Isaac T. Hopper by L. Maria ChildA True Life (page 6)

have been in Sing Sing prison twice for grand larceny. I served five years each time.”

“Thou art still very young,” rejoined Friend Hopper; “and it seems a large portion of thy life has been spent in prison. I am afraid thou art a bad man. But I hope thou seest the error of thy ways, and art now determined to do better. Hast thou any friends?”

He replied, “I have a mother; a poor hard-working woman, who sells fruit and candies in the streets. If you will give me a start, I will try to lead an honest life henceforth; for I want to be a comfort and support to her. I have no other friend in the world, and nobody to help me. When I left prison, I was advised to come to you. I am a shoemaker; and if I had money to buy a set of tools, I would work at my trade, and take care of my mother.”

Necessary tools were procured for him, and he seemed very grateful; saying it was the first time in his life that he had found any one willing to help him to be honest, when he came out of prison. Great doubts were entertained of the success of this case; because the man had been so many times convicted. But he occasionally called at the office, and always appeared sober and respectable. A few months after his first introduction, he sent Friend Hopper a letter from Oswego, enclosing seven dollars for his mother. He immediately delivered it, and returned with a cheerful heart to enter it on his Record; adding, “The poor old woman was much pleased that her son remembered her, and said she believed he was now going to do well.”

After that, C.R. frequently sent five or ten dollars to his mother, through the same channel, and paid her rent punctually. He refunded all the money the Association had lent him, and made some small donations, in token of gratitude. Having behaved in a very exemplary manner during four years and a half, Friend Hopper, at his earnest request, applied to the Governor to have all the rights of citizenship restored to him. This was readily obtained by a full and candid statement of the case. It is entered on the Record, with this remark: “C.R. has experienced a wonderful change for the better since he first called upon us. He said he should always remember the kindness that had been extended to him, and hoped he should never do anything to make us regret it.”

He afterward opened a store, with a partner, and up to this present time, is doing well, both in a moral and worldly point of view. Five years and a half after he began to reform, Dr. Russ, of New-York, sent a discharged prisoner to him, in search of work. He wrote in reply, as follows: “I have obtained good employment for the bearer of your note; and it gives me much pleasure at my heart to do something for him that wishes to do well. So leave him to me; and I trust you will be gratified to know the end of charity from a discharged convict.” A week elapsed before the man could enter on his new employment; and C.R. paid his board during that time.

A person, whom I will call Michael Stanley, was sentenced to Sing Sing for two years; being convicted of grand larceny when he was about twenty-two years old. When his term expired, he called upon the Prison Association, and obtained assistance in procuring employment. He endeavored to establish a good character, and was so fortunate as to gain the affections of a very orderly, industrious young woman, whom he soon after married. In his Register, Friend Hopper thus describes a visit to them, little more than a year after he was discharged from prison: “I called yesterday to visit M.S. He lives in the upper part of a brick house, nearly new. His wife is a neat, likely-looking woman, and appears to be a nice housekeeper. Everything about the premises indicates frugality, industry, and comfort. They have plain, substantial furniture, and a good carpet on the floor. Before their door is a grass-plot, and the margin of the fence is lined with a variety of plants in bloom. He and his wife, and her mother, manifested much gratification at my visit.”

In little more than two years after he began to retrieve the early mistakes of his life, M.S. established a provision shop on his own account, in the city of New-York, and was successful. He and his tidy little wife called on Friend Hopper, from time to time, and always cheered his heart by their respectable appearance, and the sincere gratitude they manifested. The following record stands in the Register: “M.S. called at my house, and spent an hour with me. He is a member of the Society of Methodists, and I really believe he is a reformed man. It is now more than four years and a half since he was released from Sing Sing; and his conduct has ever since been unexceptionable.”

Another young man, whom I will call Hans Overton, was the son of very respectable parents, but unfortunately he formed acquaintance with unprincipled men when he was too young and inexperienced to be a judge of character. Being corrupted by their influence, he forged a check on a bank in Albany. He was detected, and sentenced to the State Prison for two years. When he was released, at twenty-two years of age, he did the best he could to efface the blot on his reputation. But after having obtained respectable employment, he was discharged because his employer was told he had been in prison. He procured another situation, and the same thing again occurred. He began to think there was no use in trying to redeem his lost character. In this discouraged state of mind, he applied to the Prison Association for assistance. Inquiries were made of the two gentlemen in whose employ he had been more than a year. They said they had found him capable, industrious, and faithful; and their distrust of him was founded solely on the fact of his being a discharged convict. For some time, he obtained only temporary employment, now and then; and the Association lent him small sums of money whenever his necessities required. At one time, he was charged with being an accomplice in a larceny; but upon investigation, it was ascertained that he had become mixed up with an affair, which made him appear to disadvantage, though he had no dishonest intentions in relation to it. Finally, through the influence of the Association he obtained a situation, in a drug store. His employer was fully informed concerning his previous history, but was willing to take him on trial. He remained there five years, and conducted in the most exemplary manner. Having married meanwhile, he was desirous to avail himself of an opportunity to obtain a higher salary; and the druggist very willingly testified that his conduct had been entirely satisfactory during the time he had been with him. But in about eight months, his new employer discovered that he had been in prison, and he immediately told him he had better procure some other situation; though he acknowledged that he had no fault to find with him. Friend Hopper sought an interview with this gentleman and represented the youthfulness of H.O. at the time he committed the misdemeanor, which had so much injured the prospects of his life. He urged his subsequent good conduct, and the apparent sincerity of his efforts to build up a reputation for honesty. He finally put the case home to him, by asking how he would like to have others conduct toward a son of his own, under similar circumstances. It was a point of view from which the gentleman had never before considered the question, and his mind was somewhat impressed by it; but his prejudices were not easily overcome. Meanwhile, the druggist was very willing to receive the young man back again; and he returned. It seems as if it would have been almost impossible for him to have avoided sinking into the depths of discouragement and desperation, if he had not received timely assistance from the Prison Association. How highly he appreciated their aid may be inferred from the following letter to Isaac T. Hopper:

“My dear friend, as business prevents me from seeing you in the day-time, I take this method to express my thanks for the noble and generous mention made of me in your remarks before the Association; which remarks were as pleasant and exciting to me, as they were unexpected. I need scarcely assure you, my kind and generous friend, (generous not only to so humble an individual as myself, but to all your fellow creatures,) that it is out of my power to find words to thank you adequately, or to express my feelings on that occasion. I was the more gratified because my dear wife was present with me, and also my brother-in-law. Oh, what a noble work the Society is engaged in. My most fervent prayer is that your name may remain on its list for many years to come. Then indeed should I have no fears for those poor unfortunates, whose first unthinking error places them unconditionally within the miasma of vice and crime. That you may enjoy a very merry Christmas, and many happy New-Years, is the sincere desire of my wife and myself.”

T.B., who has been for several years in the employ of the Association, was raised by their aid from the lowest depths of intemperance, and has become a highly respectable and useful citizen.

J.M., who was in Sing Sing Prison four years, for grand larceny, was aided by the Association at various times, and always repaid the money precisely at the appointed day. His industry and skilful management excited envy and jealousy in some, who had less faculty for business. They taunted him with having been a convict, and threw all manner of obstacles in the way of his making an honest living.

Among other persecutions, a suit at law was instituted against him, which cost him seventy-five dollars. The charge was entirely without foundation, and when brought before the court, was promptly dismissed. It is now about six years since J.M. resolved to retrieve his character, and he still perseveres in the right course.

Ann W. was an illegitimate child, and early left an orphan. She went to live with an aunt, who kept a boarding-house in Albany. According to her own account, she was harshly treated, and frequently taunted with the circumstances of her birth. At the early age of fourteen, one of the boarders offered to marry her, and induced her to leave the house with him. She lived with him some time, always urging the fulfilment of his promise; and at last he pacified her by going to a person, who performed the marriage-ceremony. She was strongly attached to him, and being a capable, industrious girl, she kept everything nice and bright about their lodgings. He pretended to have a great deal of business in New-York; but in fact his frequent visits to that city were for purposes of gambling. On one of those occasions, when he had been absent much longer than usual, she followed him, and found him living with another woman. He very coolly informed her that the marriage-ceremony between them was a mere sham; the person who performed it not having been invested with any legal authority. Thus betrayed, deserted, and friendless, the poor young creature became almost frantic. In that desperate state of mind, she was decoyed by a woman, who kept a disreputable house. A short career of reckless frivolity and vice ended, as usual, in the hospital on Blackwell’s Island. When she was discharged, she tried to drown her sorrow and remorse in intemperance, and went on ever from bad to worse, till she became a denizen of Five Points. In her brief intervals of sobriety, she was thoroughly disgusted with herself, and earnestly desired to lead a better life. Being turned into the street one night, in a state of intoxication, she went to the prison called The Tombs, because its architecture is in imitation of the ancient sepulchral halls of Egypt. She humbly asked permission to enter this gloomy abode, in hopes that some of the ladies connected with the Prison Association would visit her, and find some decent employment for her. Her case being represented to Friend Hopper, he induced his wife to take her into the family, as a domestic. As soon as she entered the house, she said, “I don’t want to deceive you. I will tell you everything.” And she told all the particulars of her history, without attempting to veil any of its deformity. She was very industrious, and remarkably tidy in her habits. She kept the kitchen extremely neat, and loved to decorate it with little ornaments, especially with flowers. Poor shattered soul! Who can tell into what blossom of poetry that little germ might have expanded, if it had been kindly nurtured under gentle and refining influences? She behaved very well for several months, and often expressed gratitude that she could now feel as if she had a home. Friend Hopper took great interest in her, and had strong hopes that she would become a respectable woman. Before a year expired, she relapsed into intemperate habits for a time; but he overlooked it, and encouraged her to forget it. As she often expressed a great desire to see her cousins in Albany, he called upon them, and told the story of her reformation. They sent some little presents, accompanied with friendly messages, and after a while invited her to visit them. For a time, it seemed as if the excursion had done her good, both physically and mentally; but the sight of respectable relatives, with husbands and children, made her realize more fully the utter loneliness of her own position. She used opium in large quantities, and had dreadful fits in consequence. Sometimes, she stole out of the house in the evening, and was taken up by the police in a state of intoxication. When she recovered her senses, she would be very humble, and during an interval of weeks, or months, would make an effort to behave extremely well. I forget how often Friend Hopper received her back, after she had spent the night in the Station House; but it was many, many times. His patience held out long after everybody else was completely weary. She finally became so violent and ungovernable, and endangered the household so much in her frantic fits, that even he felt the necessity of placing her under the restraining influences of some public institution. The Magdalen Asylum at Philadelphia consented to receive her, and after much exhortation, she was persuaded to go. While she was there, his daughters in that city called on her occasionally, at his request, and he and his wife made her a visit. He wrote to her frequently, in the kindest and most encouraging manner. In one of these epistles, he says: “I make frequent inquiries concerning thee, and am generally told thou art getting along _pretty_ well. Now I want to hear a different tale from that. I want thy friends at the Asylum to be able to say, ‘She is doing _exceedingly_ well. Her health is good, she is satisfied with her condition, and we are all much gratified to find that she submits to the advice of her friends.’ When they can speak thus of thee, I shall begin to think about changing thy situation. The woman who fills thy place in my family does very well. Every day, she puts on the table the mug thou gavest me, and she keeps it as bright as silver. Our little garden looks beautiful. The Morning Glories, thou used to take so much pleasure in, have grown finely. All the family desire kind remembrances. Farewell. May peace and comfort be with thee.”

In another letter, he says: “Thy Heavenly Father has been kind, and waited long for thee; and He has now provided a way for thy redemption from the bondage under which thou hast suffered so much. I hope thou wilt not think of leaving the Asylum for some time to come. Thou canst not be so firmly established yet, as not to be under great temptation elsewhere. What a sorrowful circumstance it would be, if thou shouldst again return to the filthy and wicked habit of stupifying thyself with that pernicious drug! I am glad thou hast determined to take my advice. If thou wilt do so, I will never forsake thee. I will do all I can for thee; and thou shalt never be without a home.”

Again he writes: “Thy letter occasioned joy and sorrow. Sorrow to find thou hast not always treated the matron as thou oughtest to have done. I am sure that excellent person is every way worthy of thy regard; and I hope my ears will never again be pained by hearing that thou hast treated her unkindly or disrespectfully. I did hope that after a year’s discipline, thou hadst learned to control thy temper. Until thou canst do so, thou must be aware that thou art not qualified to render thyself useful or agreeable in any family. But after all, I am glad to find that thou art sensible of thy error, and hast a disposition to improve. When thou liest down at night, I want thee to examine the deeds of the past day. If thou hast made a hasty reply, or spoken impertinently, or done wrong in any other way, be careful to acknowledge thy fault. Ask thy Heavenly Father to forgive thee, and be careful to do so no more. I feel a great regard for thee; and I trust thou wilt never give me cause to regret thy relapse into vice. I hope better things for thee, and I always shall.”

But his hopefulness and patience proved of no avail in this instance. The wreck was too complete to admit of repair. The poor creature occasionally struggled hard to do better; but her constitution was destroyed by vice and hardship; her feelings were blunted by suffering, and her naturally bright faculties were stupified by opium. After she left the Asylum, she lived with a family in the country for awhile; but the old habits returned, and destroyed what little strength she had left. The last I knew of her she was on Blackwell’s Island; and she will probably never leave it, till she goes where the weary are at rest.

An uncommon degree of interest was excited in Friend Hopper’s mind by the sufferings of another individual, whom I will call Julia Peters. She was born of respectable parents, and was carefully tended in her early years. Her mother was a prudent, religious-minded woman; but she died when Julia was twelve years old. The father soon after took to drinking and gambling, and spent all the property he possessed. His daughter was thus brought into the midst of profligate associates, at an age when impulses are strong, and the principles unformed. She led a vicious life for several years, and during a fit of intoxication married a worthless, dissipated fellow. When she was eighteen years old, she was imprisoned for perjury. The case appeared doubtful at the time, and from circumstances, which afterward came to light, it is supposed that she was not guilty of the alleged crime. The jury could not agree on the first trial, and she remained in jail two years, awaiting a decision of her case. She was at last pronounced guilty; and feeling that injustice was done her, she made use of violent and disrespectful language to the court. This probably increased the prejudice against her; for she was sentenced to Sing Sing prison for the long term of fourteen years. She was naturally intelligent, active and energetic; and the limitations of a prison had a worse effect upon her, than they would have had on a more stolid temperament. In the course of a year or two, her mind began to sink under the pressure, and finally exhibited signs of melancholy insanity. Friend Hopper had an interview with her soon after she was conveyed to Sing Sing, and found her in a state of deep dejection. She afterward became completely deranged, and was removed to the Lunatic Asylum at Bloomingdale. He and his wife visited her there, and found her in a state of temporary rationality. Her manners were quiet and pleasing, and she appeared exceedingly gratified to see them. The superintendent granted permission to take her with them in a walk through the grounds, and she enjoyed this little excursion very highly. But when one of the company remarked that it was a very pleasant place, she sighed deeply, and replied, “Yes, it is a pleasant place to those who can leave it. But chains are chains, though they are made of gold; and mine grow heavier every day.”

Her temperament peculiarly required freedom, and chafed and fretted under restraint. Insanity returned upon her with redoubled force, soon after. She used blasphemous and indecent language, and cut up her blankets to make pantaloons. She picked the lock of her room, and tried various plans of escape. When Friend Hopper went to see her again, some weeks later, he found her in the masculine attire, which she had manufactured. She tried to hide herself, but when he called her back in a gentle, but firm tone, she came immediately. He took her kindly by the hand, and said, “Julia, what does all this mean?”

“It is military costume,” she replied. “I am an officer of state.”

“I am sorry thou art not more decently clad,” said he. “I intended to have thee take a walk with me; but I should be ashamed to go with thee in that condition.” She earnestly entreated to go, and promised to change her dress immediately. He accordingly waited till she was ready, and then spent more than an hour walking round the grounds with her. She told him the history of her life, and wept bitterly over the retrospect of her erroneous course. It seemed a great relief to have some one to whom she could open her over-burdened heart. She was occasionally incoherent, but the fresh air invigorated her, and the quiet talk soothed her perturbed feelings. At parting, she said, “I thank you. I thought I hadn’t a friend in the world. I was afraid everybody had forgotten me.”

“I am thy sincere friend,” he replied; “and I promise that I will never forget thee.”

I make the following extract from a letter, which he wrote to her soon after: “Now, Julia, listen to me, and mind what I say; for thou knowest I am thy friend. I want thee, at all times, and upon all occasions, to be very careful of thy conduct. Never suffer thyself to use vulgar or profane language. It would grieve me, and I am sure thou dost not wish to do that. Besides, it is very degrading, and very wicked. Be discreet, sober, and modest. Be kind, courteous, and obliging to all. Thou wilt make many friends by so doing, and wilt feel more cheerful and happy thyself. Do be a lady. I know thou canst, if thou wilt. More than all, I want thee to be a Christian. I sympathize with thee, and intend to come and see thee soon.”

Dr. Earle, physician of the Asylum, said the letter had a salutary effect upon her. Friend Hopper went out to see her frequently, and was often accompanied by his wife, or daughters. Her bodily and mental health continued to improve; and in the course of five or six months, the doctor allowed her to accompany her kind old friend to the city, and spend a day and night at his house. This change of scene was found so beneficial, that the visit was repeated a few weeks after. Before winter set in, she was so far restored that she spent several days in his family, and conducted with the greatest propriety. He soon after applied to the Governor for a pardon, which was promptly granted. His next step was to procure a suitable home for her; and a worthy Quaker family in Pennsylvania, who were acquainted with all the circumstances, agreed to employ her as chambermaid and seamstress. When it was all arranged, Friend Hopper went out to the Asylum to carry the news. But fearful of exciting her too much, he talked upon indifferent subjects for a few minutes, and then asked if she would like to go into the city again to spend a fortnight with his family. She replied, “Indeed I would.” He promised to take her with him, and added, “Perhaps thou wilt stay longer than two weeks.” At last, he said, “It may be that thou wilt not have to return here again.” She sprang up instantly, and looking in his face with intense anxiety, exclaimed, “Am I pardoned? _Am_ I pardoned?”

“Yes, thou art pardoned,” he replied; “and I have come to take thee home.” She fell back into her seat, covered her face with her hands, and wept aloud. Friend Hopper, describing this interview in a letter to a friend, says: “It was the most affecting scene I ever witnessed. Nothing could exceed the joy I felt at seeing this child of sorrow relieved from her sufferings, and restored to liberty. I had seen this young and comely looking woman, who was endowed with more than common good sense, driven to the depths of despair by the intensity of her sufferings. I had seen her a raving maniac. Now, I saw her ‘sitting and clothed in her right mind.’ I was a thousand times more than compensated for all the pains I had taken. I had sympathized deeply with her sufferings, and I now partook largely of her joy.”

As her nerves were in a very excitable state, it was thought best that she should remain a few weeks under the superintendence of his daughter, Mrs. Gibbons, before she went to the home provided for her. She was slightly unsettled at times, but was disposed to be industrious and cheerful. Having earned a little money by her needle, the first use she made of it, was to buy a pair of vases for Friend Hopper; and proud and pleased she was, when she brought them home and presented them! He always kept them on the parlor mantel-piece, and often told their history to people who called upon him.

When she had become perfectly calm and settled, he and his wife accompanied her to Pennsylvania, and saw her established among her new friends, who received her in the kindest manner. A week after his return, he wrote to assure her that his interest in her had not abated. In the course of the letter, he says: “I need not tell thee how anxious I am that thou shouldst conduct so as to be a credit to thyself, and to those who have interested themselves in thy behalf. I felt keenly at parting with thee, but I was comforted by the reflection that I had left thee with kind friends. Confide in them upon all occasions, and do nothing without their advice. Thy future happiness will depend very much upon thyself. Never suffer thy mind to become excited. Remember that kind friends were raised up for thee in the midst of all thy sorrows, and that they will always continue to be thy friends, if thou wilt be guided by their counsels. Thou wert with us so long, that we feel toward thee like one of the family. All join me in love to thee.”

In her reply, she says: “Your letter was to me what a glass of cold water would be when fainting. I have pored over it so much, that I have got it by heart. Friend Hopper, you first saw me in prison and visited me. You followed me to the Asylum. You did not forsake me. You have changed a bed of straw to a bed of down. May Heaven bless and reward you for it. No tongue can express the gratitude I feel. Many are the hearts you have made glad. Suppose all you have dragged out of one place and another were to stand before you at once! I think you would have more than you could shake hands with in a month; and I know you would shake hands with them all.”

For a few months, she behaved in a very satisfactory manner, though occasionally unsettled and depressed. She wrote that the worthy woman with whom she lived was ‘both mother and friend to her.’ But the country was gloomy in the winter, and the spirit of unrest took possession of her. She went to Philadelphia and plunged into scenes of vice for a week or two; but she quickly repented, and was rescued by her friends. I have seldom seen Friend Hopper so deeply pained as he was by this retrograde step in one whom he had rejoiced over, “as a brand plucked from the burning.” After awhile, he addressed a letter to her, in which he says: “I should have written to thee before, but I have been at a loss what to say. I have cared for thee, as if thou hadst been my own child. Little did I think thou wouldst ever disgrace thyself, and distress me, by associating with the most vile. Thou wert wonderfully snatched from a sink of pollution. I hoped thou wouldst appreciate the favor, and take a fresh start in life, determined to do well. Better, far better, for thee to have lingered out a wretched existence in Bloomingdale Asylum, than to continue in such a course as that thou entered upon in Philadelphia. My heart is pained while I write. Indeed, thou art seldom out of my mind. Most earnestly, and affectionately, I beseech thee to change thy course. Restrain evil thoughts and banish them from thee. Try to keep thy mind quiet, and stayed upon thy Heavenly Father. He has done much for thee. He has followed thee in all thy wanderings. Ask him to forgive thy iniquity, and he will have mercy on thee. Thou mayest yet be happy thyself, and make those happy who have taken a deep interest in thy welfare. But if thou art determined to pursue evil courses, after all that has been done for thee, let me tell thee thy days will be brief and full of trouble; and I doubt not thou wilt end them within the walls of a prison. I hope better things of thee. If thou doest well, it will afford encouragement to assist others; but if thy conduct is bad, it may be the means of prolonging the sufferings of many others. I am still thy friend, and disposed to do all I can for thee.”

In her answer, she says: “Oh, frail woman! No steps can be recalled. It is all in the future to make amends for the past. After all the good counsel some receive, they return to habits of vice. They repent when it is too late. How true it is that virtue has its reward, and vice its punishment. I know that the way of transgressors is hard. If I only had a few years of my life to live over again, how different would I live! For the many blessings Providence has bestowed on me, may I be grateful. In all my troubles, He has raised me up a friend. I believe He never forsakes me; so there is hope for me. Don’t be discouraged that you befriended me; for, with God’s blessing, you shall have no reason to repent of it.”

He wrote thus to her, a short time after: “I very often think of thee, and I yet hope that I shall one day see thee a happy and respectable woman. I have lately had a good deal of conversation with the Governor concerning ‘my friends,’ as he calls those whom he has pardoned at my request. I did not tell him thou hadst behaved incorrectly. I hope I shall never be obliged to do so. I have had pleasant accounts concerning thee lately, and I do not wish to remember that thou hast ever grieved me. As I passed down the river yesterday, from Albany, I saw Bloomingdale Asylum. I remembered how I used to walk with thee about the grounds; and my mind was for a time depressed with melancholy reflections. I had deeply sympathized in thy sufferings; and I had rarely, if ever, experienced greater pleasure than when I was the happy messenger of thy redemption from the grievous thraldom, under which thou wert suffering. Thou art blessed with more than common good sense, and thou knowest how to make thyself agreeable. I earnestly advise thee to guard well thy thoughts. Never allow thyself to use an immodest word, or to be guilty of an unbecoming action. On all occasions, show thyself worthy of the regard of those who feel an interest in thy welfare. ‘There is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons that need no repentance.’ With ardent solicitude for thy welfare, I remain thy sincere friend.”

About two years afterward, Friend Hopper made the following record in his Register: “J.P. continues to conduct very satisfactorily. She makes a very respectable appearance, is modest and discreet in her deportment, and industrious in her habits. As a mark of gratitude for the attentions, which at different times I have extended to her, she has sent me a pair of handsome gloves, and a bandana handkerchief. Taking into consideration all the circumstances attending this case, this small present affords me much more gratification than ten times the value from any other person.” Six months later, he made this record: “The Friend, with whom J.P. lives, called upon me to say that she sent a world of love to Isaac T. Hopper, whose kindness she holds in grateful remembrance.” The same Friend afterward wrote, “She is all that I could wish her to be.”

Many more instances might be quoted; but enough has been told to illustrate his patience and forbearance, and his judicious mode of dealing with such characters. Dr. Russ, one of the most active and benevolent members of the Prison Association, thinks it is a fair statement to say that at least three-fourths of those for whom he interested himself eventually turned out well; though in several cases, it was after a few backslidings. The fullness of his sympathy was probably one great reason why he obtained such influence over them, and made them so willing to open their hearts to him. He naturally, and without effort, put _his_ soul in _their_ soul’s stead. This rendered it easy for him to disregard his own interests, and set aside his own opinions, for the benefit of others. In several instances, he procured another place for a healthy, good-looking domestic, with whose services he was well satisfied, merely because some poor creature applied for work, who was too lame, or ill-favored, to obtain employment elsewhere. When an insane girl, from Sing Sing, was brought to his house to wait for an opportunity to return to her parents in Canada, he sent for the Catholic Bishop to come and minister to her spiritual wants, because he found she was very unhappy without religious consolation in the form to which she had been accustomed in childhood.

The peculiar adaptation of his character to this mission of humanity was not only felt by his fellow laborers in the New-York Association, but was acknowledged wherever he was known. Dr. Walter Channing, brother of the late Dr. William Ellery Charming wrote to him as follows, when the Boston Prison Association was about being formed; “I was rejoiced to learn that you would stay to help at our meetings in behalf of criminals. The demand which this class of brothers has upon us is felt by every man, who examines his own heart, and his own life. How great is every man’s need of the kindness and love of his brethren! Here is the deep-laid cause of sympathy. Here is the secret spring of that wide effort, which the whole world is now making for the happiness and good of the race. I thank you for what you have done in this noble work. I had heard with the sincerest pleasure, of your labors for the down-trodden and the poor. God bless you for these labors of love! Truly shall I thank you for the light you can so abundantly give, and which will make the path of duty plain before me.”

Incessant demands were made upon his time and attention. A great many people, if they happened to have their feelings touched by some scene of distress, seemed to think they had fulfilled their whole duty by sending the sufferer to Isaac T. Hopper. Few can imagine what an arduous task it is to be such a thorough philanthropist as he was. Whoever wishes for a crown like his, must earn it by carrying the martyr’s cross through life. They must make up their minds to relinquish their whole time to such pursuits; they must be prepared to encounter envy and dislike; to be misrepresented and blamed, where their intentions have been most praiseworthy; to be often disheartened by the delinquencies, or ingratitude, of those they have expended their time and strength to serve; above all, they must be willing to live and die poor.

Though attention to prisoners was the mission to which Friend Hopper peculiarly devoted the last years of his life, his sympathy for the slaves never abated. And though his own early efforts had been made in co-operation with the gradual Emancipation Society, established by Franklin, Rush, and others, he rejoiced in the bolder movement, known as modern anti-slavery. Of course, he did not endorse everything that was said and done by all sorts of temperaments engaged in that cause, or in any other cause. But no man understood better than he did the fallacy of the argument that modern abolitionists had put back the cause of emancipation in the South. He often used to speak of the spirit manifested toward William Savery, when he went to the South to preach, as early as 1791. Writing from Augusta, Georgia, that tender-hearted minister of Christ says: “They can scarcely tolerate us, on account of our abhorrence of slavery. This was truly a trying place to lodge in another night.” At Savannah the landlord of a tavern where they lodged, ordered a cruel flogging to be administered to one of his slaves, who had fallen asleep through weariness, before his daily task was accomplished. William Savery says: “When we went to supper, this unfeeling wretch craved a blessing; which I considered equally abhorrent to the Divine Being, as his curses.” In the morning, when the humane preacher heard sounds of the lash, accompanied by piteous cries for mercy, he had the boldness to step in between the driver and the slave; and he stopped any further infliction of punishment, for that time. He says: “This landlord was the most abominably wicked man that I ever met with; full of horrid execrations, and threatenings of all Northern people. But I did not spare him; which occasioned a bystander to express, with an oath, that I should be ‘popped over.’ We left them distressed in mind; and having a lonesome wood of twelve miles to pass through, we were in full expectation of their waylaying, or coming after us, to put their wicked threats in execution.”

As early as 1806, James Lindley, of Pennsylvania, had a large piece of iron hurled at him, as he was passing through the streets, at Havre de Grace, Maryland. Three of his ribs were broken, and several teeth knocked out, and he was beaten till he was supposed to be dead. All this was done merely because they mistook him for Jacob Lindley, the Quaker preacher, who was well known as a friend to fugitives from slavery.

In view of these, and other similar facts, Friend Hopper was never disposed to blame abolitionists for excitements at the South, as many of the Quakers were inclined to do. He had a sincere respect for the integrity and conscientious boldness of William Lloyd Garrison; as all have, who know him well enough to appreciate his character. For many years, he was always an invited and welcome guest on the occasion of the annual meeting of the Anti-Slavery Society in New-York. Mr. Garrison’s feelings toward him are manifested in the following answer to one of his letters: “As there is no one in the world for whom I entertain more veneration and esteem than for yourself, and as there is no place in New-York, that is so much like home to me, as your own hospitable dwelling, be assured it will give me the utmost pleasure to accept your friendly invitation to remain under your roof during the approaching anniversary week.” It was on one of these occasions, that Garrison addressed to him the following sonnet:

“Thou kind and venerable friend of man, In heart and spirit young, though old in years! The tyrant trembles when thy name he hears, And the slave joys thy honest face to scan. A friend more true and brave, since time began, Humanity has never found: her fears
By thee have been dispelled, and wiped the tears Adown her sorrow-stricken cheeks that ran. If like Napoleon’s appears thy face,
Thy soul to his bears no similitude. He came to curse, but thou to bless our race. Thy hands are pure; in blood were his imbrued. His memory shall be covered with disgrace, But thine embalmed among the truly great and good.”

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

“She’s colored,” was the laconic reply.

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

The man answered, “Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wish thou hadst,” rejoined Friend Hopper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[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.”

I sent the following communication to the New-York Tribune:

“In this world of shadows, few things strengthen the soul like seeing the calm and cheerful exit of a truly good man; and this has been my privilege by the bedside of Isaac T. Hopper.

“He was a man of remarkable endowments, both of head and heart. His clear discrimination, his unconquerable will, his total unconsciousness of fear, his extraordinary tact in circumventing plans he wished to frustrate, would have made him illustrious as the general of an army; and these qualities might have become faults, if they had not been balanced by an unusual degree of conscientiousness and benevolence. He battled courageously, not from ambition, but from an inborn love of truth. He circumvented as adroitly as the most practised politician; but it was always to defeat the plans of those who oppressed God’s poor; never to advance his own self-interest.

“Few men have been more strongly attached to any religious society than he was to the Society of Friends, which he joined in the days of its purity, impelled by his own religious convictions. But when the time came that he must either be faithless to duty in the cause of his enslaved brethren, or part company with the Society to which he was bound by the strong and sacred ties of early religious feeling, this sacrifice he also calmly laid on the altar of humanity.

“During nine years that I lived in his household, my respect and affection for him continually increased. Never have I seen a man who so completely fulfilled the Scripture injunction, to forgive an erring brother ‘not only seven times, but seventy times seven.’ I have witnessed relapse after relapse into vice, under circumstances which seemed like the most heartless ingratitude to him; but he joyfully hailed the first symptom of repentance, and was always ready to grant a new probation.

“Farewell, thou brave and kind old Friend! The prayers of ransomed ones ascended to Heaven for thee, and a glorious company have welcomed thee to the Eternal City.”

On a plain block of granite at Greenwood Cemetery, is inscribed:

ISAAC T. HOPPER,

BORN, DECEMBER 3D, 1771,

ENDED HIS PILGRIMAGE, MAY 7TH, 1852.

“Thou henceforth shalt have a good man’s calm, A great man’s happiness; thy zeal shall find Repose at length, firm Friend of human kind.”