THE TWO YOUNG OFFENDERS._Isaac T. Hopper: A True Life

In the neighborhood of Carlisle, Pennsylvania, there lived a man whose

temper was vindictive and badly governed. Having become deeply offended

with one of his neighbors, he induced his two sons to swear falsely that

he had committed an infamous crime. One of the lads was about fifteen

years old, and the other about seventeen. The alleged offence was of so

gross a nature, and was so at variance with the fair character of the

person accused that the witnesses were subjected to a very careful and

shrewd examination. They became embarrassed, and the flaws in their

evidence were very obvious. They were indicted for conspiracy against an

innocent man; and being taken by surprise, they were thrown into

confusion, acknowledged their guilt, and declined the offer of a trial.

They were sentenced to two years' imprisonment at hard labor in the

Penitentiary of Philadelphia.

Isaac T. Hopper, who was at that time one of the inspectors, happened to

be at the prison when they arrived at dusk, hand-cuffed and chained

together, in custody of the sheriff. Their youth and desolate appearance

excited his compassion. "Keep up a good heart, my poor lads," said he.

"You can retrieve this one false step, if you will but make the effort.

It is still in your power to become respectable and useful men. I will

help you all I can."

He gave particular directions that they should be placed in a room by

themselves, apart from the contagion of more hardened offenders. To

prevent unprofitable conversation, they were constantly employed in the

noisy occupation of heading nails. From time to time, the humane

inspector spoke soothing and encouraging words to them, and commended

their good behavior. When the Board of Inspectors met, he proposed that

the lads should be recommended to the governor for pardon. Not

succeeding in this effort, he wrote an article on the impropriety of

confining juvenile offenders with old hardened convicts. He published

this in the daily papers, and it produced considerable effect. When the

Board again met, Isaac T. Hopper and Thomas Dobson were appointed to

wait on the governor, to obtain a pardon for the lads if possible. After

considerable hesitation, the request was granted on condition that

worthy men could be found, who would take them as apprentices. Friend

Hopper agreed to find such persons; and he kept his word. One of them

was bound to a tanner, the other to a carpenter. But their excellent

friend did not lose sight of them. He reminded them that they were now

going among strangers, and their success and happiness would mainly

depend on their own conduct. He begged of them, if they should ever get

entangled with unprofitable company, or become involved in difficulty of

any kind, to come to him, as they would to a considerate father. He

invited them to spend all their leisure evenings at his house. For a

long time, it was their constant practice to take tea with him every

Sunday, and join the family in reading the Bible and other serious

books.

At the end of a year, they expressed a strong desire to visit their

father. Some fears were entertained lest his influence over them should

prove injurious; and that being once freed from restraint, they would

not willingly return to constant industry and regular habits. They,

however, promised faithfully that they would, and Friend Hopper thought

it might have a good effect upon them to know that they were trusted. He

accordingly entered into bonds for them; thinking this additional claim

on their gratitude would strengthen his influence over them, and help to

confirm their good resolutions.

They returned punctually at the day and hour they had promised, and

their exemplary conduct continued to give entire satisfaction to their

employers. A short time after the oldest had fulfilled the term of his

indenture, the tanner with whom he worked bought a farm, and sold his

stock and tools to his former apprentice. Friend Hopper took him to the

governor's house, dressed in his new suit of freedom clothes, and

introduced him as one of the lads whom he had pardoned several years

before; testifying that he had been a faithful apprentice, and much

respected by his master. The governor was well pleased to see him, shook

hands with him very cordially, and told him that he who was resolute

enough to turn back from vicious ways, into the paths of virtue and

usefulness, deserved even more respect than one who had never been

tempted.

He afterward married a worthy young woman with a small property, which

enabled him to build a neat two-story brick house. He always remained

sober and industrious, and they lived in great comfort and

respectability.

The younger brother likewise passed through his apprenticeship in a

manner very satisfactory to his friends; and at twenty-one years of age,

he also was introduced to the governor with testimonials of his good

conduct. He was united to a very respectable young woman, but died a few

years after his marriage.

Both these young men always cherished warm gratitude and strong

attachment for Isaac T. Hopper. They both regularly attended the

meetings of the Society of Friends, which had become pleasantly

associated in their minds with the good influences they had received

from their benefactor.

Friend Hopper was a strict disciplinarian while he was inspector, and it

was extremely difficult for the prisoners to deceive him by any artful

devices, or hypocritical pretences. But he was always in the habit of

talking with them in friendly style, inquiring into their history and

plans, sympathizing with their troubles and temptations, encouraging

them to reform, and promising to assist them if they would try to help

themselves. It was his custom to take a ramble in the country with his

children every Saturday afternoon. All who were old enough to walk

joined the troop. They always stopped at the prison, and were well

pleased to deliver to the poor inmates, with their own small hands, such

little comforts as their father had provided for the purpose. He was

accustomed to say that there was not one among the convicts, however

desperate they might be, with whom he should be afraid to trust himself

alone at midnight with large sums of money in his pocket. An

acquaintance once cautioned him against a prisoner, whose temper was

extremely violent and revengeful, and who had been heard to swear that

he would take the life of some of the keepers. Soon after this warning,

Friend Hopper summoned the desperate fellow, and told him he was wanted

to pile a quantity of lumber in the cellar. He went down with him to

hold the light, and they remained more than an hour alone together, out

of hearing of everybody. When he told this to the man who had cautioned

him, he replied, "Well, I confess you have good courage. I wouldn't have

done it for the price of the prison and all the ground it stands upon;

for I do assure you he is a terrible fellow."

"I don't doubt he is," rejoined the courageous inspector; "but I knew he

wouldn't kill _me_. I have always been a friend to him, and he is aware

of it. What motive could he have for harming me?"

One of the prisoners, who had been convicted of man-slaughter, became

furious, in consequence of being threatened with a whipping. When they

attempted to bring him out of his dungeon to receive punishment, he

seized a knife and a club, rushed back again, and swore he would kill

the first person who came near him. Being a very strong man, and in a

state of madness, no one dared to approach him. They tried to starve him

into submission; but finding he was not to be subdued in that way, they

sent for Friend Hopper, as they were accustomed to do in all such

difficult emergencies. He went boldly into the cell, looked the

desperado calmly in the face, and said, "It is foolish for thee to

contend with the authorities. Thou wilt be compelled to yield at last. I

will inquire into thy case. If thou hast been unjustly dealt by, I

promise thee it shall be remedied." This kind and sensible remonstrance

had the desired effect. From that time forward, he had great influence

over the ferocious fellow, who was always willing to be guided by his

advice, and finally became one of the most reasonable and orderly

inmates of the prison.

I have heard Friend Hopper say that while he was inspector he aided and

encouraged about fifty young convicts, as nearly as he could recollect;

and all, except two, conducted in such a manner as to satisfy the

respectable citizens whom he had induced to employ them. He was a shrewd

observer of the countenances and manners of men, and doubtless that was

one reason why he was not often disappointed in those he trusted.

The humor which characterized his boyhood, remained with him in maturer

years, and often effervesced on the surface of his acquired gravity; as

will appear in the following anecdotes.

Upon a certain occasion, a man called on him with a due bill for twenty

dollars against an estate he had been employed to settle. Friend Hopper

put it away, saying he would examine it and attend to it as soon as he

had leisure. The man called again a short time after, and stated that he

had need of six dollars, and was willing to give a receipt for the whole

if that sum were advanced. This proposition excited suspicion, and the

administrator decided in his own mind that he would pay nothing till he

had examined the papers of the deceased. Searching carefully among

these, he found a receipt for the money, mentioning the identical items,

date, and circumstances of the transaction; stating that a due-bill had

been given and lost, and was to be restored by the creditor when found.

When the man called again for payment, Isaac said to him, in a quiet

way, "Friend Jones, I understand thou hast become pious lately."

He replied in a solemn tone, "Yes, thanks to the Lord Jesus, I have

found out the way of salvation."

"And thou hast been dipped I hear," continued the Quaker. "Dost thou

know James Hunter?"

Mr. Jones answered in the affirmative.

"Well, he also was dipped some time ago," rejoined Friend Hopper; "but

his neighbors say they didn't get the crown of his head under water. The

devil crept into the unbaptized part, and has been busy within him ever

since. I am afraid they didn't get _thee_ quite under water. I think

thou hadst better be dipped again."

As he spoke, he held up the receipt for twenty dollars. The countenance

of the professedly pious man became scarlet, and he disappeared

instantly.

A Dutchman once called upon Friend Hopper, and said, "A tief have stole

mine goots. They tell me you can help me, may be." Upon inquiring the

when and the where, Friend Hopper concluded that the articles had been

stolen by a man whom he happened to know the police had taken up a few

hours previous. But being disposed to amuse himself, he inquired very

seriously, "What time of the moon was it, when thy goods were stolen?"

Having received information concerning that particular, he took a slate

and began to cipher diligently. After a while, he looked up, and

pronounced in a very oracular manner, "Thou wilt find thy goods."

"Shall I find mine goots?" exclaimed the delighted Dutchman; "and where

is de tief?"

"Art thou quite sure about the age of the moon?" inquired the pretended

magician. Being assured there was no mistake on that point, he ciphered

again for a few minutes, and then answered, "Thou wilt find the thief in

the hands of the police."

The Dutchman went away, evidently inspired with profound reverence.

Having found his goods and the thief, according to prediction, he

returned and asked for a private interview. "Tell me dat secret," said

he, "and I will pay you a heap of money."

"What secret?" inquired Friend Hopper.

"Tell me how you know I will find mine goots, and where I will find de

tief?" rejoined he.

"The plain truth is, I guessed it," was the reply; "because I had heard

there was a thief at the police office, with such goods as thou

described."

"But what for you ask about de moon?" inquired the Dutchman. "You make

figures, and den you say, you will find your goots. You make figures

again, den you tell me where is de tief. I go, and find mine goots and

de tief, just as you say. Tell me how you do dat, and I will pay you a

heap of money."

Though repeatedly assured that it was done only for a joke, he went away

unsatisfied: and to the day of his death, he fully believed that the

facetious Quaker was a conjuror.

When Friend Hopper hired one of two houses where the back yards were

not separated, he found himself considerably incommoded by the

disorderly habits of his next neighbor. The dust and dirt daily swept

into the yard were allowed to accumulate there in a heap, which the wind

often scattered over the neater premises adjoining. The mistress of the

house was said to be of an irritable temper, likely to take offence if

asked to adopt a different system. He accordingly resolved upon a

course, which he thought might cure the evil without provoking a

dispute. One day, when he saw his neighbor in her kitchen, he called his

own domestic to come out into the yard. Pointing to the heap of dirt, he

exclaimed, loud enough to be heard in the next house, "Betsy, art thou

not ashamed to sweep dust and litter into such a heap. See how it is

blowing about our neighbor's yard! Art thou not ashamed of thyself?"

"I didn't sweep any dirt there," replied the girl. "They did it

themselves."

"Pshaw! Pshaw! don't tell me that," rejoined he. "Our neighbor wouldn't

do such an untidy thing. I wonder she hasn't complained of thee before

now. Be more careful in future; for I should be very sorry to give her

any occasion to say she couldn't keep the yard clean on our account."

The domestic read his meaning in the roguish expression of his eye, and

she remained silent. The lesson took effect. The heap of dirt was soon

removed, and never appeared afterward.

Such a character as Isaac T. Hopper was of course well known throughout

the city where he lived. Every school-boy had heard something of his

doings, and as he walked the street, everybody recognized him, from the

chief justice to the chimney-sweep. His personal appearance was

calculated to attract attention, independent of other circumstances.

Joseph Bonaparte, who then resided at Bordentown, was attracted toward

him the first moment he saw him, on account of a strong resemblance to

his brother Napoleon. They often met in the steamboat going down the

Delaware, and on such occasions, the ex-king frequently pointed him out

as the most remarkable likeness of the emperor, that he had ever met in

Europe or America. He expressed the opinion that with Napoleon's uniform

on, he might be mistaken for him, even by his own household; and if he

were to appear thus in Paris, nothing could be easier than for him to

excite a revolution.

But the imperial throne, even if it had been directly offered to him,

would have proved no temptation to a soul like his. In some respects,

his character, as well as his person, strongly resembled Napoleon. But

his powerful will was remarkably under the control of conscience, and

his energy was tempered by an unusual share of benevolence. If the

other elements of his character had not been balanced by these two

qualities, he also might have been a skilful diplomatist, and a

successful leader of armies. Fortunately for himself and others, he had

a nobler ambition than that of making widows and orphans by wholesale

slaughter. The preceding anecdotes show how warmly he sympathized with

the poor, the oppressed, and the erring, without limitation of country,

creed, or complexion; and how diligently he labored in their behalf. But

from the great amount of public service that he rendered, it must not be

inferred that he neglected private duties. Perhaps no man was ever more

devotedly attached to wife and children than he was. His Sarah, as he

was wont to call her, was endowed with qualities well calculated to

retain a strong hold on the affections of a sensible and conscientious

man. Her kindly disposition, and the regular, simple habits of her life,

were favorable to the preservation of that beauty, which had won his

boyish admiration. Her wavy brown hair was softly shaded by the delicate

transparent muslin of her Quaker cap; her face had a tender and benign

expression; and her complexion was so clear, that an old gentleman, who

belonged to the Society of Friends, and who was of course not much

addicted to poetic comparisons, used to say he could never look at her

without thinking of the clear pink and white of a beautiful

conch-shell. She was scrupulously neat, and had something of that

chastened coquetry in dress, which is apt to characterize the handsome

women of her orderly sect. Her drab-colored gown, not high in the neck,

was bordered by a plain narrow tucker of fine muslin, visible under her

snow-white neckerchief. A white under-sleeve came just below the elbow,

where it terminated in a very narrow band, nicely stitched, and fastened

with two small silver buttons, connected by a chain. She was a very

industrious woman, and remarkably systematic in her household affairs;

thus she contrived to find time for everything, though burdened with the

care of a large and increasing family. The apprentices always sat at

table with them, and she maintained a perfect equality between them and

her own children. She said it was her wish to treat them precisely as

she would like to have _her_ boys treated, if _they_ should become

apprentices. On Sunday evenings, which they called First Day evenings,

the whole family assembled to hear Friend Hopper read portions of

scripture, or writings of the early Friends. On such occasions, the

mother often gave religious exhortations to the children and

apprentices, suited to the occurrences of the week, and the temptations

to which they were peculiarly subject. During the last eight years of

her life, she was a recommended minister of the Society of Friends, and

often preached at their meetings. Her manners were affable, and her

conversation peculiarly agreeable to young people. But she knew when

silence was seemly, and always restrained her discourse within the

limits of discretion. When any of her children talked more than was

useful, she was accustomed to administer this concise caution: "My dear,

it is a nice thing to say nothing, when thou hast nothing to say." Her

husband was proud of her, and always manifested great deference for her

opinion. She suffered much anxiety on account of the perils to which he

was often exposed in his contests with slaveholders and kidnappers; and

for many years, the thought was familiar to her mind that she might one

day see him brought home a corpse. While the yellow fever raged in

Philadelphia, she had the same anxiety concerning his fearless devotion

to the victims of that terrible disease, who were dying by hundreds

around them. But she had a large and sympathizing heart, and she never

sought to dissuade him from what he considered the path of duty. When

one of his brothers was stricken with the fever, and the family with

whom he resided were afraid to shelter him, she proposed to have him

brought under their own roof, where he was carefully nursed till he

died. She was more reluctant to listen to his urgent entreaties that she

would retire into the country with the children, and remain with them

beyond the reach of contagion; for her heart was divided between the

husband of her youth and the nurslings of her bosom. But his anxiety

concerning their children was so great, that she finally consented to

pursue the course most conducive to his peace of mind; and he was left

in the city with a colored domestic to superintend his household

affairs. Through this terrible ordeal of pestilence he passed unscathed,

though his ever ready sympathy brought him into frequent contact with

the dying and the dead.

Besides this public calamity, which darkened the whole city for a time,

Friend Hopper shared the common lot of humanity in the sad experiences

of private life. Several of his children died at that attractive age,

when the bud of infancy is blooming into childhood. Relatives and

friends crossed the dark river to the unknown shore. On New Year's day,

1797, his mother departed from this world at fifty-six years old. In

1818, his father died at seventy-five years of age. His physical vigor

was remarkable. When he had weathered seventy winters, he went to visit

his eldest son, and being disappointed in meeting the stage to return,

as he expected, he walked home, a distance of twenty-eight miles. At

that advanced age, he could rest one hand on his cane and the other on a

fence, and leap over as easily as a boy. He had long flowing black hair,

which fell in ringlets on his shoulders; and when he died, it was

merely sprinkled with gray. When his private accounts were examined

after his decease, they revealed the fact that he had secretly expended

hundreds of dollars in paying the debts of poor people, or redeeming

their furniture when it was attached.

But though many dear ones dropped away from his side, as Friend Isaac

moved onward in his pilgrimage, many remained to sustain and cheer him.

Among his wife's brothers, his especial friend was John Tatum, who lived

in the vicinity of his native village. This worthy man had great

sympathy with the colored people, and often sheltered the fugitives whom

his brother-in-law had rescued. He was remarkable for his love of peace;

always preferring to suffer wrong rather than dispute. The influence of

this pacific disposition upon others was strikingly illustrated in the

case of two of his neighbors. They were respectable people, in easy

circumstances, and the families found much pleasure in frequent

intercourse with each other. But after a few years, one of the men

deemed that an intentional affront had been offered him by the other.

Instead of good-natured frankness on the occasion, he behaved in a

sullen manner, which provoked the other, and the result was that

eventually neither of them would speak when they met. Their fields

joined, and when they were on friendly terms, the boundary was marked

by a fence, which they alternately repaired. But when there was feud

between them, neither of them was willing to mend the other's fence. So

each one built a fence for himself, leaving a very narrow strip of land

between, which in process of time came to be generally known by the name

of Devil's Lane, in allusion to the bad temper that produced it. A brook

formed another portion of the boundary between their farms, and was

useful to both of them. But after they became enemies, if a freshet

occurred, each watched an opportunity to turn the water on the other's

land, by which much damage was mutually done. They were so much occupied

with injuring each other in every possible way, that they neglected

their farms and grew poorer and poorer. One of them became intemperate;

and everything about their premises began to wear an aspect of

desolation and decay. At last, one of the farms was sold to pay a

mortgage, and John Tatum, who was then about to be married, concluded to

purchase it. Many people warned him of the trouble he would have with a

quarrelsome and intemperate neighbor. But, after mature reflection, he

concluded to trust to the influence of a peaceful and kind example, and

accordingly purchased the farm.

Soon after he removed thither, he proposed to do away the Devil's Lane

by building a new fence on the boundary, entirely at his own expense.

His neighbor acceded to the proposition in a very surly manner, and for

a considerable time seemed determined to find, or make some occasion for

quarrel. But the young Quaker met all his provocations with forbearance,

and never missed an opportunity to oblige him. Good finally overcame

evil. The turbulent spirit, having nothing to excite it, gradually

subsided into calmness. In process of time, he evinced a disposition to

be kind and obliging also. Habits of temperance and industry returned,

and during the last years of his life he was considered a remarkably

good neighbor.

Friend Hopper's attachment to the religious society he had joined in

early life was quite as strong, perhaps even stronger, than his love of

kindred. The Yearly Meeting of Friends at Philadelphia was a season of

great satisfaction, and he delighted to have his house full of guests,

even to overflowing. On these occasions, he obeyed the impulses of his

generous nature by seeking out the least wealthy and distinguished, who

would be less likely than others to receive many invitations. In

addition to these, who were often personal strangers to him, he had his

own familiar and cherished friends. A day seldom passed without a visit

from Nicholas Wain, who had great respect and affection for him and his

wife, and delighted in their society. He cordially approved of their

consistency in carrying out their conscientious convictions into the

practices of daily life. Some of Isaac's relatives and friends thought

he devoted rather too much time and attention to philanthropic missions,

but Nicholas Wain always stood by him, a warm and faithful friend to the

last. He was a true gentleman, of courtly, pleasing manners, and amusing

conversation. Notwithstanding his weight of character, he was so playful

with the children, that his visits were always hailed by them, as

delightful opportunities for fun and frolic. He looked beneath the

surface of society, and had learned to estimate men and things according

to their real value, not by a conventional standard. His wife did not

regard the pomps and vanities of the world with precisely the same

degree of indifference that he did. She thought it would be suitable to

their wealth and station to have a footman behind her carriage. This

wish being frequently expressed, her husband at last promised to comply

with it. Accordingly, the next time the carriage was ordered, for the

purpose of making a stylish call, she was gratified to see a footman

mounted. When she arrived at her place of destination, the door of her

carriage was opened, and the steps let down in a very obsequious manner,

by the new servant; and great was her surprise and confusion, to

recognize in him her own husband!

Jacob Lindley, of Chester county, was another frequent visitor at Friend

Hopper's house; and many were the lively conversations they had

together. He was a preacher in the Society of Friends, and missed no

opportunity, either in public or private, to protest earnestly against

the sin of slavery. He often cautioned Friends against laying too much

stress on their own peculiar forms, while they professed to abjure

forms. He said he himself had once received a lesson on this subject,

which did him much good. Once, when he was seated in meeting, an

influential Friend walked in, dressed in a coat with large metal

buttons, which he had borrowed in consequence of a drenching rain! He

seated himself opposite to Jacob Lindley, who was so much disturbed by

the glittering buttons, that "his meeting did him no good." When the

congregation rose to depart, he felt constrained to go up to the Friend

who had so much troubled him, and inquire why he had so grievously

departed from the simplicity enjoined upon members of their Society. The

good man looked down upon his garments, and quietly replied, "I borrowed

the coat because my own was wet; and indeed, Jacob, I did not notice

what buttons were on it." Jacob shook his hand warmly, and said, "Thou

art a better Christian than I am, and I will learn of thee."

He often used to inculcate the same moral by relating another incident,

which happened in old times, when Quakers were accustomed to wear cocked

hats turned up at the sides. A Friend bought a hat of this description,

without observing that it was looped up with a button. As he sat in

meeting with his hat on, as usual, he observed many eyes directed toward

him, and some with a very sorrowful expression. He could not conjecture

a reason for this, till he happened to take off his hat and lay it

beside him. As soon as he noticed the button, he rose and said,

"Friends, if religion consists in a button, I wouldn't give a button for

it." Having delivered this short and pithy sermon, he seated himself,

and resumed the offending hat with the utmost composure.

Once, when Jacob Lindley was dining with Friend Hopper, the conversation

turned upon his religious experiences, and he related a circumstance to

which he said he very seldom alluded, and never without feelings of

solemnity and awe. Being seized with sudden and severe illness, his soul

left the body for several hours, during which time he saw visions of

heavenly glory, not to be described. When consciousness began to return,

he felt grieved that he was obliged to come back to this state of being,

and he was never after able to feel the same interest in terrestrial

things, that he had felt before he obtained this glimpse of the

spiritual world.

Arthur Howell was another intimate acquaintance of Friend Hopper. He was

a currier in Philadelphia, a preacher in the Society of Friends,

characterized by kindly feelings, and a very tender conscience. Upon

one occasion, he purchased from the captain of a vessel a quantity of

oil, which he afterward sold at an advanced price. Under these

circumstances, he thought the captain had not received so much as he

ought to have; and he gave him an additional dollar on every barrel.

This man was remarkable for spiritual-mindedness and the gift of

prophecy. It was no uncommon thing for him to relate occurrences which

were happening at the moment many miles distant, and to foretell the

arrival of people, or events, when there appeared to be no external

reasons on which to ground such expectations.

One Sunday morning, he was suddenly impelled to proceed to Germantown in

haste. As he approached the village, he met a funeral procession. He had

no knowledge whatever of the deceased; but it was suddenly revealed to

him that the occupant of the coffin before him was a woman whose life

had been saddened by the suspicion of a crime, which she never

committed. The impression became very strong on his mind that she wished

him to make certain statements at her funeral. Accordingly, he followed

the procession, and when they arrived at the meeting-house, he entered

and listened to the prayer delivered by her pastor. When the customary

services were finished, Arthur Howell rose, and asked permission to

speak. "I did not know the deceased, even by name," said he. "But it is

given me to say, that she suffered much and unjustly. Her neighbors

generally suspected her of a crime, which she did not commit; and in a

few weeks from this time, it will be made clearly manifest to the world

that she was innocent. A few hours before her death, she talked on this

subject with the clergyman who attended upon her, and who is now

present; and it is given me to declare the communication she made to him

upon that occasion."

He then proceeded to relate the particulars of the interview; to which

the clergyman listened with evident astonishment. When the communication

was finished, he said, "I don't know who this man is, or how he has

obtained information on this subject; but certain it is, he has

repeated, word for word, a conversation which I supposed was known only

to myself and the deceased."

The woman in question had gone out in the fields one day, with her

infant in her arms, and she returned without it. She said she had laid

it down on a heap of dry leaves, while she went to pick a few flowers;

and when she returned, the baby was gone. The fields and woods were

searched in vain, and neighbors began to whisper that she had committed

infanticide. Then rumors arose that she was dissatisfied with her

marriage; that her heart remained with a young man to whom she was

previously engaged; and that her brain was affected by this secret

unhappiness. She was never publicly accused; partly because there was no

evidence against her, and partly because it was supposed that if she did

commit the crime, it must have been owing to aberration of mind. But she

became aware of the whisperings against her, and the consciousness of

being an object of suspicion, combined with the mysterious disappearance

of her child, cast a heavy cloud over her life, and made her appear more

and more unlike her former self. This she confided to her clergyman, in

the interview shortly preceding her death; and she likewise told him

that the young man, to whom she had been engaged, had never forgiven her

for not marrying him.

A few weeks after her decease, this young man confessed that he had

stolen the babe. He had followed the mother, unobserved by her, and had

seen her lay the sleeping infant on its bed of leaves. As he gazed upon

it, a mingled feeling of jealousy and revenge took possession of his

soul. In obedience to a sudden impulse, he seized the babe, and carried

it off hastily. He subsequently conveyed it to a distant village, and

placed it out to nurse, under an assumed name and history. The child was

found alive and well, at the place he indicated. Thus the mother's

innocence was made clearly manifest to the world, as the Quaker

preacher had predicted at her funeral.

I often heard Friend Hopper relate this anecdote, and he always said

that he could vouch for the truth of it; and for several other similar

things in connection with the ministry of his friend Arthur.

A singular case of inward perception likewise occurred in the experience

of his own mother. In her Diary, which is still preserved in the family,

she describes a visit to some of her children in Philadelphia, and adds:

"Soon after this, the Lord showed me that I should lose a son. It was

often told me, though without sound of words. Nothing could be more

intelligible than this still, small voice. It said, Thou wilt lose a

son; and he is a pleasant child."

Her son James resided with relatives in Philadelphia, and often went to

bathe in the Delaware. On one of these occasions, soon after his

mother's visit, a friend who went with him sank in the water, and James

lost his own life by efforts to save him. A messenger was sent to inform

his parents, who lived at the distance of eight miles. While he staid in

the house, reluctant to do his mournful errand, the mother was seized

with sudden dread, and heard the inward voice saying, "James is

drowned." She said abruptly to the messenger, "Thou hast come to tell me

that my son James is drowned. Oh, how did it happen?" He was much

surprised, and asked why she thought so. She could give no explanation

of it, except that it had been suddenly revealed to her mind.

I have heard and read many such stories of Quakers, which seem too well

authenticated to admit of doubt. They themselves refer all such cases to

"the inward light;" and that phrase, as they understand it, conveys a

satisfactory explanation to their minds. I leave psychologists to settle

the question as they can.

Those who are well acquainted with Quaker views, are aware that by "the

inward light," they signify something higher and more comprehensive than

conscience. They regard it as the voice of God in the soul, which will

always guard man from evil, and guide him into truth, if reverently

listened to, in stillness of the passions, and obedience of the will.

These strong impressions on individual minds constitute their only call

and consecration to the ministry, and have directed' them in the

application of moral principles to a variety of subjects, such as

intemperance, war, and slavery. Men and women were impelled by the

interior monitor to go about preaching on these topics, until their

individual views became what are called "leading testimonies" in the

Society. The abjuration of slavery was one of their earliest

"testimonies." There was much preaching against it in their public

meetings, and many committees were appointed to expostulate in private

with those who held slaves. At an early period, it became an established

rule of discipline for the Society to disown any member, who refused to

manumit his bondmen.

Friend Hopper used to tell an interesting anecdote in connection with

these committees. In the course of their visits, they concluded to pass

by one of their members, who held only one slave, and he was very old.

He was too infirm to earn his own living, and as he was very kindly

treated, they supposed he would have no wish for freedom. But Isaac

Jackson, one of the committee, a very benevolent and conscientious man,

had a strong impression on his mind that duty required him not to omit

this case. He accordingly went alone to the master, and stated how the

subject appeared to him, in the inward light of his own soul. The Friend

was not easily convinced. He brought forward many reasons for not

emancipating his slave; and one of the strongest was that the man was

too feeble to labor for his own support, and therefore freedom would be

of no value to him. Isaac Jackson replied, "He labored for thee without

wages, while he had strength, and it is thy duty to support him now.

Whether he would value freedom or not, is a question he alone is

competent to decide."

These friendly remonstrances produced such effect, that the master

agreed to manumit his bondman, and give a written obligation that he

should be comfortably supported during the remainder of his life, by him

or his heirs. When the papers were prepared the slave was called into

the parlor, and Isaac Jackson inquired, "Would'st thou like to be free?"

He promptly answered that he should. The Friend suggested that he was

now too feeble to labor much, and inquired how he would manage to obtain

a living. The old man meekly replied, "Providence has been kind to me

thus far; and I am willing to trust him the rest of my life."

Isaac Jackson then held up the papers and said, "Thou art a free man.

Thy master has manumitted thee, and promised to maintain thee as long as

thou mayest live."

This was so unexpected, that the aged bondman was completely overcome.

For a few moments, he remained in profound silence; then, with a sudden

impulse, he fell on his knees, and poured forth a short and fervent

prayer of thanksgiving to his Heavenly Father, for prolonging his life

till he had the happiness to feel himself a free man.

The master and his adviser were both surprised and affected by this

eloquent outburst of grateful feeling. The poor old servant had seemed

so comfortable and contented, that no one supposed freedom was of great

importance to him. But, as honest Isaac Jackson observed, _he_ alone was

competent to decide _that_ question.

Quakers consider "the inward light" as a guide not merely in cases

involving moral principles, but also in the regulation of external

affairs; and in the annals of their Society, are some remarkable

instances of dangers avoided by the help of this internal monitor.

Friend Hopper used to mention a case where a strong impression had been

made on his own mind, without his being able to assign any adequate

reason for it. A young man, descended from a highly respectable Quaker

family in New-Jersey, went to South Carolina and entered into business.

He married there, and as his wife did not belong to the Society of

Friends, he was of course disowned. After some years of commercial

success, he failed, and went to Philadelphia, where Friend Hopper became

acquainted with him, and formed an opinion not unfavorable. When he had

been in that city some time, he mentioned that his wife owned land in

Carolina, which he was very desirous to cultivate, but was prevented by

conscientious scruples concerning slave-labor. He said if he could

induce some colored people from Philadelphia to go there and work for

him as free laborers, it would be an advantage to him, and a benefit to

them. He urged Friend Hopper to exert his influence over them to

convince them that such precautions could be taken, as would prevent any

danger of their being reduced to slavery; saying that if he would

consent to do so, he doubtless could obtain as many laborers as he

wanted. The plan appeared feasible, and Friend Hopper was inclined to

assist him in carrying it into execution. Soon after, two colored men

called upon him, and said they were ready to go, provided he thought

well of the project. Nothing had occurred to change his opinion of the

man, or to excite distrust concerning his agricultural scheme. But an

impression came upon his mind that the laborers had better not go; an

impression so strong, that he thought it right to be influenced by it.

He accordingly told them he had thought well of the plan, but his views

had changed, and he advised them to remain where they were. This greatly

surprised the man who wished to employ them, and he called to

expostulate on the subject; repeating his statement concerning the great

advantage they would derive from entering into his service.

"There is no use in arguing the matter," replied Friend Hopper. "I have

no cause whatever to suspect thee of any dishonest or dishonorable

intentions; but there is on my mind an impression of danger, so powerful

that I cannot conscientiously have any agency in inducing colored

laborers to go with thee."

Not succeeding in his project, the bankrupt merchant went to New-Jersey

for a time, to reside with his father, who was a worthy and influential

member of the Society of Friends. An innocent, good natured old colored

man, a fugitive from Virginia, had for some time been employed to work

on the farm, and the family had become much attached to him. The son who

had returned from Carolina was very friendly with this simple-hearted

old servant, and easily gained his confidence. When he had learned his

story, he offered to write to his master, and enable him to purchase his

freedom for a sum which he could gradually repay by labor. The fugitive

was exceedingly grateful, and put himself completely in his power by a

full statement of all particulars. The false-hearted man did indeed

write to the master; and the poor old slave was soon after arrested and

carried to Philadelphia in irons. Friend Hopper was sent for, and went

to see him in prison. With groans and sobs, the captive told how

wickedly he had been deceived. "I thought he was a Quaker, and so I

trusted him," said he. "But I saw my master's agent pay him fifty

dollars for betraying me."

Friend Hopper assured him that the deceiver was not a Quaker; and that

he did not believe any Quaker on the face of the earth would do such an

unjust and cruel deed. He could devise no means to rescue the sufferer;

and with an aching heart he was compelled to see him carried off into

slavery, without being able to offer any other solace than an

affectionate farewell.

The conduct of this base hypocrite proved that the warning presentiment

against him had not been without foundation. Grieved and indignant at

the wrong he had done to a helpless and unoffending fellow-creature,

Friend Hopper wrote to him as follows: "Yesterday, I visited the poor

old man in prison, whom thou hast so perfidiously betrayed. Gloomy and

hopeless as his case is, I would prefer it to thine. Thou hast received

fifty dollars as the reward of thy treachery; but what good can it do

thee? Canst thou lay down thy head at night, without feeling the sharp

goadings of a guilty conscience? Canst thou ask forgiveness of thy sins

of our Heavenly Father, whom thou hast so grievously insulted by thy

hypocrisy? Judas betrayed his master for thirty pieces of silver, and

afterward hung himself. Thou hast betrayed thy brother for fifty; and if

thy conscience is not seared, as with hot iron, thy compunction must be

great. I feel no disposition to upbraid thee. I have no doubt thy own

heart does that sufficiently; for our beneficent Creator will not suffer

any to be at ease in their sins. Thy friend, I.T.H."

The worthy old Quaker in New-Jersey was not aware of his son's

villainous conduct until some time after. When the circumstances were

made known to the family they were exceedingly mortified and afflicted.

Friend Hopper used to tell another story, which forms a beautiful

contrast to the foregoing painful narrative. I repeat it, because it

illustrates the tenderness of spirit, which has so peculiarly

characterized the Society of Friends, and because I hope it may fall

like dew on hearts parched by vindictive feelings. Charles Carey lived

near Philadelphia, in a comfortable house with a few acres of pasture

adjoining. A young horse, apparently healthy, though lean, was one day

offered him in the market for fifty dollars. The cheapness tempted him

to purchase; for he thought the clover of his pastures would soon put

the animal in good condition, and enable him to sell him at an advanced

price. He was too poor to command the required sum himself, but he

borrowed it of a friend. The horse, being well fed and lightly worked,

soon became a noble looking animal, and was taken to the city for sale.

But scarcely had he entered the market, when a stranger stepped up and

claimed him as his property, recently stolen. Charles Carey's son, who

had charge of the animal, was taken before a magistrate. Isaac T. Hopper

was sent for, and easily proved that the character of the young man and

his father was above all suspicion. But the stranger produced

satisfactory evidence that he was the rightful owner of the horse, which

was accordingly delivered up to him. When Charles Carey heard the

unwelcome news, he quietly remarked, "It is hard for me to lose the

money; but I am glad the man has recovered his property."

About a year afterward, having occasion to go to a tavern in

Philadelphia, he saw a man in the bar-room, whom he at once recognized

as the person who had sold him the horse. He walked up to him, and

inquired whether he remembered the transaction. Being answered in the

affirmative, he said, "I am the man who bought that horse. Didst thou

know he was stolen?" With a stupified manner and a faltering voice, the

stranger answered, "Yes."

"Come along with me, then," said Charles; "and I will put thee where

thou wilt not steal another horse very soon."

The thief resigned himself to his fate with a sort of hopeless

indifference. But before they reached the magistrate's office, the voice

within began to plead gently with the Quaker, and turned him from the

sternness of his purpose. "I am a poor man," said he, "and thou hast

greatly injured me. I cannot afford to lose fifty dollars; but to

prosecute thee will not compensate me for the loss. Go thy way, and

conduct thyself honestly in future."

The man seemed amazed. He stood for a moment, hesitating and confused;

then walked slowly away. But after taking a few steps, he turned back

and said, "Where can I find you, if I should ever be able to make

restitution for the wrong I have done?"

Charles replied, "I trust thou dost not intend to jest with me, after

all the trouble thou hast caused me?"

"No, indeed I do not," answered the stranger. "I hope to repay you, some

time or other."

"Very well," rejoined the Friend, "if thou ever hast anything for me,

thou canst leave it with Isaac T. Hopper, at the corner of Walnut and

Dock-streets." Thus they parted, and never met again.

About a year after, Friend Hopper found a letter on his desk, addressed

to Charles Carey. When it was delivered to him, he was surprised to find

that it came from the man who had stolen the horse, and contained twenty

dollars. A few months later, another letter containing the same sum, was

left in the same way. Not long after, a third letter arrived, enclosing

twenty dollars; the whole forming a sum sufficient to repay both

principal and interest of the money which the kind-hearted Quaker had

lost by his dishonesty.

This last letter stated that the writer had no thoughts of stealing the

horse ten minutes before he did it. After he had sold him, he was so

haunted by remorse and fear of detection, that life became a burthen to

him, and he cared not what became of him. But when he was arrested, and

so unexpectedly set at liberty, the crushing weight was taken from him.

He felt inspired by fresh courage, and sustained by the hope of making

some atonement for what he had done. He made strenuous efforts to

improve his condition, and succeeded. He was then teaching school, was

assessor of the township where he resided, and no one suspected that he

had ever committed a dishonest action.

The good man, to whom this epistle was addressed, read it with moistened

eyes, and felt that the reward of righteousness is peace.

For many years after Isaac T. Hopper joined the Society of Friends, a

spirit of peace and of kindly communion prevailed among them. No sect

has ever arisen which so nearly approached the character of primitive

christianity, in all relations with each other and with their fellow

men. But as soon as the early christians were relieved from persecution,

they began to persecute each other; and so it was with the Quakers.

Having become established and respected by the world, the humble and

self-denying spirit which at the outset renounced and contended with the

world gradually departed. Many of them were rich, and not unfrequently

their fortunes were acquired by trading with slave-holders. Such men

were well satisfied to have the testimonies of their spiritual

forefathers against slavery read over among themselves, at stated

seasons; but they felt little sympathy with those of their

cotemporaries, who considered it a duty to remonstrate publicly and

freely with all who were connected with the iniquitous system.

A strong and earnest preacher, by the name of Elias Hicks, made himself

more offensive than others in this respect. He appears to have been a

very just and conscientious man, with great reverence for God, and

exceedingly little for human authority. Everywhere, in public and in

private, he lifted up his voice against the sin of slavery. He would eat

no sugar that was made by slaves, and wear no garment which he supposed

to have been produced by unpaid labor. In a remarkable manner, he showed

this "ruling passion strong in death." A few hours before he departed

from this world, his friends, seeing him shiver, placed a comfortable

over him. He felt of it with his feeble hands, and made a strong effort

to push it away. When they again drew it up over his shoulders, he

manifested the same symptoms of abhorrence. One of them, who began to

conjecture the cause, inquired, "Dost thou dislike it because it is made

of cotton?" He was too far gone to speak, but he moved his head in token

of assent. When they removed the article of slave produce, and

substituted a woolen blanket, he remained quiet, and passed away in

peace.

He was accustomed to say, "It takes _live_ fish to swim _up_ stream;"

and unquestionably he and his friend Isaac T. Hopper were both very much

alive. The quiet boldness of this man was altogether unmanageable. In

Virginia or Carolina, he preached more earnestly and directly against

slavery, than he did in New-York or Pennsylvania; for the simple reason

that it seemed to be more needed there. Upon one of these occasions, a

slaveholder who went to hear him from curiosity, left the meeting in

great wrath, swearing he would blow out that fellow's brains if he

ventured near his plantation. When the preacher heard of this threat, he

put on his hat and proceeded straightway to the forbidden place. In

answer to his inquiries, a slave informed him that his master was then

at dinner, but would see him in a short time. He seated himself and

waited patiently until the planter entered the room. With a calm and

dignified manner, he thus addressed him: "I understand thou hast

threatened to blow out the brains of Elias Hicks, if he comes upon thy

plantation. I am Elias Hicks."

The Virginian acknowledged that he did make such a threat, and said he

considered it perfectly justifiable to do such a deed, when a man came

to preach rebellion to his slaves.

"I came to preach the Gospel, which inculcates forgiveness of injuries

upon slaves as well as upon other men," replied the Quaker. "But tell

me, if thou canst, how this Gospel can be _truly_ preached, without

showing the slaves that they _are_ injured, and thus making a man of thy

sentiments feel as if they were encouraged in rebellion."

This led to a long argument, maintained in the most friendly spirit. At

parting, the slaveholder shook hands with the preacher, and invited him

to come again. His visits were renewed, and six months after, the

Virginian emancipated all his slaves.

When preaching in the free states, he earnestly called upon all to

abstain from slave-produce, and thus in a measure wash their own hands

from participation in a system of abominable wickedness and cruelty. His

zeal on this subject annoyed some of his brethren, but they could not

make him amenable to discipline for it; for these views were in

accordance with the earliest and strongest testimonies of the Society of

Friends; moreover, it would have been discreditable to acknowledge

_such_ a ground of offence. But the secret dissatisfaction showed itself

in a disposition to find fault with him. Charges were brought against

his doctrines. He was accused of denying the authority of Scripture, and

the divinity of Christ.

It was a departure from the original basis of the Society to assume any

standard whatsoever concerning creeds. It is true that the early Quakers

wrote volumes of controversy against many of the prevailing opinions of

their day; such as the doctrine of predestination, and of salvation

depending upon faith, rather than upon works. All the customary external

observances, such as holy days, baptism, and the Lord's Supper, they

considered as belonging to a less spiritual age, and that the time had

come for them to be done away. Concerning the Trinity, there appears to

have been difference of opinion among them from the earliest time. When

George Fox expressed a fear that William Penn had gone too far in

defending "the true unity of God," Penn replied that he had never heard

any one speak more plainly concerning the manhood of Christ, than George

Fox himself. Penn was imprisoned in the Tower for "rejecting the mystery

of the Trinity," in a book called "The Sandy Foundation Shaken." He

afterward wrote "Innocency with her Open Face," regarded by some as a

compromise, which procured his release. But though various popular

doctrines naturally came in their way, and challenged discussion, while

they were endeavoring to introduce a new order of things, the

characteristic feature of their movement was attention to practical

righteousness rather than theological tenets. They did not require their

members to profess faith in any creed. They had but one single bond of

union; and that was the belief that every man ought to be guided in his

actions, and in the interpretation of Scripture, by the light within his

own soul. Their history shows that they mainly used this light to guide

them in the application of moral principles. Upon the priesthood, in

every form, they made unsparing warfare; believing that the gifts of the

Spirit ought never to be paid with money. They appointed committees to

visit the sick, the afflicted, and the destitute, and to superintend

marriages and funerals. The farmer, the shoemaker, the physician, or the

merchant, followed his vocation diligently, and whenever the Spirit

moved him to exhort his brethren, he did so. The "First, and Fifth Day"

of the week, called by other denominations Sunday and Thursday, were set

apart by them for religious meetings. Women were placed on an equality

with men, by being admitted to this free Gospel ministry, and appointed

on committees with men, to regulate the affairs of the Society. They

abjured war under all circumstances, and suffered great persecution

rather than pay military taxes. They early discouraged the distillation

or use of spirituous liquors, and disowned any of their members who

distilled them from grain. Protests against slavery were among their

most earnest testimonies, and it was early made a rule of discipline

that no member of the Society should hold slaves. When the Quakers

first arose, it was a custom in England, as it still is on the continent

of Europe, to say _thou_ to an inferior, or equal, and _you_ to a

superior. They saw in this custom an infringement of the great law of

human brotherhood; and because they would "call no man master," they

said _thou_ to every person, without distinction of rank. To the

conservatives of their day, this spiritual democracy seemed like

deliberate contempt of authority; and as such, deserving of severe

punishment. More strenuously than all other things, they denied the

right of any set of men to prescribe a creed for others. The only

authority they recognized was "the light within;" and for freedom to

follow this, they were always ready to suffer or to die.

On all these subjects, there could be no doubt that Elias Hicks was a

Quaker of the old genuine stamp. But he differed from many others in

some of his theological views. He considered Christ as "the only Son of

the most high God;" but he denied that "the _outward person_," which

suffered on Calvary was properly the Son of God. He attached less

importance to miracles, than did many of his brethren. He said he had

learned more of his own soul, and had clearer revelations of God and

duty, while following his plough, than from all the books he had ever

read. He reverenced the Bible as a record of divine power and goodness,

but did not consider a knowledge of it essential to salvation; for he

supposed that a Hindoo or an African, who never heard of the Scriptures,

or of Christ, might become truly a child of God, if he humbly and

sincerely followed the divine light within, given to every human soul,

according to the measure of its faithfulness.

Many of his brethren, whose views assimilated more with orthodox

opinions, accused him of having departed from the principles of early

Friends. But his predecessors had been guided only by the light within;

and he followed the same guide, without deciding beforehand precisely

how far it might lead him. This principle, if sincerely adopted and

consistently applied, would obviously lead to large and liberal results,

sufficient for the progressive growth of all coming ages. It was so

generally admitted to be the one definite bond of union among early

Friends, that the right of Elias Hicks to utter his own convictions,

whether they were in accordance with others or not, would probably never

have been questioned, if some influential members of the Society had not

assumed more power than was delegated to them; thereby constituting

themselves a kind of ecclesiastical tribunal. It is the nature of such

authority to seek enlargement of its boundaries, by encroaching more and