"Let him go and finish the wood he was sawing," said Friend Hopper. "I will be responsible for his appearance whenever he is wanted. If the magistrate will give me a commitment, Prince will call at my house after he has finished sawing his wood, and I will send him to jail with it. He can remain there, until the facts I have stated are clearly proved."

The slave-holder and his lawyer seemed to regard this proposition as an insult. They railed at Friend Hopper for his "impertinent interference," and for the absurd idea of trusting "that nigger" under such circumstances.

He replied, "I would rather trust 'that nigger,' as you call him, than either of you." So saying, he marched off with the magistrate's mittimus in his pocket.

When Prince Hopkins had finished his job of sawing, he called for the commitment, and carried it to the jailor, who locked him up. Satisfactory evidence of his freedom was soon obtained, and he was discharged.

The colored people appeared to better advantage with their undoubted friend, than they possibly could have done where a barrier of prejudice existed. They were not afraid to tell him their experiences in their own way, with natural pathos, here and there dashed with fun. A fine-looking, athletic fugitive, telling him his story one day, said, "When I first run away, I met some people who were dreadful afraid I couldn't take care of myself. But thinks I to myself I took care of master and myself too for a long spell; and I guess I can make out." With a roguish expression laughing all over his face, he added, "I don't look as if I was suffering for a master; do I, Mr. Hopper?"

Though slaveholders had abundant reason to dread Isaac T. Hopper, as they would a blister of Spanish flies, yet he had no hardness of feeling toward them, or even toward kidnappers; hateful as he deemed the system, which produced them both.

In 1801, a sober industrious family of free colored people, living in Pennsylvania on the borders of Maryland, were attacked in the night by a band of kidnappers. The parents were aged, and needed the services of their children for support. Knowing that the object of the marauders was to carry them off and sell them to slave speculators, the old father defended them to the utmost of his power. In the struggle, he was wounded by a pistol, and one of his daughters received a shot, which caused her death. One of the sons, who was very ill in bed, was beaten and bruised till he was covered with blood. But mangled and crippled as he was, he contrived to drag himself to a neighboring barn, and hide himself under the straw.

If such lawless violence had been practised upon any white citizens, the Executive of Pennsylvania would have immediately offered a high reward for the apprehension of the aggressors; but the victims belonged to a despised caste, and nothing was done to repair their wrongs. Friend Hopper felt the blood boil in his veins when he heard of this cruel outrage, and his first wish was to have the offenders punished; but as soon as he had time to reflect, he said, "I cannot find it in my heart to urge this subject upon the notice of the Executive; for death would be the penalty if those wretches were convicted."

There were many highly respectable individuals among the colored people of Philadelphia. Richard Allen, who had been a slave, purchased freedom with the proceeds of his own industry. He married, and established himself as a shoemaker in that city, where he acquired considerable property, and built a three-story brick house. He was the principal agent in organizing the first congregation of colored people in Philadelphia, and was their pastor to the day of his death, without asking or receiving any compensation. During the latter part of his life, he was Bishop of their Methodist Episcopal Church. Absalom Jones, a much respected colored man, was his colleague. In 1793, when the yellow fever was raging, it was extremely difficult to procure attendants for the sick on any terms; and the few who would consent to render service, demanded exorbitant prices. But Bishop Allen and Rev. Mr. Jones never hesitated to go wherever they could be useful; and with them, the compensation was always a secondary consideration. When the pestilence had abated, the mayor sent them a certificate expressing his approbation of their conduct. But even these men, whose worth commanded respect, were not safe from the legalized curse that rests upon their hunted race. A Southern speculator arrested Bishop Allen, and claimed him as a fugitive slave, whom he had bought running. The constable employed to serve the warrant was ashamed to drag the good man through the streets; and he merely said, in a respectful tone, "Mr. Allen, you will soon come down to Alderman Todd's office, will you?"

The fugitive, whom they were seeking, had absconded only four years previous; and everybody in Philadelphia, knew that Richard Allen had been living there more than twenty years. Yet the speculator and his sons swore unblushingly that he was the identical slave they had purchased. Mr. Allen thought he ought to have some redress for this outrage; "For," said he, "if it had not been for the kindness of the officer, I might have been dragged through the streets like a felon."

Isaac T. Hopper was consulted, and a civil suit commenced. Eight hundred dollars bail was demanded, and the speculator, being unable to procure it, was lodged in the debtor's prison. When he had been there three months, Mr. Allen caused him to be discharged; saying he did not wish to persecute the man, but merely to teach him not to take up free people again, for the purpose of carrying them into slavery.

The numerous instances of respectability among the colored people were doubtless to be attributed in part to the protecting influence extended over them by the Quakers. But even in those days, the Society of Friends were by no means all free from prejudice against color; and in later times, I think they have not proved themselves at all superior to other sects in their feelings and practice on this subject. Friend Hopper, Joseph Carpenter, and the few who resemble them in this respect, are exceptions to the general character of modern Quakers, not the rule. The following very characteristic anecdote shows how completely Isaac was free from prejudice on account of complexion. It is an unusual thing to see a colored Quaker; for the African temperament is fervid and impressible, and requires more exciting forms of religion. David Maps and his wife, a very worthy couple, were the only colored members of the Yearly Meeting to which Isaac T. Hopper belonged. On the occasion of the annual gathering in Philadelphia, they came with other members of the Society to share the hospitality of his house. A question arose in the family whether Friends of white complexion would object to eating with them. "Leave that to me," said the master of the household. Accordingly when the time arrived, he announced it thus: "Friends, dinner is now ready. David Maps and his wife will come with me; and as I like to have all accommodated, those who object to dining with them can wait till they have done." The guests smiled, and all seated themselves at the table.

The conscientiousness so observable in several anecdotes of Isaac's boyhood was strikingly manifested in his treatment of a colored printer, named Kane. This man was noted for his profane swearing. Friend Hopper had expostulated with him concerning this bad habit, without producing the least effect. One day, he encountered him in the street, pouring forth a volley of terrible oaths, enough to make one shudder. Believing him incurable by gentler means, he took him before a magistrate, who fined him for blasphemy.

He did not see the man again for a long time; but twenty years afterward, when he was standing at his door, Kane passed by. The Friend's heart was touched by his appearance; for he looked old, feeble, and poor. He stepped out, shook hands with him, and said in kindly tones, "Dost thou remember me, and how I caused thee to be fined for swearing?"

"Yes, indeed I do," he replied. "I remember how many dollars I paid, as well as if it were but yesterday."

"Did it do thee any good;" inquired Friend Hopper.

"Never a bit," answered he. "It only made me mad to have my money taken from me."

The poor man was invited to walk into the house. The interest was calculated on the fine, and every cent repaid to him. "I meant it for thy good," said the benevolent Quaker; "and I am sorry that I only provoked thee." Kane's countenance changed at once, and tears began to flow. He took the money with many thanks, and was never again heard to swear.

Friend Hopper's benevolence was by no means confined to colored people. Wherever there was good to be done, his heart and hand were ready. From various anecdotes in proof of this, I select the following.



JOHN McGRIER.

John was an Irish orphan, whose parents died of yellow fever, when he was very young. He obtained a scanty living by doing errands for cartmen. In the year 1800, when he was about fourteen years old, there was a long period during which he could obtain scarcely any employment. Being without friends, and in a state of extreme destitution, he was tempted to enter a shop and steal two dollars from the drawer. He was pursued and taken. Isaac T. Hopper, who was one of the inspectors of the prison at that time, saw a crowd gathered, and went to inquire the cause. The poor boy's history was soon told. Friend Hopper liked the expression of his countenance, and pitied his forlorn condition. When he was brought up for trial, he accompanied him, and pleaded with the judge in his favor. He urged that the poor child's education had been entirely neglected, and consequently he was more to be pitied than blamed. If sent to prison, he would in all probability become hardened, if not utterly ruined. He said if the judge would allow him to take charge of the lad, he would promise to place him in good hands, where he would be out of the way of temptation. The judge granted his request, and John was placed in prison merely for a few days, till Friend Hopper could provide for him. He proposed to his father to have the boy bound to him. The old gentleman hesitated at first, on account of his neglected education and wild way of living; but pity for the orphan overcame his scruples, and he agreed to take him. John lived with him till he was twenty-one years of age, and was remarkably faithful and industrious. But about two years after, a neighbor came one night to arrest him for stealing a horse. Old Mr. Hopper assured him it was not possible John had done such a thing; that during all the time he had lived in his family he had proved himself entirely honest and trustworthy. The neighbor replied that his horse had been taken to Philadelphia and sold; and the ferryman from Woodbury was ready to swear that the animal was brought over by Hopper's John, as he was generally called. John was in bed, but was called up to answer the accusation. He did not attempt to deny it, but gave up the money at once, and kept repeating that he did know what made him do it. He was dreadfully ashamed and distressed. He begged that Friend Isaac would not come to see him in prison, for he could not look him the face. His anguish of mind was so great, that when the trial came on, he was emaciated almost to a skeleton. Old Mr. Hopper went into court and stated the adverse circumstances of his early life, and his exemplary conduct during nine years that he had lived in his family. He begged that he might be fined instead of imprisoned, and offered to pay the fine himself. The proposition was accepted, and the kind old man took the culprit home.

This lenient treatment completely subdued the last vestige of evil habits acquired in childhood. He was humble and grateful in the extreme, and always steady and industrious. He conducted with great propriety ever afterward, and established such a character for honesty, that the neighbors far and wide trusted him to carry their produce to market, receiving a small commission for his trouble. Eventually, he came to own a small house and farm, where he lived in much comfort and respectability. He always looked up to Isaac as the friend who had early raised him from a downward and slippery path; and he was never weary of manifesting gratitude by every little attention he could devise.



LEVI BUTLER.

Some one having told Friend Hopper of an apprentice who was cruelly treated, he caused investigation to be made, and took the lad under his own protection. As he was much bent upon going to sea, he was placed in a respectable boarding-house for sailors, till a fitting opportunity could be found to gratify his inclination. One day, a man in the employ of this boarding-house brought a bill to be paid for the lad. He was very ragged, but his manners were those of a gentleman, and his conversation showed that he had been well educated. His appearance excited interest in Friend Hopper's mind, and he inquired into his history. He said his name was Levi Butler; that he was of German extraction, and had been a wealthy merchant in Baltimore, of the firm of Butler and Magruder. He married a widow, who had considerable property, and several children. After her death, he failed in business, and gave up all his own property, but took the precaution to secure all her property to her children. His creditors were angry, and tried various ways to compel him to pay them with his wife's money. He was imprisoned a long time. He petitioned the Legislature for release, and the committee before whom the case was brought made a report in his favor, highly applauding his integrity in not involving his own affairs with the property belonging to his wife's children, who had been intrusted to his care. Poverty and persecution had broken down his spirits, and when he was discharged from prison he left Baltimore and tried to obtain a situation as clerk in Philadelphia. He did not succeed in procuring employment. His clothes became thread-bare, and he had no money to purchase a new suit. In this situation, some people to whom he applied for employment treated him as if he were an impostor. In a state of despair he went one day to drown himself. But when he had put some heavy stones in his pocket to make him sink rapidly, he seemed to hear a voice calling to him to forbear; and looking up, he saw a man watching him. He hurried away to avoid questions, and passing by a sailor's boarding-house, he went in and offered to wait upon the boarders for his food. They took him upon those terms; and the gentleman who had been accustomed to ride in his own carriage, and be waited upon by servants, now roasted oysters and went of errands for common seamen. He was in this forlorn situation, when accident introduced him to Friend Hopper's notice. He immediately furnished him with a suit of warm clothes; for the weather was cold, and his garments thin. He employed him to post up his account-books, and finding that he did it in a very perfect manner, he induced several of his friends to employ him in a similar way.

A brighter day was dawning for the unfortunate man, and perhaps he might have attained to comfortable independence, if his health had not failed. But he had taken severe colds by thin clothing and exposure to inclement weather. A rapid consumption came on, and he was soon entirely unable to work. Under these circumstances, the best Friend Hopper could do for him was to secure peculiar privileges at the alms-house, and surround him with, all the little comforts that help to alleviate illness. He visited him very often, until the day of his death, and his sympathy and kind attentions were always received with heartfelt gratitude.



THE MUSICAL BOY.

One day when Friend Hopper visited the prison, he found a dark-eyed lad with a very bright expressive countenance His right side was palsied, so that the arm hung down useless. Attracted by his intelligent face, he entered into conversation with him, and found that he had been palsied from infancy. He had been sent forth friendless into the world from an alms-house in Maryland. In Philadelphia, he had been committed to prison as a vagrant, because he drew crowds about him in the street by his wonderful talent of imitating a hand-organ, merely by whistling tunes through his fingers. Friend Hopper, who had imbibed the Quaker idea that music was a useless and frivolous pursuit, said to the boy, "Didst thou not know it was wrong to spend thy time in that idle manner?"

With ready frankness the young prisoner replied, "No, I did not; and I should like to hear how you can prove it to be wrong. God has given you sound limbs. Half of my body is paralyzed, and it is impossible for me to work as others do. It has pleased God to give me a talent for music. I do no harm with it. It gives pleasure to myself and others, and enables me to gain a few coppers to buy my bread. I should like to have you show me wherein it is wrong."

Without attempting to do so, Friend Hopper suggested that perhaps he had been committed to prison on account of producing noise and confusion in the streets.

"I make no riot," rejoined the youth. "I try to please people by my tunes; and if the crowd around me begin to be noisy, I quietly walk off."

Struck with the good sense and sincerity of these answers, Friend Hopper said to the jailor, "Thou mayest set this lad at liberty. I will be responsible for it."

The jailer relying on his well-known character, and his intimacy with Robert Wharton, the mayor, did not hesitate to comply with his request. At that moment, the mayor himself came in sight, and Friend Hopper said to the lad, "Step into the next room, and play some of thy best tunes till I come."

"What's this?" said Mr. Wharton. "Have you got a hand-organ here!"

"Yes," replied Friend Hopper; "and I will show it to thee. It is quite curious."

At first, the mayor could not believe that the sounds he had heard were produced by a lad merely whistling through his fingers. He thought them highly agreeable, and asked to have the tunes repeated.

"The lad was committed to prison for no other offence than making that noise, which seems to thee so pleasant," said Friend Hopper. "I dare say thou wouldst like to make it thyself, if thou couldst. I have taken the liberty to discharge him."

"Very well," rejoined the mayor, with a smile. "You have done quite right, Friend Isaac. You may go, my lad. I shall not trouble you. But try not to collect crowds about the streets."

"That I cannot help," replied the youth. "The crowds will come, when I whistle for them; and I get coppers by collecting crowds. But I promise you I will try to avoid their making any riot or confusion."



MARY NORRIS.

A stout healthy woman, named Mary Norris was continually taken up as a vagrant, or committed for petty larceny. As soon as she was discharged from the penalty of one misdemeanor, she was committed for another. One day, Friend Hopper, who was then inspector, said to her, "Well, Mary, thy time is out next week. Dost thou think thou shalt come back again?"

"Yes," she replied sullenly.

"Dost thou like to come back?" inquired he.

"No, to be sure I don't," rejoined the prisoner. "But I've no doubt I shall come back before the month is out."

"Why dost thou not make a resolution to behave better?" said the kindly inspector.

"What use would it be?" she replied. "You wouldn't take me into your family. The doctor wouldn't take me into his family. No respectable person would have anything to do with me. My associates must be such acquaintances as I make here. If they steal, I am taken up for it; no matter whether I am guilty or not. I am an old convict, and nobody believes what I say. O, yes, I shall come back again. To be sure I shall come back," she repeated bitterly.

Her voice and manner excited Friend Hopper's compassion, and he thus addressed her: "If I will get a place for thee in some respectable family where they will be kind to thee, wilt thou give me thy word that thou wilt be honest and steady, and try to do thy duty."

Her countenance brightened, and she eagerly answered, "Yes I will! And thank God and you too, the longest day I have to live."

He exerted his influence in her behalf, and procured a situation for her as head-nurse at the alms-house. She was well contented there, and behaved with great propriety. Seventeen years afterward, when Friend Hopper had not seen her for a long time, he called to inquire about her, and was informed that during all those years, she had been an honest, sober, and useful woman. She was rejoiced to see him again, and expressed lively gratitude, for the quiet and comfortable life she enjoyed through his agency.



THE MAGDALEN.

Upon one occasion, Friend Hopper entered a complaint against an old woman, who had presided over an infamous house for many years. She was tried, and sentenced to several months imprisonment. He went to see her several times, and talked very seriously with her concerning the errors of her life. Finding that his expostulations made some impression, he asked if she felt willing to amend her ways. "Oh, I should be thankful to do it!" she exclaimed. "But who would trust me? What can I do to earn an honest living? Everybody curses me, or makes game of me. How can I be a better woman, if I try ever so hard?"

"I will give thee a chance to amend thy life," he replied; "and if thou dost not, it shall be thy own fault."

He went round among the wealthy Quakers, and by dint of great persuasion he induced one to let her a small tenement at very low rent. A few others agreed to purchase some humble furniture, and a quantity of thread, needles, tape, and buttons, to furnish a small shop. The poor old creature's heart overflowed with gratitude, and it was her pride to keep everything very neat and orderly. There she lived contented and comfortable the remainder of her days, and became much respected in the neighborhood. The tears often came to her eyes when she saw Friend Hopper. "God bless that good man!" she would say. "He has been the salvation of me."



THE UNCOMPLIMENTARY INVITATION.

A preacher of the Society of Friends felt impressed with the duty of calling a meeting for vicious people; and Isaac T. Hopper was appointed to collect an audience. In the course of this mission, he knocked at the door of a very infamous house. A gentleman who was acquainted with him was passing by, and he stopped to say, "Friend Hopper, you have mistaken the house."

"No, I have not," he replied.

"But that is a house of notorious ill fame," said the gentleman.

"I know it," rejoined he; "but nevertheless I have business here."

His acquaintance looked surprised, but passed on without further query. A colored girl came to the door. To the inquiry whether her mistress was within, she answered in the affirmative. "Tell her I wish to see her," said Friend Hopper. The girl was evidently astonished at a visitor in Quaker costume, and of such grave demeanor; but she went and did the errand. A message was returned that her mistress was engaged and could not see any one. "Where is she?" he inquired. The girl replied that she was up-stairs. "I will go to her," said the importunate messenger.

The mistress of the house heard him, and leaning over the balustrade of the stairs, she screamed out, "What do you want with me, sir?"

In very loud tones he answered, "James Simpson, a minister of the Society of Friends, has appointed a meeting to be held this afternoon, in Penrose store, Almond-street. It is intended for publicans, sinners, and harlots. I want thee to be there, and bring thy whole household with thee. Wilt thou come?"

She promised that she would; and he afterward saw her at the meeting melted into tears by the direct and affectionate preaching.



THEFT FROM NECESSITY.

One day, when the family were in the midst of washing, a man called at Isaac T. Hopper's house to buy soap fat, and was informed they had none to sell. A minute after he had passed out, the domestic came running in to say that he had stolen some of the children's clothes from the line. Friend Hopper followed him quickly, and called out, "Dost thou want to buy some soap-fat? Come back if thou dost."

When the man had returned to the kitchen, he said, "Now give up the clothes thou hast stolen."

The culprit was extremely confused, but denied that he had stolen anything.

"Give them up at once, without any more words. It will be much better for thee," said Friend Hopper, in his firm way.

Thus urged, the stranger drew from his bosom some small shirts and flannel petticoats. "My wife is very sick," said he. "She has a babe two weeks old, wrapped up in an old rag; and when I saw this comfortable clothing on the line, I was tempted to take it for the poor little creature. We have no fuel except a little tan. A herring is the last mouthful of food we have in the house; and when I came away, it was broiling on the hot tan."

His story excited pity; but fearing it might be made up for the occasion, Friend Hopper took him to a magistrate and said, "Please give me a commitment for this man. If he tells a true story, I will tear it up. I will go and see for myself."

When he arrived at the wretched abode, he found a scene of misery that pained him to the heart. The room was cold, and the wife was in bed, pale and suffering. Her babe had no clothing, except a coarse rag torn from the skirt of an old coat. Of course he destroyed the commitment immediately. His next step was to call upon the rich Quakers of his acquaintance, and obtain from them contributions of wood, flour, rice, bread, and warm garments. Employment was soon after procured for the man, and he was enabled to support his family comfortably. He never passed Friend Hopper in the street without making a low bow, and often took occasion to express his grateful acknowledgments.



PATRICK McKEEVER.

Patrick was a poor Irishman in Philadelphia. He and another man were arrested on a charge of burglary, convicted and sentenced to be hung. I am ignorant of the details of his crime, or why the sentence was not carried into execution. There were probably some palliating circumstances in his case; for though he was carried to the gallows, seated on his coffin, he was spared for some reason, and his companion was hung. He was afterward sentenced to ten years imprisonment, and this was eventually shortened one year. During the last three years of his term, Friend Hopper was one of the inspectors, and frequently talked with him in a gentle, fatherly manner. The convict was a man of few words, and hope seemed almost dead within him; but though he made no large promises, his heart was evidently touched by the voice of kindness. As soon as he was released, he went immediately to work at his trade of tanning leather, and conducted himself in the most exemplary manner. Being remarkable for capability, and the amount of work he could accomplish, he soon had plenty of employment. He passed Friend Hopper's house every day, as he went to his work, and often received from him words of friendly encouragement.

Things were going on thus satisfactorily, when his friend heard that constables were in pursuit of him, on account of a robbery committed the night before. He went straight to the mayor, and inquired why orders had been given to arrest Patrick McKeever.

"Because there has been a robbery committed in his neighborhood," replied the magistrate.

He inquired what proof there was that Patrick had been concerned in it.

"None at all," rejoined the mayor. "But he is an old convict, and that is enough to condemn him."

"It is not enough, by any means," answered Friend Hopper. "Thou hast no right to arrest any citizen without a shadow of proof against him. In this, case, I advise thee by all means to proceed with humane caution. This man has severely atoned for the crime he did commit; and since he wishes to reform, his past history ought never to be mentioned against him. He has been perfectly honest, sober, and industrious, since he came out of prison. I think I know his state of mind; and I am willing to take the responsibility of saying that he is guiltless in this matter."

The mayor commended Friend Hopper's benevolence, but remained unconvinced. To all arguments he replied, "He is an old convict, and that is enough."

Patrick's kind friend watched for him as he passed to his daily labors, and told him that he would probably be arrested for the robbery that had been committed in his neighborhood. The poor fellow bowed down his head, the light vanished from his countenance, and hope seemed to have forsaken him utterly. "Well," said he, with a deep sigh, "I suppose I must make up my mind to spend the remainder of my days in prison."

"Thou wert not concerned in this robbery, wert thou?" inquired Friend Hopper, looking earnestly in his face.

"No, indeed I was not," he replied. "God be my witness, I want to lead an honest life, and be at peace with all men. But what good will that do me? Everybody will say, he has been in the State Prison, and that is enough."

His friend did not ask him twice; for he felt assured that he had spoken truly. He advised him to go directly to the mayor, deliver himself up, and declare his innocence. This wholesome advice was received with deep dejection. He had lost faith in his fellow-men; for they had been to him as enemies. "I know what will come of it," said he. "They will put me in prison whether there is any proof against me, or not. They won't let me out without somebody will be security for me; and who will be security for an old convict?"

"Keep up a good heart," replied Friend Hopper. "Go to the mayor and speak as I have advised thee. If they talk of putting thee in prison, send for me."

Patrick acted in obedience to this advice, and was treated just as he had expected. Though there was not a shadow of proof against him, his being an old convict was deemed sufficient reason for sending him to jail.

Friend Hopper appeared in his behalf. "I am ready to affirm that I believe this man to be innocent," said he. "It will be a very serious injury for him to be taken from his business and detained in prison until this can be proved. Moreover, the effect upon his mind may be completely discouraging. I will be security for his appearance when called for; and I know very well that he will not think of giving me the slip."

The gratitude of the poor fellow was overwhelming. He sobbed till his strong frame shook like a leaf in the wind. The real culprits were soon after discovered. For thirty years after and to the day of his death, Patrick continued to lead a virtuous and useful life; for which he always thanked Friend Hopper, as the instrument of Divine Providence.



THE UMBRELLA GIRL.

A young girl, the only daughter of a poor widow, removed from the country to Philadelphia to earn her living by covering umbrellas. She was very handsome; with glossy black hair, large beaming eyes, and "lips like wet coral." She was just at that susceptible age when youth is ripening into womanhood, when the soul begins to be pervaded by "that restless principle, which impels poor humans to seek perfection in union."

At a hotel near the store for which she worked an English traveller, called Lord Henry Stuart, had taken lodgings. He was a strikingly handsome man, and of princely carriage. As this distinguished stranger passed to and from his hotel, he encountered the umbrella girl, and was attracted by her uncommon beauty. He easily traced her to the store, where he soon after went to purchase an umbrella. This was followed up by presents of flowers, chats by the wayside, and invitations to walk or ride; all of which were gratefully accepted by the unsuspecting rustic; for she was as ignorant of the dangers of a city as were the squirrels of her native fields. He was merely playing a game for temporary excitement. She, with a head full of romance, and a heart melting under the influence of love, was unconsciously endangering the happiness of her whole life.

Lord Henry invited her to visit the public gardens on the Fourth of July. In the simplicity of her heart, she believed all his flattering professions, and considered herself his bride elect; she therefore accepted the invitation with innocent frankness. But she had no dress fit to appear in on such a public occasion, with a gentleman of high rank, whom she verily supposed to be her destined husband. While these thoughts revolved in her mind, her eye was unfortunately attracted by a beautiful piece of silk, belonging to her employer. Could she not take it, without being seen, and pay for it secretly, when she had earned money enough? The temptation conquered her in a moment of weakness. She concealed the silk, and conveyed it to her lodgings. It was the first thing she had ever stolen, and her remorse was painful. She would have carried it back, but she dreaded discovery. She was not sure that her repentance would be met in a spirit of forgiveness.

On the eventful Fourth of July, she came out in her new dress. Lord Henry complimented her upon her elegant appearance, but she was not happy. On their way to the gardens, he talked to her in a manner which she did not comprehend. Perceiving this, he spoke more explicitly. The guileless young creature stopped, looked in his face with mournful reproach, and burst into tears. The nobleman took her hand kindly, and said, "My dear, are you an innocent girl?"

"I am, I am," she replied, with convulsive sobs. "Oh, what have I ever done, or said, that you should ask me such a question?"

The evident sincerity of her words stirred the deep fountains of his better nature. "If you are innocent," said he, "God forbid that I should make you otherwise. But you accepted my invitations and presents so readily, that I supposed you understood me."

"What could I understand," said she, "except that you intended to make me your wife?"

Though reared amid the proudest distinctions of rank, he felt no inclination to smile. He blushed and was silent. The heartless conventionalities of the world stood rebuked in the presence of affectionate simplicity. He conveyed her to her humble home, and bade her farewell, with a thankful consciousness that he had done no irretrievable injury to her future prospects. The remembrance of her would soon be to him as the recollection of last year's butterflies. With her, the wound was deep. In the solitude of her chamber she wept in bitterness of heart over her ruined air-castles. And that dress, which she had stolen to make an appearance befitting his bride! Oh, what if she should be discovered? And would not the heart of her poor widowed mother break, if she should ever know that her child was a thief?

Alas, her wretched forebodings proved too true. The silk was traced to her; she was arrested on her way to the store and dragged to prison. There she refused all nourishment, and wept incessantly. On the fourth day, the keeper called upon Isaac T. Hopper, and informed him that there was a young girl in prison, who appeared to be utterly friendless, and determined to die by starvation. The kind-hearted Friend immediately went to her assistance. He found her lying on the floor of her cell, with her face buried in her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break. He tried to comfort her, but could obtain no answer.

"Leave us alone," said he to the keeper. "Perhaps she will speak to me, if there is no one to hear." When they were alone together, he put back the hair from her temples, laid his hand kindly on her beautiful head, and said in soothing tones, "My child, consider me as thy father. Tell me all thou hast done. If thou hast taken this silk, let me know all about it. I will do for thee as I would for my own daughter; and I doubt not that I can help thee out of this difficulty."

After a long time spent in affectionate entreaty, she leaned her young head on his friendly shoulder, and sobbed out, "Oh, I wish I was dead. What will my poor mother say when she knows of my disgrace?"

"Perhaps we can manage that she never shall know it," replied he. Alluring her by this hope, he gradually obtained from her the whole story of her acquaintance with the nobleman. He bade her be comforted, and take nourishment; for he would see that the silk was paid for, and the prosecution withdrawn.

He went immediately to her employer, and told him the story. "This is her first offence," said he. "The girl is young, and she is the only child of a poor widow. Give her a chance to retrieve this one false step, and she may be restored to society, a useful and honored woman. I will see that thou art paid for the silk." The man readily agreed to withdraw the prosecution, and said he would have dealt otherwise by the girl, if he had known all the circumstances. "Thou shouldst have inquired into the merits of the case," replied Friend Hopper. "By this kind of thoughtlessness, many a young creature is driven into the downward path, who might easily have been saved."

The kind-hearted man next proceeded to the hotel, and with Quaker simplicity of speech inquired for Henry Stuart. The servant said his lordship had not yet risen. "Tell him my business is of importance," said Friend Hopper. The servant soon returned and conducted him to the chamber. The nobleman appeared surprised that a stranger, in the plain Quaker costume, should thus intrude upon his luxurious privacy. When he heard his errand, he blushed deeply, and frankly admitted the truth of the girl's statement. His benevolent visitor took the opportunity to "bear a testimony" against the selfishness and sin of profligacy. He did it in such a kind and fatherly manner, that the young man's heart was touched. He excused himself, by saying that he would not have tampered with the girl, if he had known her to be virtuous. "I have done many wrong things," said he, "but thank God, no betrayal of confiding innocence weighs on my conscience. I have always esteemed it the basest act of which man is capable." The imprisonment of the poor girl, and the forlorn situation in which she had been found, distressed him greatly. When Friend Hopper represented that the silk had been stolen for his sake, that the girl had thereby lost profitable employment, and was obliged to return to her distant home, to avoid the danger of exposure, he took out a fifty dollar note, and offered it to pay her expenses.

"Nay," said Isaac. "Thou art a very rich man, I presume. I see in thy hand a large roll of such notes. She is the daughter of a poor widow, and thou hast been the means of doing her great injury. Give me another."

Lord Henry handed him another fifty dollar note, and smiled as he said, "You understand your business well. But you have acted nobly, and I reverence you for it. If you ever visit England, come to see me. I will give you a cordial welcome, and treat you like a nobleman."

"Farewell, friend," replied the Quaker. "Though much to blame in this affair, thou too hast behaved nobly. Mayst thou be blessed in domestic life, and trifle no more with the feelings of poor girls; not even with those whom others have betrayed and deserted."

When the girl was arrested, she had sufficient presence of mind to assume a false name, and by that means, her true name had been kept out of the newspapers. "I did this," said she, "for my poor mother's sake." With the money given by Lord Stuart, the silk was paid for, and she was sent home to her mother well provided with clothing. Her name and place of residence forever remained a secret in the breast of her benefactor.

Years after these events transpired, a lady called at Friend Hopper's house, and asked to see him. When he entered the room, he found a handsomely dressed young matron, with a blooming boy of five or six years old. She rose quickly to meet him, and her voice choked as she said, "Friend Hopper, do you know me?" He replied that he did not. She fixed her tearful eyes earnestly upon him, and said, "You once helped me when in great distress." But the good missionary of humanity had helped too many in distress, to be able to recollect her without more precise information. With a tremulous voice, she bade her son go into the next room for a few minutes; then dropping on her knees, she hid her face in his lap, and sobbed out, "I am the girl who stole the silk. Oh, where should I now be, if it had not been for you!"

When her emotion was somewhat calmed, she told him that she had married a highly respectable man, a senator of his native state. Being on a visit in Friend Hopper's vicinity, she had again and again passed his dwelling, looking wistfully at the windows to catch a sight of him; but when she attempted to enter her courage failed.

"But I must return home to-morrow," said she, "and I could not go away without once more seeing and thanking him who saved me from ruin." She recalled her little boy, and said to him, "Look at that gentleman, and remember him well; for he was the best friend your mother ever had." With an earnest invitation to visit her happy home, and a fervent "God bless you!" she bade her benefactor farewell.



THE TWO YOUNG OFFENDERS.

In the neighborhood of Carlisle, Pennsylvania, there lived a man whose temper was vindictive and badly governed. Having become deeply offended with one of his neighbors, he induced his two sons to swear falsely that he had committed an infamous crime. One of the lads was about fifteen years old, and the other about seventeen. The alleged offence was of so gross a nature, and was so at variance with the fair character of the person accused that the witnesses were subjected to a very careful and shrewd examination. They became embarrassed, and the flaws in their evidence were very obvious. They were indicted for conspiracy against an innocent man; and being taken by surprise, they were thrown into confusion, acknowledged their guilt, and declined the offer of a trial. They were sentenced to two years' imprisonment at hard labor in the Penitentiary of Philadelphia.

Isaac T. Hopper, who was at that time one of the inspectors, happened to be at the prison when they arrived at dusk, hand-cuffed and chained together, in custody of the sheriff. Their youth and desolate appearance excited his compassion. "Keep up a good heart, my poor lads," said he. "You can retrieve this one false step, if you will but make the effort. It is still in your power to become respectable and useful men. I will help you all I can."

He gave particular directions that they should be placed in a room by themselves, apart from the contagion of more hardened offenders. To prevent unprofitable conversation, they were constantly employed in the noisy occupation of heading nails. From time to time, the humane inspector spoke soothing and encouraging words to them, and commended their good behavior. When the Board of Inspectors met, he proposed that the lads should be recommended to the governor for pardon. Not succeeding in this effort, he wrote an article on the impropriety of confining juvenile offenders with old hardened convicts. He published this in the daily papers, and it produced considerable effect. When the Board again met, Isaac T. Hopper and Thomas Dobson were appointed to wait on the governor, to obtain a pardon for the lads if possible. After considerable hesitation, the request was granted on condition that worthy men could be found, who would take them as apprentices. Friend Hopper agreed to find such persons; and he kept his word. One of them was bound to a tanner, the other to a carpenter. But their excellent friend did not lose sight of them. He reminded them that they were now going among strangers, and their success and happiness would mainly depend on their own conduct. He begged of them, if they should ever get entangled with unprofitable company, or become involved in difficulty of any kind, to come to him, as they would to a considerate father. He invited them to spend all their leisure evenings at his house. For a long time, it was their constant practice to take tea with him every Sunday, and join the family in reading the Bible and other serious books.

At the end of a year, they expressed a strong desire to visit their father. Some fears were entertained lest his influence over them should prove injurious; and that being once freed from restraint, they would not willingly return to constant industry and regular habits. They, however, promised faithfully that they would, and Friend Hopper thought it might have a good effect upon them to know that they were trusted. He accordingly entered into bonds for them; thinking this additional claim on their gratitude would strengthen his influence over them, and help to confirm their good resolutions.

They returned punctually at the day and hour they had promised, and their exemplary conduct continued to give entire satisfaction to their employers. A short time after the oldest had fulfilled the term of his indenture, the tanner with whom he worked bought a farm, and sold his stock and tools to his former apprentice. Friend Hopper took him to the governor's house, dressed in his new suit of freedom clothes, and introduced him as one of the lads whom he had pardoned several years before; testifying that he had been a faithful apprentice, and much respected by his master. The governor was well pleased to see him, shook hands with him very cordially, and told him that he who was resolute enough to turn back from vicious ways, into the paths of virtue and usefulness, deserved even more respect than one who had never been tempted.

He afterward married a worthy young woman with a small property, which enabled him to build a neat two-story brick house. He always remained sober and industrious, and they lived in great comfort and respectability.

The younger brother likewise passed through his apprenticeship in a manner very satisfactory to his friends; and at twenty-one years of age, he also was introduced to the governor with testimonials of his good conduct. He was united to a very respectable young woman, but died a few years after his marriage.

Both these young men always cherished warm gratitude and strong attachment for Isaac T. Hopper. They both regularly attended the meetings of the Society of Friends, which had become pleasantly associated in their minds with the good influences they had received from their benefactor.

Friend Hopper was a strict disciplinarian while he was inspector, and it was extremely difficult for the prisoners to deceive him by any artful devices, or hypocritical pretences. But he was always in the habit of talking with them in friendly style, inquiring into their history and plans, sympathizing with their troubles and temptations, encouraging them to reform, and promising to assist them if they would try to help themselves. It was his custom to take a ramble in the country with his children every Saturday afternoon. All who were old enough to walk joined the troop. They always stopped at the prison, and were well pleased to deliver to the poor inmates, with their own small hands, such little comforts as their father had provided for the purpose. He was accustomed to say that there was not one among the convicts, however desperate they might be, with whom he should be afraid to trust himself alone at midnight with large sums of money in his pocket. An acquaintance once cautioned him against a prisoner, whose temper was extremely violent and revengeful, and who had been heard to swear that he would take the life of some of the keepers. Soon after this warning, Friend Hopper summoned the desperate fellow, and told him he was wanted to pile a quantity of lumber in the cellar. He went down with him to hold the light, and they remained more than an hour alone together, out of hearing of everybody. When he told this to the man who had cautioned him, he replied, "Well, I confess you have good courage. I wouldn't have done it for the price of the prison and all the ground it stands upon; for I do assure you he is a terrible fellow."

"I don't doubt he is," rejoined the courageous inspector; "but I knew he wouldn't kill me. I have always been a friend to him, and he is aware of it. What motive could he have for harming me?"

One of the prisoners, who had been convicted of man-slaughter, became furious, in consequence of being threatened with a whipping. When they attempted to bring him out of his dungeon to receive punishment, he seized a knife and a club, rushed back again, and swore he would kill the first person who came near him. Being a very strong man, and in a state of madness, no one dared to approach him. They tried to starve him into submission; but finding he was not to be subdued in that way, they sent for Friend Hopper, as they were accustomed to do in all such difficult emergencies. He went boldly into the cell, looked the desperado calmly in the face, and said, "It is foolish for thee to contend with the authorities. Thou wilt be compelled to yield at last. I will inquire into thy case. If thou hast been unjustly dealt by, I promise thee it shall be remedied." This kind and sensible remonstrance had the desired effect. From that time forward, he had great influence over the ferocious fellow, who was always willing to be guided by his advice, and finally became one of the most reasonable and orderly inmates of the prison.

I have heard Friend Hopper say that while he was inspector he aided and encouraged about fifty young convicts, as nearly as he could recollect; and all, except two, conducted in such a manner as to satisfy the respectable citizens whom he had induced to employ them. He was a shrewd observer of the countenances and manners of men, and doubtless that was one reason why he was not often disappointed in those he trusted.

The humor which characterized his boyhood, remained with him in maturer years, and often effervesced on the surface of his acquired gravity; as will appear in the following anecdotes.

Upon a certain occasion, a man called on him with a due bill for twenty dollars against an estate he had been employed to settle. Friend Hopper put it away, saying he would examine it and attend to it as soon as he had leisure. The man called again a short time after, and stated that he had need of six dollars, and was willing to give a receipt for the whole if that sum were advanced. This proposition excited suspicion, and the administrator decided in his own mind that he would pay nothing till he had examined the papers of the deceased. Searching carefully among these, he found a receipt for the money, mentioning the identical items, date, and circumstances of the transaction; stating that a due-bill had been given and lost, and was to be restored by the creditor when found. When the man called again for payment, Isaac said to him, in a quiet way, "Friend Jones, I understand thou hast become pious lately."

He replied in a solemn tone, "Yes, thanks to the Lord Jesus, I have found out the way of salvation."

"And thou hast been dipped I hear," continued the Quaker. "Dost thou know James Hunter?"

Mr. Jones answered in the affirmative.

"Well, he also was dipped some time ago," rejoined Friend Hopper; "but his neighbors say they didn't get the crown of his head under water. The devil crept into the unbaptized part, and has been busy within him ever since. I am afraid they didn't get thee quite under water. I think thou hadst better be dipped again."

As he spoke, he held up the receipt for twenty dollars. The countenance of the professedly pious man became scarlet, and he disappeared instantly.

A Dutchman once called upon Friend Hopper, and said, "A tief have stole mine goots. They tell me you can help me, may be." Upon inquiring the when and the where, Friend Hopper concluded that the articles had been stolen by a man whom he happened to know the police had taken up a few hours previous. But being disposed to amuse himself, he inquired very seriously, "What time of the moon was it, when thy goods were stolen?" Having received information concerning that particular, he took a slate and began to cipher diligently. After a while, he looked up, and pronounced in a very oracular manner, "Thou wilt find thy goods."

"Shall I find mine goots?" exclaimed the delighted Dutchman; "and where is de tief?"

"Art thou quite sure about the age of the moon?" inquired the pretended magician. Being assured there was no mistake on that point, he ciphered again for a few minutes, and then answered, "Thou wilt find the thief in the hands of the police."

The Dutchman went away, evidently inspired with profound reverence. Having found his goods and the thief, according to prediction, he returned and asked for a private interview. "Tell me dat secret," said he, "and I will pay you a heap of money."

"What secret?" inquired Friend Hopper.

"Tell me how you know I will find mine goots, and where I will find de tief?" rejoined he.

"The plain truth is, I guessed it," was the reply; "because I had heard there was a thief at the police office, with such goods as thou described."

"But what for you ask about de moon?" inquired the Dutchman. "You make figures, and den you say, you will find your goots. You make figures again, den you tell me where is de tief. I go, and find mine goots and de tief, just as you say. Tell me how you do dat, and I will pay you a heap of money."

Though repeatedly assured that it was done only for a joke, he went away unsatisfied: and to the day of his death, he fully believed that the facetious Quaker was a conjuror.

When Friend Hopper hired one of two houses where the back yards were not separated, he found himself considerably incommoded by the disorderly habits of his next neighbor. The dust and dirt daily swept into the yard were allowed to accumulate there in a heap, which the wind often scattered over the neater premises adjoining. The mistress of the house was said to be of an irritable temper, likely to take offence if asked to adopt a different system. He accordingly resolved upon a course, which he thought might cure the evil without provoking a dispute. One day, when he saw his neighbor in her kitchen, he called his own domestic to come out into the yard. Pointing to the heap of dirt, he exclaimed, loud enough to be heard in the next house, "Betsy, art thou not ashamed to sweep dust and litter into such a heap. See how it is blowing about our neighbor's yard! Art thou not ashamed of thyself?"

"I didn't sweep any dirt there," replied the girl. "They did it themselves."

"Pshaw! Pshaw! don't tell me that," rejoined he. "Our neighbor wouldn't do such an untidy thing. I wonder she hasn't complained of thee before now. Be more careful in future; for I should be very sorry to give her any occasion to say she couldn't keep the yard clean on our account."

The domestic read his meaning in the roguish expression of his eye, and she remained silent. The lesson took effect. The heap of dirt was soon removed, and never appeared afterward.

Such a character as Isaac T. Hopper was of course well known throughout the city where he lived. Every school-boy had heard something of his doings, and as he walked the street, everybody recognized him, from the chief justice to the chimney-sweep. His personal appearance was calculated to attract attention, independent of other circumstances. Joseph Bonaparte, who then resided at Bordentown, was attracted toward him the first moment he saw him, on account of a strong resemblance to his brother Napoleon. They often met in the steamboat going down the Delaware, and on such occasions, the ex-king frequently pointed him out as the most remarkable likeness of the emperor, that he had ever met in Europe or America. He expressed the opinion that with Napoleon's uniform on, he might be mistaken for him, even by his own household; and if he were to appear thus in Paris, nothing could be easier than for him to excite a revolution.

But the imperial throne, even if it had been directly offered to him, would have proved no temptation to a soul like his. In some respects, his character, as well as his person, strongly resembled Napoleon. But his powerful will was remarkably under the control of conscience, and his energy was tempered by an unusual share of benevolence. If the other elements of his character had not been balanced by these two qualities, he also might have been a skilful diplomatist, and a successful leader of armies. Fortunately for himself and others, he had a nobler ambition than that of making widows and orphans by wholesale slaughter. The preceding anecdotes show how warmly he sympathized with the poor, the oppressed, and the erring, without limitation of country, creed, or complexion; and how diligently he labored in their behalf. But from the great amount of public service that he rendered, it must not be inferred that he neglected private duties. Perhaps no man was ever more devotedly attached to wife and children than he was. His Sarah, as he was wont to call her, was endowed with qualities well calculated to retain a strong hold on the affections of a sensible and conscientious man. Her kindly disposition, and the regular, simple habits of her life, were favorable to the preservation of that beauty, which had won his boyish admiration. Her wavy brown hair was softly shaded by the delicate transparent muslin of her Quaker cap; her face had a tender and benign expression; and her complexion was so clear, that an old gentleman, who belonged to the Society of Friends, and who was of course not much addicted to poetic comparisons, used to say he could never look at her without thinking of the clear pink and white of a beautiful conch-shell. She was scrupulously neat, and had something of that chastened coquetry in dress, which is apt to characterize the handsome women of her orderly sect. Her drab-colored gown, not high in the neck, was bordered by a plain narrow tucker of fine muslin, visible under her snow-white neckerchief. A white under-sleeve came just below the elbow, where it terminated in a very narrow band, nicely stitched, and fastened with two small silver buttons, connected by a chain. She was a very industrious woman, and remarkably systematic in her household affairs; thus she contrived to find time for everything, though burdened with the care of a large and increasing family. The apprentices always sat at table with them, and she maintained a perfect equality between them and her own children. She said it was her wish to treat them precisely as she would like to have her boys treated, if they should become apprentices. On Sunday evenings, which they called First Day evenings, the whole family assembled to hear Friend Hopper read portions of scripture, or writings of the early Friends. On such occasions, the mother often gave religious exhortations to the children and apprentices, suited to the occurrences of the week, and the temptations to which they were peculiarly subject. During the last eight years of her life, she was a recommended minister of the Society of Friends, and often preached at their meetings. Her manners were affable, and her conversation peculiarly agreeable to young people. But she knew when silence was seemly, and always restrained her discourse within the limits of discretion. When any of her children talked more than was useful, she was accustomed to administer this concise caution: "My dear, it is a nice thing to say nothing, when thou hast nothing to say." Her husband was proud of her, and always manifested great deference for her opinion. She suffered much anxiety on account of the perils to which he was often exposed in his contests with slaveholders and kidnappers; and for many years, the thought was familiar to her mind that she might one day see him brought home a corpse. While the yellow fever raged in Philadelphia, she had the same anxiety concerning his fearless devotion to the victims of that terrible disease, who were dying by hundreds around them. But she had a large and sympathizing heart, and she never sought to dissuade him from what he considered the path of duty. When one of his brothers was stricken with the fever, and the family with whom he resided were afraid to shelter him, she proposed to have him brought under their own roof, where he was carefully nursed till he died. She was more reluctant to listen to his urgent entreaties that she would retire into the country with the children, and remain with them beyond the reach of contagion; for her heart was divided between the husband of her youth and the nurslings of her bosom. But his anxiety concerning their children was so great, that she finally consented to pursue the course most conducive to his peace of mind; and he was left in the city with a colored domestic to superintend his household affairs. Through this terrible ordeal of pestilence he passed unscathed, though his ever ready sympathy brought him into frequent contact with the dying and the dead.

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."

The woman in question had gone out in the fields one day, with her infant in her arms, and she returned without it. She said she had laid it down on a heap of dry leaves, while she went to pick a few flowers; and when she returned, the baby was gone. The fields and woods were searched in vain, and neighbors began to whisper that she had committed infanticide. Then rumors arose that she was dissatisfied with her marriage; that her heart remained with a young man to whom she was previously engaged; and that her brain was affected by this secret unhappiness. She was never publicly accused; partly because there was no evidence against her, and partly because it was supposed that if she did commit the crime, it must have been owing to aberration of mind. But she became aware of the whisperings against her, and the consciousness of being an object of suspicion, combined with the mysterious disappearance of her child, cast a heavy cloud over her life, and made her appear more and more unlike her former self. This she confided to her clergyman, in the interview shortly preceding her death; and she likewise told him that the young man, to whom she had been engaged, had never forgiven her for not marrying him.

A few weeks after her decease, this young man confessed that he had stolen the babe. He had followed the mother, unobserved by her, and had seen her lay the sleeping infant on its bed of leaves. As he gazed upon it, a mingled feeling of jealousy and revenge took possession of his soul. In obedience to a sudden impulse, he seized the babe, and carried it off hastily. He subsequently conveyed it to a distant village, and placed it out to nurse, under an assumed name and history. The child was found alive and well, at the place he indicated. Thus the mother's innocence was made clearly manifest to the world, as the Quaker preacher had predicted at her funeral.

I often heard Friend Hopper relate this anecdote, and he always said that he could vouch for the truth of it; and for several other similar things in connection with the ministry of his friend Arthur.

A singular case of inward perception likewise occurred in the experience of his own mother. In her Diary, which is still preserved in the family, she describes a visit to some of her children in Philadelphia, and adds: "Soon after this, the Lord showed me that I should lose a son. It was often told me, though without sound of words. Nothing could be more intelligible than this still, small voice. It said, Thou wilt lose a son; and he is a pleasant child."

Her son James resided with relatives in Philadelphia, and often went to bathe in the Delaware. On one of these occasions, soon after his mother's visit, a friend who went with him sank in the water, and James lost his own life by efforts to save him. A messenger was sent to inform his parents, who lived at the distance of eight miles. While he staid in the house, reluctant to do his mournful errand, the mother was seized with sudden dread, and heard the inward voice saying, "James is drowned." She said abruptly to the messenger, "Thou hast come to tell me that my son James is drowned. Oh, how did it happen?" He was much surprised, and asked why she thought so. She could give no explanation of it, except that it had been suddenly revealed to her mind.

I have heard and read many such stories of Quakers, which seem too well authenticated to admit of doubt. They themselves refer all such cases to "the inward light;" and that phrase, as they understand it, conveys a satisfactory explanation to their minds. I leave psychologists to settle the question as they can.

Those who are well acquainted with Quaker views, are aware that by "the inward light," they signify something higher and more comprehensive than conscience. They regard it as the voice of God in the soul, which will always guard man from evil, and guide him into truth, if reverently listened to, in stillness of the passions, and obedience of the will. These strong impressions on individual minds constitute their only call and consecration to the ministry, and have directed' them in the application of moral principles to a variety of subjects, such as intemperance, war, and slavery. Men and women were impelled by the interior monitor to go about preaching on these topics, until their individual views became what are called "leading testimonies" in the Society. The abjuration of slavery was one of their earliest "testimonies." There was much preaching against it in their public meetings, and many committees were appointed to expostulate in private with those who held slaves. At an early period, it became an established rule of discipline for the Society to disown any member, who refused to manumit his bondmen.

Friend Hopper used to tell an interesting anecdote in connection with these committees. In the course of their visits, they concluded to pass by one of their members, who held only one slave, and he was very old. He was too infirm to earn his own living, and as he was very kindly treated, they supposed he would have no wish for freedom. But Isaac Jackson, one of the committee, a very benevolent and conscientious man, had a strong impression on his mind that duty required him not to omit this case. He accordingly went alone to the master, and stated how the subject appeared to him, in the inward light of his own soul. The Friend was not easily convinced. He brought forward many reasons for not emancipating his slave; and one of the strongest was that the man was too feeble to labor for his own support, and therefore freedom would be of no value to him. Isaac Jackson replied, "He labored for thee without wages, while he had strength, and it is thy duty to support him now. Whether he would value freedom or not, is a question he alone is competent to decide."

These friendly remonstrances produced such effect, that the master agreed to manumit his bondman, and give a written obligation that he should be comfortably supported during the remainder of his life, by him or his heirs. When the papers were prepared the slave was called into the parlor, and Isaac Jackson inquired, "Would'st thou like to be free?" He promptly answered that he should. The Friend suggested that he was now too feeble to labor much, and inquired how he would manage to obtain a living. The old man meekly replied, "Providence has been kind to me thus far; and I am willing to trust him the rest of my life."

Isaac Jackson then held up the papers and said, "Thou art a free man. Thy master has manumitted thee, and promised to maintain thee as long as thou mayest live."

This was so unexpected, that the aged bondman was completely overcome. For a few moments, he remained in profound silence; then, with a sudden impulse, he fell on his knees, and poured forth a short and fervent prayer of thanksgiving to his Heavenly Father, for prolonging his life till he had the happiness to feel himself a free man.

The master and his adviser were both surprised and affected by this eloquent outburst of grateful feeling. The poor old servant had seemed so comfortable and contented, that no one supposed freedom was of great importance to him. But, as honest Isaac Jackson observed, he alone was competent to decide that question.

Quakers consider "the inward light" as a guide not merely in cases involving moral principles, but also in the regulation of external affairs; and in the annals of their Society, are some remarkable instances of dangers avoided by the help of this internal monitor.

Friend Hopper used to mention a case where a strong impression had been made on his own mind, without his being able to assign any adequate reason for it. A young man, descended from a highly respectable Quaker family in New-Jersey, went to South Carolina and entered into business. He married there, and as his wife did not belong to the Society of Friends, he was of course disowned. After some years of commercial success, he failed, and went to Philadelphia, where Friend Hopper became acquainted with him, and formed an opinion not unfavorable. When he had been in that city some time, he mentioned that his wife owned land in Carolina, which he was very desirous to cultivate, but was prevented by conscientious scruples concerning slave-labor. He said if he could induce some colored people from Philadelphia to go there and work for him as free laborers, it would be an advantage to him, and a benefit to them. He urged Friend Hopper to exert his influence over them to convince them that such precautions could be taken, as would prevent any danger of their being reduced to slavery; saying that if he would consent to do so, he doubtless could obtain as many laborers as he wanted. The plan appeared feasible, and Friend Hopper was inclined to assist him in carrying it into execution. Soon after, two colored men called upon him, and said they were ready to go, provided he thought well of the project. Nothing had occurred to change his opinion of the man, or to excite distrust concerning his agricultural scheme. But an impression came upon his mind that the laborers had better not go; an impression so strong, that he thought it right to be influenced by it. He accordingly told them he had thought well of the plan, but his views had changed, and he advised them to remain where they were. This greatly surprised the man who wished to employ them, and he called to expostulate on the subject; repeating his statement concerning the great advantage they would derive from entering into his service.

"There is no use in arguing the matter," replied Friend Hopper. "I have no cause whatever to suspect thee of any dishonest or dishonorable intentions; but there is on my mind an impression of danger, so powerful that I cannot conscientiously have any agency in inducing colored laborers to go with thee."

Not succeeding in his project, the bankrupt merchant went to New-Jersey for a time, to reside with his father, who was a worthy and influential member of the Society of Friends. An innocent, good natured old colored man, a fugitive from Virginia, had for some time been employed to work on the farm, and the family had become much attached to him. The son who had returned from Carolina was very friendly with this simple-hearted old servant, and easily gained his confidence. When he had learned his story, he offered to write to his master, and enable him to purchase his freedom for a sum which he could gradually repay by labor. The fugitive was exceedingly grateful, and put himself completely in his power by a full statement of all particulars. The false-hearted man did indeed write to the master; and the poor old slave was soon after arrested and carried to Philadelphia in irons. Friend Hopper was sent for, and went to see him in prison. With groans and sobs, the captive told how wickedly he had been deceived. "I thought he was a Quaker, and so I trusted him," said he. "But I saw my master's agent pay him fifty dollars for betraying me."

Friend Hopper assured him that the deceiver was not a Quaker; and that he did not believe any Quaker on the face of the earth would do such an unjust and cruel deed. He could devise no means to rescue the sufferer; and with an aching heart he was compelled to see him carried off into slavery, without being able to offer any other solace than an affectionate farewell.