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She didn’t like her name. Later in her life, someone asked why. “Suffice it to say,” she replied, “that some associations of childhood make the name of Lydia unpleasant to me.” It would not have been hard for some Lydia or other to make a bad impression: in nineteenth-century America, Lydias were everywhere. This Lydia herself had a great-grandmother, a grandmother, and an aunt by that name. As an adult, she would add a mother-in-law, a sister-in-law, a niece, and several namesakes to the chorus of Lydias around her. They were ubiquitous outside her family, too. Perhaps this is why her con-temporary Ralph Waldo Emerson, whose second wife was named Lydia, rechristened her Lidian. The marriage went downhill from there. This Lydia would not wait for a man to rename her. By the time she was twenty, she had done it herself. But for now, Lydia Francis was the only name she had. And so until, by way of a religious quest and a complicated marriage, she became known to the world as L. Maria Child, Lydia Francis would have to do. She was born on February 11, in Medford, Massachusetts. Medford was a small town on the Mystic River at the intersection of six colonial highways, about five miles northwest of Boston. The year was 1802. The American Revolution, with all its glory and uncertainty, was still in the recent past. The war was a vivid memory to her parents, who had both been ten years old when it started. Her father’s father had fought against the British, distinguishing himself at the battles of Lexington and Concord by killing five enemy soldiers. Her mother’s family had fled Charlestown during the Battle of Bunker Hill as the city burned behind them. There had been real poverty during those years— her father remembered that one winter, had a neighbor not shared extra potatoes with him and his nine siblings, they might well have starved. But now the war was over. Her parents had been born British subjects, but now they were American citizens, free and clear. And what kind of country was the United States of America? In many ways, it was too early to tell. When Lydia Francis was born, Thomas Jefferson, America’s third president, was entering the second year of his first term in office. Already the country had weathered several crises that threatened its fragile union. Often those crises had to do with the fact that, despite Jefferson’s own soaring rhetoric about the self-evidence of human equality, by the time he took office almost a million humans were enslaved in the country whose ideals he was pledged to defend… As her world began to take shape around her, little Lydia Francis began to recognize her immediate family. In addition to her parents, Convers Sr. and Susannah, there were four older children: James, Susannah, Mary, and Convers Jr. Of her siblings, probably Convers came into focus first. He was almost seven when she was born; one baby had died between their births. He seems to have taken being displaced by a younger child well, emerging early in his little sister’s memories as affectionate and attentive even as other family members were perhaps too busy to mind her. Their father had by now fought his way out of poverty through the system of apprenticeship and had, at long last, become a prosperous baker. He was even famous: his “Medford crackers”— a buttery, crunchy, labor-intensive biscuit— were sold throughout the Northeast and exported in large quantities to England. The family lived in a two-story house across the street from the local cemetery, where at least one ancestral Lydia was buried. Next to their house was the bakery, a sign hanging in front for passersby to see. One of Lydia’s earliest memories was of almost dying. Some “long, protracted” sickness had taken hold, and the doctor had given up. She had, she remembered, been “laid away for dead.” What had that been like? Had she sensed her family sorrowing over her, her mother weeping but resigned, the room emptying as she fought alone against the fever or infection that was sapping her strength? Whatever it was, at some point her tiny body turned it back. Perhaps she opened her eyes in a dark room and became conscious of muffled activity downstairs. Or perhaps Convers was sitting there watching. Her illness had not killed her; it had made her stronger. Thereafter, her constitution was “hardy as an oak.” Her parents were hardworking, frugal people. They had, she recalled, “small opportunity for culture”; there had been “nothing like literary influence in the family, or its surroundings.” There was, of course, religion. The Francis family, like most people in the town, were Congregationalists, which meant they were Calvinists. This in turn involved a crushing belief that humans were fundamentally sinful, in many cases destined for a very real and eternal hell. No one could evade suspicion of damnation, but if you were prosperous, you might convince yourself and others that God favored you. And so people like Convers Francis Sr. worked very, very hard to prosper, resulting in a work ethic that became as famous as the goods it produced. It was the job of the Reverend David Osgood, minister of Medford’s First Parish Church, to deliver this message of uncertain salvation to the town’s sinful but striving inhabitants. Indeed, Lydia long recalled her minister’s ominous weekly incantations along with his shining white hair. But it seems that by the time she was old enough to remember, his message had also softened. Like many near Boston, he was being drawn to an interpretation of Christianity—soon to be known as Unitarianism— that depicted God as more loving than punishing and humans as capable of both freedom and goodness. But whatever their minister’s reformist tendencies were, Lydia’s father never lost his belief in hell or his conviction that his children might go there. Once a month, she and Convers were sent to Reverend Osgood to recite the old-fashioned catechism that promised as much. There she also encountered his daughters— Mary and Lucy— a few years older than she and clearly very bright. She must have watched the daughters of this learned man— growing up in a household full of books and ideas— with a mixture of admiration and envy. It seems that the fascination was mutual: well into adulthood, the Osgood sisters remembered the baker’s daughter who recited her catechism in their home as exhibiting considerable spirit and spunk.
