"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.
[Illustration]
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.
The body was conveyed to Greenwood Cemetery, followed only by the
family, and a very few intimate friends. Thomas McClintock, a minister
in the Society of Friends, addressed some words of consolation to the
bereaved family, as they stood around the open grave. Lucretia Mott
affectionately commended the widow to the care of the children. In the
course of her remarks, she said, "I have no unity with these costly
monuments around me, by which the pride and vanity of man strive to
extend themselves beyond the grave. But I like the idea of burial
grounds where people of all creeds repose together. It is pleasant to
leave the body of our friend here, amid the verdant beauty of nature,
and the sweet singing of birds. As he was a fruitful bough, that
overhung the wall, it is fitting that he should not be buried within the
walls of any sectarian enclosure."
Three poor little motherless German boys stood hand in hand beside the
grave. Before the earth was thrown in, the eldest stepped forward and
dropped a small bouquet on the coffin of his benefactor. He had gathered
a few early spring flowers from the little garden plot, which his kind
old friend used to cultivate with so much care, and with childish love
and reverence he dropped them in his grave.
Soon after the funeral Lucretia Mott called a meeting of the colored
people in Philadelphia, and delivered an address upon the life and
services of their friend and protector. There was a very large audience;
and among them were several old people, who well remembered him during
his residence in that city. At the Yearly Meeting also she paid a
tribute to his virtues; it being the custom of Friends, on such
occasions, to make tender allusion to the worthies who have passed from
among them in the course of the year.
The family received many letters of sympathy and condolence, from which
I will make a few brief extracts. Mrs. Marianne C.D. Silsbee, of Salem,
Massachusetts, thus speaks of him, in a letter to his son John: "I have
thought much of you all, since your great loss. How you must miss his
grand, constant example of cheerful trust, untiring energy, and love to
all! What a joy to have had such a father! To be the son of such a man
is ground for honest pride. The pleasure of having known him, the honor
of having been in social relations with him, will always give a charm to
my life. I cherish among my most precious recollections the pleasant
words he has so often spoken to me. I can see him while I write, as
vividly as though he were with me now; and never can his benign and
beautiful countenance lose its brightness in my memory. Dear old
friend! We cannot emulate your ceaseless good works; but we can follow,
and we can love and remember."
Mrs. Mary E. Stearns, of Medford, Massachusetts, wrote as follows to
Rosalie Hopper: "The Telegraph has announced that the precious life you
were all so anxiously watching has 'passed on,' and that mysterious
change we call death has taken it from your midst forever. It is such a
beautiful day! The air is so soft, the grass so green, and the birds
singing so joyously! The day and the event have become so interwoven
with each other, that I cannot separate them. I think of his placid
face, sleeping its last still sleep; and through the open window, I see
the springing grass and the bursting buds. My ears are filled with
bird-music, and all other sounds are hushed in this Sabbath stillness.
All I see and hear seems to be hallowed by his departed spirit. Ah, it
is good to think of his death in the Spring time! It is good that his
soul, so fresh, so young and hopeful, should burst into a higher and
more glorious life, as if in sympathy with the ever beautiful, ever
wonderful resurrection of nature. Dear, blessed old man! I shall never
see his face again; but his memory will be as green as this springing
grass, and we shall always think and talk of our little experience with
him, as one of the golden things that can never pass away."
Dr. Russ, his beloved co-laborer in the Prison Association, wrote thus
in a note to Mrs. Gibbons: "I have found it for my comfort to change the
furniture of the office, that it might not appear so lonely without your
dear, venerable father. I felt for him the warmest and most enduring
friendship. I esteemed him for his thousand virtues, and delighted in
his social intercourse. I am sure no one out of his own immediate
family, felt his loss more keenly than myself."
James H. Titus, of New-York, thus expresses himself in a letter to James
S. Gibbons: "I have ever considered it one of the happiest and most
fortunate events of my life, to have had the privilege of an
acquaintance with Friend Hopper. I shall always recur to his memory with
pleasure, and I trust with that moral advantage, which the recollection
of his Christian virtues is so eminently calculated to produce. How
insignificant the reputation of riches, how unsatisfactory the renown of
victory in war, how transient political fame, when compared with the
history of a long life spent in services rendered to the afflicted and
the unfortunate!"
Ellis Gray Loring, of Boston, in a letter to John Hopper, says: "We
heard of your father's death while we were in Rome. I could not restrain
a few tears, and yet God knows there is no room for tears about the life
or death of such a man. In both, he was a blessing and encouragement to
all of us. He really lived out all the life that was given him; filling
it up to such an age with the beauty of goodness, and consecrating to
the divinest purposes that wonderful energy of intellect and character.
In a society full of selfishness and pretension, it is a great thing to
have practical proof that a life and character like his are possible."
Edmund L. Benzon, of Boston, writing to the same, says; "You will
imagine, better than I can write, with what deep sympathy I learned the
death of your good father, whom I have always esteemed one of the best
of men. I cannot say I am sorry for his death. My only regret is that
more of us cannot live and die as he has done. I feel with regard to all
good men departed, whom I have personally known, that there is now
another witness in the spirit, before whose searching eyes my inmost
soul lies open. I shall never forget him; not even if such a green old
age as his should be my own portion. If in the future life I can only be
as near him as I was on this earth, I shall deem myself blest."
From the numerous notices in papers of all parties and sects, I will
merely quote the following: The New-York Observer thus announces his
death:
"The venerable Isaac T. Hopper, whose placid benevolent face has so
long irradiated almost every public meeting for doing good, and
whose name, influence, and labors have been devoted with an
apostolic simplicity and constancy to humanity, died on Friday
last, at an advanced age. He was a Quaker of that early sort
illustrated by such philanthropists as Anthony Benezet, Thomas
Clarkson, Mrs. Fry, and the like.
"He was a most self-denying, patient, loving friend of the poor, and
the suffering of every kind; and his life was an unbroken history
of beneficence. Thousands of hearts will feel a touch of grief at
the news of his death; for few men have so large a wealth in the
blessings of the poor, and the grateful remembrance of kindness and
benevolence, as he."
The New-York Sunday Times contained the following:
"Most of our readers will call to mind in connection with the name
of Isaac T. Hopper, the compact, well-knit figure of a Quaker
gentleman, apparently about sixty years of age, dressed in drab or
brown clothes of the plainest cut, and bearing on his handsome,
manly face the impress of that benevolence with which his whole
heart was filled.
"He was twenty years older than he seemed. The fountain of
benevolence within, freshened his old age with its continuous flow.
The step of the octogenarian, was elastic as that of a boy, his
form erect as the mountain pine.
"His whole _physique_ was a splendid sample of nature's handiwork.
We see him now with our 'mind's eye'--but with the eye of flesh we
shall see him no more. Void of intentional offence to God or man,
his spirit has joined its happy kindred in a world where there is
neither sorrow nor perplexity."