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.

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 was very hard for me to agree to part with her. I had few close ties, and her presence made my two little rooms feel like home. But my judgment won out over my selfish feelings, and I prepared for her departure. During our two years together, I had often resolved to tell her something about her father. But I had never been able to find the courage. I dreaded the thought that she might love me less. I knew she must be curious about her father, but she had never asked a question. She was always careful not to say anything that would remind me of my troubles. Now she was going away, and I thought I might die before she returned. If I did, she might hear my story from someone who did not understand the circumstances that made it more understandable. And if she knew nothing about it, her sensitive nature might suffer a terrible 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?”

When we went to bed, she said, “Mother, it is very hard to leave you alone. I almost wish I weren’t 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 did not put my arms around her. I did not answer her. But I spoke calmly and seriously, though it took great effort. I said, “Listen to me, Ellen. I have something to tell you!” I told her about my early suffering in slavery and how it had nearly crushed me. I began to tell her how that suffering had driven me to commit a great sin. Then she threw her arms around me and cried, “Oh, don’t, mother! Please don’t tell me any more.”

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

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.

“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 for 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 along that he was my father because Fanny’s nurse told me. But she said I must never tell anyone, and I never did. I used to wish he would hold me and kiss me, as he did Fanny. Or I wished he would sometimes smile at me, as he did at her. I thought that 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 about my father. All my love is for you.” She hugged me closer as she spoke. I thanked God that the knowledge I had so dreaded sharing had not made my child love me any less. I had not the slightest idea she knew that part of my story. If I had, I would have spoken to her long before. I had often longed to pour out my pent-up feelings to someone I could trust. But I loved my dear girl even more for the sensitivity she had shown toward 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 measure 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.

The next morning, she and her uncle set out for the village in New York where she was to attend school. It seemed as if all the sunshine had gone away. My little room was terribly lonely. I was thankful when a lady who often employed me sent a message. She asked me to come and sew for her family for several weeks. When I returned, I found a letter from my brother William. He was thinking of opening an anti-slavery reading room in Rochester, where he would also sell some books and stationery. He wanted me to join him. We tried it, but it was not successful. We found devoted anti-slavery friends there. But support for the cause was not widespread enough to sustain such a place. I spent nearly a year with the family of Isaac and Amy Post. They put the Christian teaching of human brotherhood into practice. They measure a man’s worth by his character, not by his skin color. The memory of those beloved and honored friends will stay with me until my last hour.