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XXXIX. THE CONFESSION. 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. |