Isaac T. Hopper: A True Life

by Lydia Maria Child

Besides this public calamity, which darkened the whole city for a time, Friend Hopper shared the common lot of humanity in the sad experiences of private life. Several of his children died at that attractive age, when the bud of infancy is blooming into childhood. Relatives and friends crossed the dark river to the unknown shore. On New Year's day, 1797, his mother departed from this world at fifty-six years old. In 1818, his father died at seventy-five years of age. His physical vigor was remarkable. When he had weathered seventy winters, he went to visit his eldest son, and being disappointed in meeting the stage to return, as he expected, he walked home, a distance of twenty-eight miles. At that advanced age, he could rest one hand on his cane and the other on a fence, and leap over as easily as a boy. He had long flowing black hair, which fell in ringlets on his shoulders; and when he died, it was merely sprinkled with gray. When his private accounts were examined after his decease, they revealed the fact that he had secretly expended hundreds of dollars in paying the debts of poor people, or redeeming their furniture when it was attached.

But though many dear ones dropped away from his side, as Friend Isaac moved onward in his pilgrimage, many remained to sustain and cheer him. Among his wife's brothers, his especial friend was John Tatum, who lived in the vicinity of his native village. This worthy man had great sympathy with the colored people, and often sheltered the fugitives whom his brother-in-law had rescued. He was remarkable for his love of peace; always preferring to suffer wrong rather than dispute. The influence of this pacific disposition upon others was strikingly illustrated in the case of two of his neighbors. They were respectable people, in easy circumstances, and the families found much pleasure in frequent intercourse with each other. But after a few years, one of the men deemed that an intentional affront had been offered him by the other. Instead of good-natured frankness on the occasion, he behaved in a sullen manner, which provoked the other, and the result was that eventually neither of them would speak when they met. Their fields joined, and when they were on friendly terms, the boundary was marked by a fence, which they alternately repaired. But when there was feud between them, neither of them was willing to mend the other's fence. So each one built a fence for himself, leaving a very narrow strip of land between, which in process of time came to be generally known by the name of Devil's Lane, in allusion to the bad temper that produced it. A brook formed another portion of the boundary between their farms, and was useful to both of them. But after they became enemies, if a freshet occurred, each watched an opportunity to turn the water on the other's land, by which much damage was mutually done. They were so much occupied with injuring each other in every possible way, that they neglected their farms and grew poorer and poorer. One of them became intemperate; and everything about their premises began to wear an aspect of desolation and decay. At last, one of the farms was sold to pay a mortgage, and John Tatum, who was then about to be married, concluded to purchase it. Many people warned him of the trouble he would have with a quarrelsome and intemperate neighbor. But, after mature reflection, he concluded to trust to the influence of a peaceful and kind example, and accordingly purchased the farm.

Soon after he removed thither, he proposed to do away the Devil's Lane by building a new fence on the boundary, entirely at his own expense. His neighbor acceded to the proposition in a very surly manner, and for a considerable time seemed determined to find, or make some occasion for quarrel. But the young Quaker met all his provocations with forbearance, and never missed an opportunity to oblige him. Good finally overcame evil. The turbulent spirit, having nothing to excite it, gradually subsided into calmness. In process of time, he evinced a disposition to be kind and obliging also. Habits of temperance and industry returned, and during the last years of his life he was considered a remarkably good neighbor.

Friend Hopper's attachment to the religious society he had joined in early life was quite as strong, perhaps even stronger, than his love of kindred. The Yearly Meeting of Friends at Philadelphia was a season of great satisfaction, and he delighted to have his house full of guests, even to overflowing. On these occasions, he obeyed the impulses of his generous nature by seeking out the least wealthy and distinguished, who would be less likely than others to receive many invitations. In addition to these, who were often personal strangers to him, he had his own familiar and cherished friends. A day seldom passed without a visit from Nicholas Wain, who had great respect and affection for him and his wife, and delighted in their society. He cordially approved of their consistency in carrying out their conscientious convictions into the practices of daily life. Some of Isaac's relatives and friends thought he devoted rather too much time and attention to philanthropic missions, but Nicholas Wain always stood by him, a warm and faithful friend to the last. He was a true gentleman, of courtly, pleasing manners, and amusing conversation. Notwithstanding his weight of character, he was so playful with the children, that his visits were always hailed by them, as delightful opportunities for fun and frolic. He looked beneath the surface of society, and had learned to estimate men and things according to their real value, not by a conventional standard. His wife did not regard the pomps and vanities of the world with precisely the same degree of indifference that he did. She thought it would be suitable to their wealth and station to have a footman behind her carriage. This wish being frequently expressed, her husband at last promised to comply with it. Accordingly, the next time the carriage was ordered, for the purpose of making a stylish call, she was gratified to see a footman mounted. When she arrived at her place of destination, the door of her carriage was opened, and the steps let down in a very obsequious manner, by the new servant; and great was her surprise and confusion, to recognize in him her own husband!

Jacob Lindley, of Chester county, was another frequent visitor at Friend Hopper's house; and many were the lively conversations they had together. He was a preacher in the Society of Friends, and missed no opportunity, either in public or private, to protest earnestly against the sin of slavery. He often cautioned Friends against laying too much stress on their own peculiar forms, while they professed to abjure forms. He said he himself had once received a lesson on this subject, which did him much good. Once, when he was seated in meeting, an influential Friend walked in, dressed in a coat with large metal buttons, which he had borrowed in consequence of a drenching rain! He seated himself opposite to Jacob Lindley, who was so much disturbed by the glittering buttons, that "his meeting did him no good." When the congregation rose to depart, he felt constrained to go up to the Friend who had so much troubled him, and inquire why he had so grievously departed from the simplicity enjoined upon members of their Society. The good man looked down upon his garments, and quietly replied, "I borrowed the coat because my own was wet; and indeed, Jacob, I did not notice what buttons were on it." Jacob shook his hand warmly, and said, "Thou art a better Christian than I am, and I will learn of thee."

He often used to inculcate the same moral by relating another incident, which happened in old times, when Quakers were accustomed to wear cocked hats turned up at the sides. A Friend bought a hat of this description, without observing that it was looped up with a button. As he sat in meeting with his hat on, as usual, he observed many eyes directed toward him, and some with a very sorrowful expression. He could not conjecture a reason for this, till he happened to take off his hat and lay it beside him. As soon as he noticed the button, he rose and said, "Friends, if religion consists in a button, I wouldn't give a button for it." Having delivered this short and pithy sermon, he seated himself, and resumed the offending hat with the utmost composure.

Once, when Jacob Lindley was dining with Friend Hopper, the conversation turned upon his religious experiences, and he related a circumstance to which he said he very seldom alluded, and never without feelings of solemnity and awe. Being seized with sudden and severe illness, his soul left the body for several hours, during which time he saw visions of heavenly glory, not to be described. When consciousness began to return, he felt grieved that he was obliged to come back to this state of being, and he was never after able to feel the same interest in terrestrial things, that he had felt before he obtained this glimpse of the spiritual world.

Arthur Howell was another intimate acquaintance of Friend Hopper. He was a currier in Philadelphia, a preacher in the Society of Friends, characterized by kindly feelings, and a very tender conscience. Upon one occasion, he purchased from the captain of a vessel a quantity of oil, which he afterward sold at an advanced price. Under these circumstances, he thought the captain had not received so much as he ought to have; and he gave him an additional dollar on every barrel. This man was remarkable for spiritual-mindedness and the gift of prophecy. It was no uncommon thing for him to relate occurrences which were happening at the moment many miles distant, and to foretell the arrival of people, or events, when there appeared to be no external reasons on which to ground such expectations.

One Sunday morning, he was suddenly impelled to proceed to Germantown in haste. As he approached the village, he met a funeral procession. He had no knowledge whatever of the deceased; but it was suddenly revealed to him that the occupant of the coffin before him was a woman whose life had been saddened by the suspicion of a crime, which she never committed. The impression became very strong on his mind that she wished him to make certain statements at her funeral. Accordingly, he followed the procession, and when they arrived at the meeting-house, he entered and listened to the prayer delivered by her pastor. When the customary services were finished, Arthur Howell rose, and asked permission to speak. "I did not know the deceased, even by name," said he. "But it is given me to say, that she suffered much and unjustly. Her neighbors generally suspected her of a crime, which she did not commit; and in a few weeks from this time, it will be made clearly manifest to the world that she was innocent. A few hours before her death, she talked on this subject with the clergyman who attended upon her, and who is now present; and it is given me to declare the communication she made to him upon that occasion."

He then proceeded to relate the particulars of the interview; to which the clergyman listened with evident astonishment. When the communication was finished, he said, "I don't know who this man is, or how he has obtained information on this subject; but certain it is, he has repeated, word for word, a conversation which I supposed was known only to myself and the deceased."