University of Virginia Library

XXXIX.
THE CONFESSION.

For two years my daughter and I supported ourselves
comfortably in Boston. At the end of that
time, my brother William offered to send Ellen to a
boarding school. It required a great effort for me to
consent to part with her, for I had few near ties, and
it was her presence that made my two little rooms seem
home-like. But my judgment prevailed over my selfish
feelings. I made preparations for her departure.
During the two years we had lived together I had
often resolved to tell her something about her father;
but I had never been able to muster sufficient courage.
I had a shrinking dread of diminishing my child's
love. I knew she must have curiosity on the subject,
but she had never asked a question. She was always
very careful not to say any thing to remind me of my
troubles. Now that she was going from me, I thought
if I should die before she returned, she might hear
my story from some one who did not understand the
palliating circumstances; and that if she were entirely
ignorant on the subject, her sensitive nature might
receive a rude shock.

When we retired for the night, she said, “Mother,
it is very hard to leave you alone. I am almost sorry
I am going, though I do want to improve myself.
But you will write to me often; won't you, mother?”

I did not throw my arms round her. I did not answer

her. But in a calm, solemn way, for it cost me
great effort, I said, “Listen to me, Ellen; I have something
to tell you!” I recounted my early sufferings
in slavery, and told her how nearly they had crushed
me. I began to tell her how they had driven me into
a great sin, when she clasped me in her arms, and exclaimed,
“O, don't, mother! Please don't tell me any
more.”

I said, “But, my child, I want you to know about
your father.”

“I know all about it, mother,” she replied; “I am
nothing to my father, and he is nothing to me. All
my love is for you. I was with him five months in
Washington, and he never cared for me. He never
spoke to me as he did to his little Fanny. I knew all
the time he was my father, for Fanny's nurse told me
so; but she said I must never tell any body, and I
never did. I used to wish he would take me in his
arms and kiss me, as he did Fanny; or that he would
sometimes smile at me, as he did at her. I thought if
he was my own father, he ought to love me. I was a
little girl then, and didn't know any better. But now
I never think any thing about my father. All my
love is for you.” She hugged me closer as she spoke,
and I thanked God that the knowledge I had so much
dreaded to impart had not diminished the affection of
my child. I had not the slightest idea she knew that
portion of my history. If I had, I should have spoken
to her long before; for my pent-up feelings had often
longed to pour themselves out to some one I could
trust. But I loved the dear girl better for the delicacy
she had manifested towards her unfortunate
mother.

The next morning, she and her uncle started on
their journey to the village in New York, where she
was to be placed at school. It seemed as if all the
sunshine had gone away. My little room was dreadfully
lonely. I was thankful when a message came
from a lady, accustomed to employ me, requesting me
to come and sew in her family for several weeks. On
my return, I found a letter from brother William. He
thought of opening an anti-slavery reading room in
Rochester, and combining with it the sale of some
books and stationery; and he wanted me to unite with
him. We tried it, but it was not successful. We
found warm anti-slavery friends there, but the feeling
was not general enough to support such an establishment.
I passed nearly a year in the family of Isaac
and Amy Post, practical believers in the Christian doctrine
of human brotherhood. They measured a man's
worth by his character, not by his complexion. The
memory of those beloved and honored friends will
remain with me to my latest hour.