Part 42

"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.