Chapter XIII: Part 13

Until the last few years of his life, Friend Hopper usually walked to and from his office twice a day, making about five miles in the whole; to which he sometimes added a walk in the evening, to visit children or friends, or transact some necessary business. When the weather was very unpleasant, he availed himself of the Harlem cars. Upon one of these occasions, it chanced that the long, ponderous vehicle was nearly empty. They had not proceeded far, when a very respectable-looking young woman beckoned for the car to stop. It did so; but when she set her foot on the step, the conductor, somewhat rudely pushed her back; and she turned away, evidently much mortified. Friend Hopper started up and inquired, "Why didst thou push that woman away?"

"She's colored," was the laconic reply.

"Art thou instructed by the managers of the rail-road to proceed in this manner on such occasions?" inquired Friend Hopper.

The man answered, "Yes."

"Then let me get out," rejoined the genuine republican. "It disturbs my conscience to ride in a public conveyance, where any decently behaved person is refused admittance." And though it was raining very fast, and his home was a mile off, the old veteran of seventy-five years marched through mud and wet, at a pace somewhat brisker than his usual energetic step; for indignation warmed his honest and kindly heart, and set the blood in motion. The next day, he called at the rail-road office, and very civilly inquired of one of the managers whether conductors were instructed to exclude passengers merely on account of complexion.

"Certainly not," was the prompt reply. "They have discretionary power to reject any person who is drunk, or offensively unclean, or indecent, or quarrelsome."

Friend Hopper then related how a young woman of modest appearance, and respectable dress, was pushed from the step, though the car was nearly empty, and she was seeking shelter from a violent rain.

"That was wrong," replied the manager. "We have no reason to complain of colored people as passengers. They obtrude upon no one, and always have sixpences in readiness to pay; whereas fashionably dressed white people frequently offer a ten dollar bill, which they know we cannot change, and thus cheat us out of our rightful dues. Who was the conductor, that behaved in the manner you have described? We will turn him away, if he doesn't know better how to use the discretionary power with which he is entrusted."

Friend Hopper replied, "I had rather thou wouldst not turn him out of thy employ, unless he repeats the offence, after being properly instructed. I have no wish to injure the man. He has become infected with the unjust prejudices of the community without duly reflecting upon the subject. Friendly conversation with him may suggest wiser thoughts. All I ask of thee is to instruct him that the rights of the meanest citizen are to be respected. I thank thee for having listened to my complaint in such a candid and courteous manner."

"And I thank you for having come to inform us of the circumstance," replied the manager. They parted mutually well pleased; and a few days after, the same conductor admitted a colored woman into the cars without making any objection. This improved state of things continued several weeks. But the old tyrannical system was restored, owing to counteracting influence from some unknown quarter. I often met colored people coming from the country in the Harlem cars; but I never afterward knew one to enter from the streets of the city.

Many colored people die every year, and vast numbers have their health permanently impaired, on account of inclement weather, to which they are exposed by exclusion from public conveyances. And this merely on account of complexion! What a tornado of popular eloquence would come from our public halls, if Austria or Russia were guilty of any despotism half as mean! Yet the great heart of the people is moved by kind and sincere feelings in its outbursts against foreign tyranny. But in addition to this honorable sympathy for the oppressed in other countries, it would be well for them to look at home, and consider whether it is just that any well-behaved people should be excluded from the common privileges of public conveyances. If a hundred citizens in New-York would act as Friend Hopper did, the evil would soon be remedied. It is the almost universal failure in individual duty, which so accumulates errors and iniquities in society, that the ultra-theories, and extra efforts of reformers become absolutely necessary to prevent the balance of things from being destroyed; as thunder and lightning are required to purify a polluted atmosphere. Godwin, in some of his writings, asks, "What is it that enables a thousand errors to keep their station in the world? It is cowardice. It is because the majority of men, who see that things are not altogether right, yet see in so frigid a way, and have so little courage to express their views. If every man to-day would tell all the truth he knows, three years hence, there would scarcely be a falsehood of any magnitude remaining in the civilized world."

In the summer of 1844, Friend Hopper met with a Methodist preacher from Mississippi, who came with his family to New-York, to attend a General Conference. Being introduced as a zealous abolitionist, the conversation immediately turned upon slavery. One of the preacher's daughters said, "I could'nt possibly get along without slaves, Mr. Hopper. Why I never dressed or undressed myself, till I came to the North. I wanted very much to bring a slave with me."

"I wish thou hadst," rejoined Friend Hopper.

"And what would you have done, if you had seen her?" she inquired.

He replied, "I would have told her that she was a free woman while she remained here; but if she went back to the South, she would be liable to be sold, like a pig or a sheep."

They laughed at this frank avowal, and when he invited them to come to his house with their father, to take tea, they gladly accepted the invitation. Again the conversation turned toward that subject, which is never forgotten when North and South meet. In answer to some remark from Friend Hopper, the preacher said, "Do you think I am not a Christian?"

"I certainly do not regard thee as one," he replied.

"And I suppose you think I cannot get to heaven?" rejoined the slaveholder.

"I will not say that," replied the Friend. "To thy own Master thou must stand or fall. But slavery is a great abomination, and no one who is guilty of it can be a Christian, or Christ-like. I would not exclude thee from the kingdom of heaven; but if thou dost enter there, it must be because thou art ignorant of the fact that thou art living in sin."

After a prolonged conversation, mostly on the same topic, the guests rose to depart. The Methodist said, "Well, Mr. Hopper, I have never been treated better by any man, than I have been by you. I should be very glad to have you visit us."

"Ah! and thou wouldst lynch me; or at least, thy friends would," he replied, smiling.

"Oh no, we would treat you very well," rejoined the Southerner. "But how would you talk about slavery if you were there?"

"Just as I do here, to be sure," answered the Quaker. "I would advise the slaves to be honest, industrious, and obedient, and never try to run away from a good master, unless they were pretty sure of escaping; because if they were caught, they would fare worse than before. But if they had a safe opportunity, I should advise them to be off as soon as possible." In a more serious tone, he added, "And to thee, who claimest to be a minister of Christ, I would say that thy Master requires thee to give deliverance to the captive, and let the oppressed go free. My friend, hast thou a conscience void of offence? When thou liest down at night, is thy mind always at ease on this subject? After pouring out thy soul in prayer to thy Heavenly Father, dost thou not feel the outraged sense of right, like a perpetual motion, restless within thy breast? Dost thou not hear a voice telling thee it is wrong to hold thy fellow men in slavery, with their wives and their little ones?"

The preacher manifested some emotion at this earnest appeal, and confessed that he sometimes had doubts on the subject; though, on the whole, he had concluded that it was right to hold slaves. One of his daughters, who was a widow, seemed to be more deeply touched. She took Friend Hopper's hand, at parting, and said, "I am thankful for the privilege of having seen you. I never talked with an abolitionist before. You have convinced me that slave-holding is sinful in the sight of God. My husband left me several slaves, and I have held them for five years; but when I return, I am resolved to hold a slave no longer."

Friend Hopper cherished some hope that this preaching and praying slaveholder would eventually manumit his bondmen; but I had listened to his conversation, and I thought otherwise. His conscience seemed to me to be asleep under a seven-fold shield of self-satisfied piety; and I have observed that such consciences rarely waken.

At the time of the Christians riots, in 1851, when the slave-power seemed to overshadow everything, and none but the boldest ventured to speak against it, Friend Hopper wrote an article for the Tribune, and signed it with his name, in which he maintained that the colored people, "who defended themselves and their firesides against the lawless assaults of an armed party of negro-hunters from Maryland," ought not to be regarded as traitors or murderers "by men who set a just value on liberty, and who had no conscientious scruples with regard to war."

The first runaway, who was endangered by the passage of the Fugitive Slave Law in 1850, happened to be placed under his protection. A very good-looking colored man, who escaped from bondage, resided some years in Worcester, Massachusetts, and acquired several thousand dollars by hair-dressing. He went to New-York to be married, and it chanced that his master arrived in Worcester in search of him, the very day that he started for that city. Some person friendly to the colored man sent information to New-York by telegraph; but the gentleman to whom it was addressed was out of the city. One of the operators at the telegraph office said, "Isaac T. Hopper ought to know of this message;" and he carried it himself. Friend Hopper was then eighty years old, but he sprang out of bed at midnight, and went off with all speed to hunt up the fugitive. He found him, warned him of his danger, and offered to secrete him. The colored man hesitated. He feared it might be a trick to decoy him into his master's power. But the young wife gazed very earnestly at Friend Hopper, and said, "I would trust the countenance of that Quaker gentleman anywhere. Let us go with him." They spent the remainder of the night at his house, and after being concealed elsewhere for a few days, they went to Canada. This slave was the son of his master, who estimated his market-value at two thousand five hundred dollars. Six months imprisonment, and a fine of one thousand dollars was the legal penalty for aiding him. But Friend Hopper always said, "I have never sought to make any slave discontented with his situation, because I do not consider it either wise or kind to do so; but so long as my life is spared, I will always assist any one, who is trying to escape from slavery, be the laws what they may."

A black man, who had fled from bondage, married a mulatto woman in Philadelphia, and became the father of six children. He owned a small house in the neighborhood of that city, and had lived there comfortably several years, when that abominable law was passed, by which the Northern States rendered their free soil a great hunting-ground for the rich and powerful to run down the poor and weak. In rushed the slaveholders from all quarters, to seize their helpless prey! At dead of night, the black man, sleeping quietly in the humble home he had earned by unremitting industry, was roused up to receive information that his master was in pursuit of him. His eldest daughter was out at service in the neighborhood, and there was no time to give her notice. They hastily packed such articles as they could take, caught the little ones from their beds, and escaped before the morning dawned. A gentleman, who saw them next day on board a steamboat, observed their uneasiness, and suspected they were "fugitives from injustice." When he remarked this to a companion, he replied, "They have too much luggage to be slaves." Nevertheless, he thought it could do no harm to inform them that Isaac T. Hopper of New-York was the best adviser of fugitives. Accordingly, a few hours afterward, the whole colored colony was established in his house; where the genteel-looking mother, and her bright, pretty little children excited a very lively interest in all hearts. They made their way to Canada as soon as possible, and the daughter who was left in Philadelphia, was soon after sent to them.

Friend Hopper's resolute resistance to oppression, in every form, never produced any harshness in his manners, or diminished his love of quiet domestic life. He habitually surrendered himself to pleasant influences, even from events that troubled him at the time, he generally extracted some agreeable incident and soon forgot those of opposite character. It was quite observable how little he thought of the instances of ingratitude he had met with. He seldom, if ever, alluded to them, unless reminded by some direct question; but the unfortunate beings who had persevered in reformation, and manifested gratitude, were always uppermost in his thoughts.

Though always pleased to hear that his children were free from pecuniary anxiety, he never desired wealth for them. The idea of money never seemed to occur to him in connection with their marriages. It was a cherished wish of his heart to have them united to members of the Society of Friends; yet he easily yielded, even on that point, as soon as he saw their happiness was at stake. When one of his sons married into a family educated under influences totally foreign to Quaker principles, he was somewhat disturbed. But he at once adopted the bride as a beloved daughter of his heart; and she ever after proved a lovely and thornless Rose in the pathway of his life. Great was his satisfaction when he discovered that she was grandchild of Dr. William Rogers, Professor of English and Oratory in the University of Pennsylvania, who, sixty years before, had preached the first sermon to inmates of the State Prison, in Philadelphia. That good and gifted clergyman was associated with his earliest recollections; for when he was on one of his pleasant visits to his uncle Tatem, at six years old, he went to meeting with him for the first time, and was seated on a stool between his knees. The proceedings were a great novelty to him; for Dr. Rogers was the first minister he ever saw in a pulpit. He never forgot the text of that sermon. I often heard him repeat it, during the last years of his life. The remembrance of these incidents, and the great respect he had for the character of the prison missionary, at once established in his mind a claim of old relationship between him and the new inmate of his household.

He had the custom of sitting with his wife on the front-door-step during the summer twilight, to catch the breeze, that always refreshes the city of New-York, after a sultry day. On such occasions, the children of the neighborhood soon began to gather round him. One of the most intelligent and interesting pupils of the Deaf and Dumb Institution had married Mr. Gallaudet, Professor in that Institution, and resided in the next house. She had a bright lively little daughter, who very early learned to imitate her rapid and graceful way of conversing by signs. This child was greatly attracted toward Friend Hopper. The moment she saw him, she would clap her tiny hands with delight, and toddle toward him, exclaiming, "Opper! Opper!" When he talked to her, she would make her little fingers fly, in the prettiest fashion, interpreting by signs to her mute mother all that "Opper" had been saying. Her quick intelligence and animated gestures were a perpetual source of amusement to him. When he went down to his office in the morning, all the nurses in the neighborhood were accustomed to stop in his path, that he might have some playful conversation with the little ones in their charge. He had a pleasant nick-name for them all; such as "Blue-bird," or "Yellow-bird," according to their dress. They would run up to him as he approached home, calling out, "Here's your little Blue-bird!"

His garden was another source of great satisfaction to him. It was not bigger than a very small bed-room, and only half of it received the sunshine. But he called the minnikin grass-plot his meadow, and talked very largely about mowing his hay. He covered the walls and fences with flowering vines, and suspended them between the pillars of his little piazza. Even in this employment he revealed the tendencies of his character. One day, when I was helping him train a woodbine, he said, "Fasten it in that direction, Maria; for I want it to go over into our neighbor's yard, that it may make their wall look pleasant."

In the summer of 1848, when I was staying in the country, not far from New-York, I received the following letter from him: "Dear Friend, the days have not yet come, in which I can say I have no pleasure in them. Notwithstanding the stubs against which I hit my toes, the briars and thorns that sometimes annoy me, and the muddy sloughs I am sometimes obliged to wade through, yet, after all, the days have _not_ come in which I have no enjoyment. In the course of my journey, I find here and there a green spot, by which I can sit down and rest, and pleasant streams, where I sometimes drink, mostly in secret, and am refreshed. I often remember the saying of a beloved friend, long since translated from this scene of mutation to a state of eternal beatitude: 'I wear my sackcloth on my loins; I don't wish to afflict others by carrying a sorrowful countenance.' A wise conclusion. I love to diffuse happiness over all with whom I come in contact. But all this is a kind of accident. I took up my pen to tell thee about our garden. I never saw it half so handsome as it is now. Morning Glories are on both sides of the yard, extending nearly to the second story windows; and they exhibit their glories every morning, in beautiful style. There are Cypress vines, twelve feet high, running up on the pillar before the kitchen window, and spreading out each way. They blossom most profusely. The wooden wall is entirely covered with Madeira vines, and the stone wall with Woodbine. The grass-plot is very thrifty, and our borders are beautified with a variety of flowers. How thou wouldst like to look at them!"

I replied as follows: "My dear and honored friend: Your kind, cheerful epistle came into my room as pleasantly as would the vines and flowers you describe. I am very glad the spirit moved you to write; for, to use the words of the apostle, I thank my God for every remembrance of you.' I do not make many professions of friendship, because neither you nor I are much given to professions; but there is no one in the world for whom I have a higher respect than yourself, and very few for whom I cherish a more cordial affection. You say the time has not _yet_ come when you have no pleasure. I think, my friend, that it will _never_ come. To an evergreen heart, like yours, so full of kindly sympathies, the little children will always prattle, the birds will always sing, and the flowers will always offer incense. _This_ reward of the honest and kindly heart is one of those, which 'the world can neither give nor take away.'

"I should love to see your garden now. There is a peculiar satisfaction in having a very _little_ patch all blooming into beauty. I had such an one in my humble home in Boston, some years ago. It used to make me think of Mary Howitt's very pleasant poetry:

"'Yes, in the poor man's garden grow
Far more than herbs and flowers;
Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind,
And joy for weary hours.'

"I have one enjoyment this summer, which you cannot have in your city premises. The birds! not only their sweet songs, but all their little cunning manoeuvres in courting, building their nests, and rearing their young. I watched for hours a little Phoebe-bird, who brought out her brood to teach them to fly. They used to stop to rest themselves on the naked branch of a dead pear-tree. There they sat so quietly, all in a row, in their sober russet suit of feathers, just as if they were Quakers at meeting. The birds are very tame here; thanks to Friend Joseph's tender heart. The Bob-o-links pick seed from the dandelions, at my very feet. May you sleep like a child when his friends are with him, as the Orientals say. And so farewell."

Interesting strangers occasionally called to see Friend Hopper, attracted by his reputation. Frederika Bremer was peculiarly delighted by her interviews with him, and made a fine sketch of him in her collection of American likenesses. William Page, the well-known artist, made for me an admirable drawing of him, when he was a little past seventy years old. Eight years after, Salathiel Ellis, of New-York, at the suggestion of some friends, executed an uncommonly fine medallion likeness. A reduced copy of this was made in bronze at the request of some members of the Prison Association. The reverse side represents him raising a prisoner from the ground, and bears the appropriate inscription, "To seek and to save that which was lost."

Young people often sent him pretty little testimonials of the interest he had excited in their minds. Intelligent Irish girls, with whom he had formed acquaintance in their native land, never during his life ceased to write to him, and occasionally sent some tasteful souvenir of their friendship. The fashionable custom of New-Year's and Christmas offerings was not in his line. But though he always dined on humble fare at Christmas, as a testimony against the observance of holy days, he secretly sent turkeys to poor families, who viewed the subject in a different light; and it was only by accidental circumstances that they at last discovered to whom they owed the annual gift.

Members of the Society of Friends often came to see him; and for many of them he cherished high respect, and a very warm friendship. But his character grew larger, and his views more liberal, after the bonds which bound him to a sect were cut asunder. Friends occasionally said to him, "We miss thy services in the Society, Isaac. Hadst thou not better ask to be re-admitted? The way is open for thee, whenever thou hast an inclination to return." He replied, "I thank thee. But in the present state of the Society, I don't think I could be of any service to them, or they to me." But he could never relinquish the hope that the primitive character of Quakerism would be restored, and that the Society would again hold up the standard of righteousness to the nations, as it had in days gone by. Nearly every man, who forms strong religious attachments in early life, cherishes similar anticipations for his sect, whose glory declines, in the natural order of things. But such hopes are never realized. The spirit has a resurrection, but not the form. "Soul never dies. Matter dies off it, and it lives elsewhere." Thus it is with truth. The noble principles maintained by Quakers, through suffering and peril, have taken root in other sects, and been an incalculable help to individual seekers after light, throughout the Christian world. Like winged seed scattered in far-off soils, they will produce a forest-growth in the future, long after the original stock is dead, and its dust dispersed to the winds.

In Friend Hopper's last years, memory, as usual with the old, was busily employed in reproducing the past; and in his mind the pictures she presented were uncommonly vivid. In a letter to his daughter, Sarah Palmer, he writes: "I was deeply affected on being informed of the death of Joseph Whitall. We loved one another when we were children; and I never lost my love for him. I think it will not be extravagant if I say that my soul was knit with his soul, as Jonathan's was to David's. I have a letter, which I received from him in 1795. I have not language to express my feelings. Oh, that separation! that cruel separation! How it divided very friends!"

In a letter to his daughter Susan, we again find him looking fondly backward. He says: "I often, very often remember the example of thy dear mother, with feelings that no language can portray. She was neat and tasteful in her appearance. Her dress was elegant, but plain, as became her Christian profession. She loved sincere Friends, faithfully maintained all their testimonies, and was a diligent attender of meetings. She was kind and affectionate to all. In short, she was a bright example in her family, and to all about her, and finally laid down her head in peace. May her children imitate her virtues."

Writing to his daughter Sarah in 1845, he thus returns to the same beloved theme: "I lately happened to open the Memoirs of Sarah Harrison. It seemed to place me among my old friends, with whom I walked in sweet unity and Christian fellowship, in days that are gone forever. I there saw the names, and read the letters, of William Savery, Thomas Scattergood, and a host of others, who have long since gone to their everlasting rest. I hope, however unworthy, to join them at some day, not very distant."

"Next day after to-morrow, it will be fifty years since I was married to thy dear mother. How fresh many of the scenes of that day are brought before me! It almost seems as if they transpired yesterday. These reminiscences afford me a melancholy pleasure, and I love to indulge in them. No man has experienced more exquisite pleasure, or deeper sorrows than I have."

Perhaps the reader will say that I have spoken little of his sorrows; and it is true. But who does not know that all the sternest conflicts of life can never be recorded! Every human soul must walk alone through the darkest and most dangerous paths of its spiritual pilgrimage; absolutely alone with God! Much, from which we suffer most acutely, could never be revealed to others; still more could never be understood, if it were revealed; and still more ought never to be repeated, if it could be understood. Therefore, the frankest and fullest biography must necessarily be superficial.

The old gentleman was not prone to talk of his troubles. They never made him irritable, but rather increased his tenderness and thoughtfulness toward others. His naturally violent temper was brought under almost complete subjection. During the nine years that I lived with him, I never saw him lose his balance but twice; and then it was only for a moment, and under very provoking circumstances.

The much-quoted line, "None knew him but to love him, none named him but to praise," was probably never true of any man; certainly not of any one with a strong character. Many were hostile to Friend Hopper, and some were bitter in their enmity. Of course, it could not be otherwise with a man who battled with oppression, selfishness, and bigotry, wherever he encountered them, and whose rebukes were too direct and explicit to be evaded. Moreover, no person in this world is allowed to be peculiar and independent with impunity. There are always men who wish to compel such characters to submit, by the pressure of circumstances. This kind of spiritual thumb-screw was often, and in various ways, tried upon Friend Hopper; but though it sometimes occasioned temporary inconvenience, it never induced him to change his course.

Though few old men enjoyed life so much as he did, he always thought and spoke of death with cheerful serenity. On the third of December, 1851, he wrote thus to his youngest daughter, Mary: "This day completes my eightieth year. 'My eye is not dim, nor my natural force abated.' My head is well covered with hair, which still retains its usual glossy dark color, with but few gray hairs sprinkled about, hardly noticed by a casual observer. My life has been prolonged beyond most, and has been truly 'a chequered scene.' I often take a retrospect of it, and it fills me with awe. It is marvellous how many dangers and hair-breadth escapes I have experienced. If I may say it without presumption, I desire not to live until I am unable to take care of myself, and become a burden to those about me. If I had my life to live over again, the experience I have had might caution me to avoid many mistakes, and perhaps I might make a more useful citizen; but I don't know that I should greatly improve it. Mercy and kindness have followed me thus far, and I have faith that they will continue with me to the end."

But the bravest and strongest pilgrim, when he is travelling toward the sunset, cannot but perceive that the shadows are lengthening around him. He did not, like most old people, watch the gathering gloom; but during the last two or three years of his life, he seemed to have an increasing feeling of spiritual loneliness. He had survived all his cotemporaries; he had outlived the Society of Friends, as it was when it took possession of his youthful soul; and though he sympathized with the present generation remarkably for so old a man, still he was _among_ them, and not _of_ them. He quieted this feeling by the best of all methods. He worked continually, and he worked for others. In this way, he brought upon himself his last illness. A shop had been built very far up in the city, for a discharged convict, and the Association had incurred considerable expense on his account. He was remarkably skilful at his trade, but after awhile he manifested slight symptoms of derangement. Friend Hopper became extremely anxious about him, and frequently travelled back and forth to examine into the state of his affairs. This was in the severe winter of 1852, and he was past eighty years old. He took heavy colds, which produced inflammation of the lungs, and the inflammation subsequently extended to his stomach. In February of that year, declining health made it necessary to resign his office in the Prison Association. His letter to that effect was answered by the following Resolutions, unanimously passed at a meeting of the Executive Committee:

"This Association has received, with undissembled sorrow, the resignation of Isaac T. Hopper, as their agent for the relief of discharged convicts.

"He was actively engaged in the organization of the Society, and has ever since been its most active member.

"His kindness of heart, and his active zeal in behalf of the fallen and erring, whom he has so often befriended, have given to this Society a lofty character for goodness, which, being a reflection of his own, will endure with the remembrance of him.

"His forbearance and patience, combined with his great energy of mind, have given to its action an impetus and a direction, which, it is to be earnestly hoped, will continue long after it shall have ceased to enjoy his participation in its active business.

"His gentleness and propriety of deportment toward us, his associates, have given him a hold upon our affections, which adds poignancy to our grief at parting with him.

"And while we mourn his loss to us, our recollection of the cause of it awakens within us the belief that the good he has done will smooth his departure from among us, and gives strength to the cheering hope that the recollection of a life well spent may add even to the happiness that is in store for him hereafter."

He sent the following reply, which I believe was the last letter he ever wrote:

"Dear Friends:--I received through your committee, accompanied by
Dr. Russ, your resolutions of the 13th of February, 1852,
commendatory of my course while agent for Discharged Convicts. My
bodily indisposition has prevented an earlier acknowledgment.

"The kind, friendly, and affectionate manner in which you have been
pleased to express yourselves on this occasion, excited emotions
which I found it difficult to repress. The approbation of those
with whom I have long labored in a deeply interesting and arduous
concern, I value next to the testimony of a good conscience.
Multiplied years and debility of body admonish me to retire from
active life as much as may be, but my interest in the work has not
abated. Much has been done, and much remains to be done.

"In taking a retrospect of my intercourse with you, I am rejoiced to
see that the great principles of humanity and Christian benevolence
have risen above and overspread sectarian prejudice, that bane of
Christianity, and while each has been allowed to enjoy his own
religious opinions without interference from his fellows, we have
labored harmoniously together for the promotion of the great object
of our Association.

"May He who clothes the lilies, feeds the ravens, and provides for
the sparrows, and without whose Providential regard, all our
endeavors must be vain, bless your labors, and stimulate and
encourage you to persevere, so that having, through His aid,
fulfilled all your relative and social duties, you may in the end
receive the welcome, 'Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the
kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: for I
was an hungered, and ye gave me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me
drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in; naked, and ye clothed
me; I was sick, and ye visited me; I was in prison, and ye came
unto me.'

"That this may be our happy experience, is the fervent desire of
your sincere and affectionate friend,

"ISAAC T. HOPPER.

"NEW-YORK, 4th mo. 15, 1852."

Early in the Spring, he was conveyed to the house of his daughter, Mrs. Gibbons, in the upper part of the city; it being supposed that change of air and scene might prove beneficial. It was afterward deemed imprudent to remove him. His illness was attended with a good deal of physical suffering; but he was uniformly patient and cheerful. He often observed, "There is no cloud. There is nothing in my way. Nothing troubles me." His daughters left all other duties, and devoted themselves exclusively to him. Never were the declining hours of an old man watched over with more devoted affection. Writing to his daughter Mary, he says: "I have the best nurses in New-York, thy mother and sisters. I have every comfort that industry and ingenuity can supply."

Among the Quakers who manifested kindness and sympathy, several belonged to the branch called Orthodox; for a sincere respect and friendship had grown up between him and individuals of that Society, in New-York, after the dust of controversy had subsided. He was always glad to see them; for his heart warmed toward the plain dress and the plain language. But I think nothing during his illness gave him more unalloyed satisfaction than a visit from William and Deborah Wharton, Friends from Philadelphia. He loved this worthy couple for their truly Christian character; and they were, moreover, endeared to him by many tender and pleasant associations. They stood by him generously during his severe pecuniary struggles; they had been devoted to his beloved Sarah, whose long illness was cheered by their unremitting attentions, and she, for many years, had received from Hannah Fisher, Deborah's mother, the most uniform kindness. William's father, a wealthy merchant, had been to him an early and constant friend; and his uncle, the excellent mayor of Philadelphia, had sustained him by his influence and hearty co-operation, in many a fugitive slave case, that occurred in years long past. It was, therefore, altogether pleasant to clasp hands with these tried and trusty friends, before life and all its reminiscences faded away.

His physician, Dr. John C. Beales, was very assiduous in his attentions, and his visits were always interesting to the invalid, who generally made them an occasion for pleasant and animated conversation; often leading the doctor off the professional track, by some playful account of his symptoms, however painful they might be. He had been his medical adviser for many years, and as a mark of respect for his disinterested services to his fellow-men, he uniformly declined to receive any compensation.

Neighbors and acquaintances of recent date, likewise manifested their respect for the invalid by all manner of attentions. Gentlemen sent choice wines, and ladies offered fruit and flowers. Market people, who knew him in the way of business, brought delicacies of various kinds for his acceptance. He was gratified by such tokens of regard, and manifested it in many pleasant little ways. One of his sons had presented him a silver goblet, with the word "Father" inscribed upon it; and whenever he was about to take nourishment, he would say, "Give it to me in John's cup." When his little grand-daughter brought flowers from the garden, he was careful to have them placed by the bedside, where he could see them continually. After he was unable to rise to take his meals, he asked to have two cups and plates brought to him, if it were not too much trouble; for he said it would seem pleasant, and like old times, to have Hannah's company. So his wife ate with him, as long as he was able to partake of food. A china bird, which a ransomed slave had given to his daughter, when she was a little girl, was placed on the mantel-piece, because he liked to look at it. A visitor, to whom he made this remark one day, replied, "It must be very pleasant to you now to remember how many unfortunate beings you have helped." He looked up, and answered with frank simplicity, "Yes, it _is_ pleasant."

He made continual efforts to conceal that he was in pain. When they asked why he was so often singing to himself, he replied, "If I didn't sing, I should groan." Even as late as the day before he died, he indulged in some little "Cheeryble" pleasantries, evidently intended to enliven those who were nearly exhausted by their long attendance on him. At this period, his son-in-law, James S. Gibbons, wrote to me thus: "Considering his long bodily weakness, now ten weeks, he is in an extraordinary state of mental strength and clearness. Reminiscences are continually falling from his lips, like leaves in autumn from an old forest tree; not indeed green, but rich in the colors that are of the tree, and characteristic. Thou hast known him in the extraordinary vigor and freshness of his old age; cheating time even out of turning his hair gray. But thou shouldst see him now; when, to use his own words, he feels that 'the messenger has come.' All his thoughts have tended to, and reached this point. The only question with him now is of a few more days. Though prostrate in body, his mind is like a sturdy old oak, that don't care which way the wind blows. As I sat by his bedside, last evening, I thought I never had seen so beautiful a close to a good man's life."

He had no need to make a will; for he died, as he had lived, without property. But he disposed of his little keepsakes with as much cheerfulness as if he had been making New-Year's presents. He seemed to remember everybody in the distribution. His Quaker library was left in the care of his children, with directions that it should be kept where members of the Society of Friends or others interested could have ready access to it. To his daughter Sarah he entrusted the paper written by her mother, at fourteen years of age; still fastened by the pin she had placed in it, which her dear hand had invested with more value than a diamond, in his eyes. He earnestly recommended his wife to the affectionate care of his children; reminding them that she had been a kind and faithful companion to him during many years. He also gave general directions concerning his funeral. "Don't take the trouble to make a shroud," said he. "One of my night-shirts will do as well. I should prefer to be buried in a white pine coffin; but that might be painful to my family; and I should not like to afflict them in _any_ way. It may, therefore, be of dark wood; but be sure to have it entirely plain, without varnish or inscription. Have it made by some poor neighbor, and pay him the usual price of a handsome one; for I merely wish to leave a testimony against vain show on such occasions." He appeared to be rather indifferent where he was buried; but when he was informed that his son and daughter had purchased a lot at Greenwood Cemetery, it seemed pleasant to him to think of having them and their families gathered round him, and he consented to be laid there.

I was summoned to his death-bed, and arrived two days before his departure. I found his mind perfectly bright and clear. He told over again some of his old reminiscences, and indulged in a few of his customary pleasantries. He spoke of rejoining his beloved Sarah, and his ancient friends William Savery, Nicholas Waln, Thomas Scattergood, and others, with as much certainty and pleasure as if he had been anticipating a visit to Pennsylvania. Sometimes, when he was much exhausted with physical pain, he would sigh forth, "Oh, for rest in the kingdom of heaven!" But nothing that approached nearer to complaint or impatience escaped his lips. On the last day, he repeated to me, what he had previously said to others, that he sometimes seemed to hear voices singing, "We have come to take thee home." Once, when no one else happened to be near him, he said to me in a low, confidential tone, "Maria, is there anything peculiar in this room?" I replied, "No. Why do you ask that question?" "Because," said he, "you all look so beautiful; and the covering on the bed has such glorious colors, as I never saw. But perhaps I had better not have said anything about it." The natural world was transfigured to his dying senses; perhaps by an influx of light from the spiritual; and I suppose he thought I should understand it as a sign that the time of his departure drew nigh. It was a scene to remind one of Jeremy Taylor's eloquent words: "When a good man dies, one that hath lived innocently, then the joys break forth through the clouds of sickness, and the conscience stands upright, and confesses the glories of God: and owns so much integrity, that it can hope for pardon, and obtain it too. Then the sorrows of sickness do but untie the soul from its chain, and let it go forth, first into liberty, and then into glory."

A few hours before he breathed his last, he rallied from a state of drowsiness, and asked for a box containing his private papers. He washed to find one, which he thought ought to be destroyed, lest it should do some injury. He put on his spectacles, and looked at the papers which were handed him; but the old man's eyes were dimmed with death, and he could not see the writing. After two or three feeble and ineffectual attempts, he took off his spectacles, with a trembling hand, and gave them to his beloved daughter, Sarah, saying, "Take them, my child, and keep them. They were thy dear mother's. I can never use them more." The scene was inexpressibly affecting; and we all wept to see this untiring friend of mankind compelled at last to acknowledge that he could work no longer.

Of his sixteen children, ten were living; and all but two of them were able to be with him in these last days. He addressed affectionate exhortations to them at various times; and a few hours before he died, he called them, one by one, to his bedside, to receive his farewell benediction. At last, he whispered my name; and as I knelt to kiss his hand, he said in broken accents, and at long intervals, "Maria, tell them I loved them--though I felt called to resist--some who claimed to be rulers in Israel--I never meant--." His strength was nearly exhausted; but after a pause, he pressed my hand, and added, "Tell them I love them _all_." I had previously asked and obtained permission to write his biography; and from these broken sentences, I understood that he wished me to convey in it a message to the Society of Friends; including the "Orthodox" branch, with whom he had been brought into painful collision, in years gone by.

After several hours of restlessness and suffering, he fell into a tranquil slumber, which lasted a long time. The serene expression of his countenance remained unchanged, and there was no motion of limb or muscle, when the spirit passed away. This was between eight and nine o'clock in the evening, on the seventh of May, 1852. After a long interval of silent weeping, his widow laid her head on the shoulder of one of his sons, and said, "Forty-seven years ago this very day, my good father died; and from that day to this, he has been the best friend I ever had."

No public buildings were hung with crape, when news went forth that the Good Samaritan had gone. But prisoners, and poor creatures in dark and desolate corners, wept when they heard the tidings. Ann W. with whose waywardness he had borne so patiently, escaped from confinement, several miles distant, and with sobs implored "to see that good old man once more." Michael Stanley sent the following letter to the Committee of the Prison Association: "When I read the account of the venerable Friend Hopper's death, I could not help weeping. It touched a tender chord in my heart, when I came to the account of his being the prisoner's friend. My soul responded to that; for I had realized it. About six years ago, I was one of those who got good advice from 'the old man.' I carried it out, and met with great success. I was fatherless, motherless, and friendless, with no home, nobody to take me by the hand. I felt, as the poet has it,

"'A pilgrim stranger here I roam,
From place to place I'm driven;
My friends are gone, and I'm in gloom;
This earth is all a lonely tomb;
I have no home but heaven.'

"Go on in the work of humanity and love, till the Good Master shall say, 'It is enough. Come up higher.'"

Nearly all the domestics in Friend Hopper's neighborhood attended the funeral solemnities. One of these said with tears, "I am an orphan; but while he lived, I always felt as if I had a father. He always had something pleasant to say to me, but now everything seems gone." A very poor man, who had been an object of his charity, and whom he had employed in many little services, could not rest till he had earned enough to buy a small Arbor-vitae, (Tree of Life,) to plant upon his grave.

The Executive Committee of the Prison Association met, and passed the following Resolutions:

"_Resolved:_--That the combination of virtues which distinguished
and adorned the character of our lamented friend, eminently
qualified him for the accomplishment of those benevolent and
philanthropic objects to which he unremittingly devoted _a life_
far more extended than ordinarily falls to man's inheritance.

"That in our intimate associations with him for many years, he has
uniformly displayed a character remarkable for its
disinterestedness, energy, fearlessness, and Christian principle,
in every good word and work.

"That we tender to the family and friends of the deceased our
sincere condolence and sympathy in their sore bereavement, but
whilst sensible that words, however truly uttered, cannot
compensate for the loss of such a husband, father, and guide, we do
find both for ourselves and for them, consolation in the belief
that his peaceful end was but the prelude to the bliss of Heaven.

"That in the death of Isaac T. Hopper, the community is called to
part with a citizen of transcendent worth and excellence; the
prisoner, with an unwearied and well-tried friend; the poor and the
homeless, with a father and a protector; the church of Christ, with
a brother whose works ever bore unfailing testimony to his faith;
and the world at large, with a philanthropist of the purest and
most uncompromising integrity, whose good deeds were circumscribed
by no sect, party, condition or clime."

The American Anti-Slavery Society received the tidings while they were in session at Rochester. Mr. Garrison, after a brief but eloquent tribute to the memory of the deceased, offered the following Resolution:

"_Resolved:_--That it is with emotions too profound for utterance,
that this Society receives the intelligence of the decease of the
venerable Isaac T. Hopper, on Tuesday evening last, in the city of
New-York; the friend of the friendless--boundless in his
compassion--exhaustless in his benevolence--untiring in his
labors--the most intrepid of philanthropists, who never feared the
face of man, nor omitted to bear a faithful testimony against
injustice and oppression--the early, steadfast, heroic advocate and
protector of the hunted fugitive slave, to whose sleepless
vigilance and timely aid multitudes have been indebted for their
deliverance from the Southern House of Bondage;--in whom were
equally blended the gentleness of the lamb with the strength of the
lion--the wisdom of the serpent with the harmlessness of the dove;
and who, when the ear heard him, then it blessed him, when the eye
saw him, it gave witness to him, because he delivered the poor that
cried, and the fatherless, and him that had none to help him. The
blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon him, and he
caused the widow's heart to sing for joy. He put on righteousness,
and it clothed him; his judgment was as a robe and a diadem. He was
eyes to the blind, and feet was he to the lame. The cause which he
knew not he searched out, and he broke the jaws of the wicked, and
plucked the spoil out of its teeth."

He moved that a copy of this resolution be forwarded in an official form to the estimable partner of his life, and the children of his love, accompanied by an assurance of our deepest sympathy, in view of their great bereavement.

Several spoke in support of the Resolution, which was unanimously and cordially adopted.

The Committee of the Prison Association desired to have public funeral solemnities, and the family complied with their wishes. Churches of various denominations were immediately offered for the purpose, including the meeting-houses of both branches of the Society of Friends. The Tabernacle was accepted. Judge Edmonds, who had been an efficient co-laborer, and for whom Friend Hopper had a strong personal affection, offered a feeling tribute to the virtues and abilities of his departed friend. He was followed by Lucretia Mott, a widely known and highly respected minister among Friends. In her appropriate and interesting communication, she dwelt principally upon his efforts in behalf of the colored people; for whose sake she also had encountered obloquy.

The Society of Friends in Hester-street, to which he had formerly belonged, offered the use of their burying-ground. It was kindly meant; but his children deeply felt the injustice of their father's expulsion from that Society, for no other offence than following the dictates of his own conscience. As his soul had been too much alive for them, when it was in the body, their unity with the lifeless form was felt to avail but little.