Lydia Maria Child, Letters of Lydia Maria Child
John Greenleaf Whittier, Wendell Phillips, Harriet Winslow Sewall, Ed.

To Mrs. Nathaniel Silsbee.

Dear unknown,--I have a question of morality and good manners to propound to thee. Dost thou think it quite proper to address anonymous letters to people in a hand cramped on purpose to disguise it? Ah, thou rogue! Now look me right in the eye and say dost thou know of anybody who has played such a trick, and didst thou think to blind a weasel in that fashion?

Yesterday was my birthday, and on that day many pleasant things occurred. Imprimis, Harnden's Express car stopped at the door, and a package was brought up to me. I opened it and found a very beautiful edition of Mrs Jameson's “Characteristics of women,” purporting to come “from a woman who had benefited much from Mrs. Child's characteristics.” “Ahem!” said I, “this evidently comes from a woman who knows how to shed the graces over life.”

The next pleasant thing was that my lovely S. L. came in with a large bouquet of violets, the fragrance of which filled the room. “Oh, dear Maria, though you were so silent about your birthday, I did not forget it,” said she; and she played a rondeau and an old Norwegian peasant melody which Ole used to play. They all know the road to my heart, the rogues!

The third pleasant incident was that the flower merchant in Broadway, who sold the violets, would not take a cent for them, because S. happened to say [60] they were for Mrs. Child's birthday and he overheard her. “I cannot take pay for flowers intended for her,” said he. “She is a stranger to me, but she has given my wife and children so many flowers in her writings, that I will never take money of her.” It brought the tears to my eyes. I wish I was good. I ought to be, everybody is so kind to me.

The fourth pleasant incident was the entrance of J. L., the cantatrice, and a very sweet warbler she is. “I did not forget your birthday,” she said, and she placed on my head a crimson wreath and sang and played for me Ole's favorite melody: “Near the lake where droops the willow,” which he has introduced beautifully in his “Niagara,” swelling upon the wind instruments as if borne on the wings of angels.

Meeting with so much unexpected kindness filled me with universal benevolence. I ran right off and gave a large portion of my violets to my friend, Mrs. F. G. S., who is here under Dr. Elliott's care and blind for the present, and the fragrance refreshed her though she could not see the beautiful tint. Then I ran in another direction and carried my little music-box, and another portion of my violets, to a poor man who is dying slowly. I wanted to give something and do something for the whole world. . . . But I must take care, for my own private theories on this subject touch the verge of radicalism.

I have a confession to make to you. I intended to send you some little “rattletrap” on your birthday. But I said to myself, “that will seem like reminding her of my birthday.¹ She is rich and I am poor. If I send her plaster she will perhaps send me marble; it will be more delicate not to do it.” I am ashamed, [61] thoroughly ashamed, of those mean ideas, for the thought “I am poor and thou art rich” ought never to enter to interrupt the free flowing of human souls toward each other. Nevertheless I did it as I have done many other things that I regret and am ashamed of.

Good-by, invisible fairy princess, dropping anonymous gifts from thy golden car in the clouds.

I am ever thy affectionate and grateful subject.