded the Grecian altar, and they hang in votive wreaths before the Christian shrine.
All these are appropriate uses. Flowers should deck the brow of the youthful bride; for they are in themselves a lovely type of marriage. They should twine round the tomb; for their perpetually renewed beauty is a symbol of the resurrection. They should festoon the altar; for their fragrance and their beauty ascend in perpetual worship before the Most High.
UNSELFISHNESS.
(From: “Letters from New York.”)
FOUND the Battery unoccupied, save by children, whom the weather made as merry as birds. Every thing seemed moving to the vernal tune of
“Oh, Brignall banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green.”—Scott’s Rokeby.
To one who was chasing her hoop, I said, smiling, “You are a nice little girl.” She stopped, looked up in my face, so rosy and happy, and, laying her hand on her brother’s shoulder, exclaimed, earnestly, “And he is a nice little boy, too!” It was a simple, childlike act, but it brought a warm gush into my heart. Blessings on all unselfishness! on all that leads us in love to prefer one another! Here lies the secret of universal harmony; this is the diapason which would bring us all into tune. Only by losing ourselves can we find ourselves. How clearly does the divine voice within us proclaim this, by the hymn of joy it sings, whenever we witness an unselfish deed or hear an unselfish thought. Blessings on that loving little one! She made the city seem a garden to me. I kissed my hand to her, as I turned off in quest of the Brooklyn ferry. The sparkling waters swarmed with boats, some of which had taken a big ship by the hand, and were leading her out to sea, as the prattle of childhood often guides wisdom into the deepest and broadest thought.
