Chapter 27

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

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

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

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

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

"I wish thou hadst," rejoined Friend Hopper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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