"ISAAC T. HOPPER.

"NEW-YORK, 4th mo. 15, 1852."

Early in the Spring, he was conveyed to the house of his daughter, Mrs. Gibbons, in the upper part of the city; it being supposed that change of air and scene might prove beneficial. It was afterward deemed imprudent to remove him. His illness was attended with a good deal of physical suffering; but he was uniformly patient and cheerful. He often observed, "There is no cloud. There is nothing in my way. Nothing troubles me." His daughters left all other duties, and devoted themselves exclusively to him. Never were the declining hours of an old man watched over with more devoted affection. Writing to his daughter Mary, he says: "I have the best nurses in New-York, thy mother and sisters. I have every comfort that industry and ingenuity can supply."

Among the Quakers who manifested kindness and sympathy, several belonged to the branch called Orthodox; for a sincere respect and friendship had grown up between him and individuals of that Society, in New-York, after the dust of controversy had subsided. He was always glad to see them; for his heart warmed toward the plain dress and the plain language. But I think nothing during his illness gave him more unalloyed satisfaction than a visit from William and Deborah Wharton, Friends from Philadelphia. He loved this worthy couple for their truly Christian character; and they were, moreover, endeared to him by many tender and pleasant associations. They stood by him generously during his severe pecuniary struggles; they had been devoted to his beloved Sarah, whose long illness was cheered by their unremitting attentions, and she, for many years, had received from Hannah Fisher, Deborah's mother, the most uniform kindness. William's father, a wealthy merchant, had been to him an early and constant friend; and his uncle, the excellent mayor of Philadelphia, had sustained him by his influence and hearty co-operation, in many a fugitive slave case, that occurred in years long past. It was, therefore, altogether pleasant to clasp hands with these tried and trusty friends, before life and all its reminiscences faded away.

His physician, Dr. John C. Beales, was very assiduous in his attentions, and his visits were always interesting to the invalid, who generally made them an occasion for pleasant and animated conversation; often leading the doctor off the professional track, by some playful account of his symptoms, however painful they might be. He had been his medical adviser for many years, and as a mark of respect for his disinterested services to his fellow-men, he uniformly declined to receive any compensation.

Neighbors and acquaintances of recent date, likewise manifested their respect for the invalid by all manner of attentions. Gentlemen sent choice wines, and ladies offered fruit and flowers. Market people, who knew him in the way of business, brought delicacies of various kinds for his acceptance. He was gratified by such tokens of regard, and manifested it in many pleasant little ways. One of his sons had presented him a silver goblet, with the word "Father" inscribed upon it; and whenever he was about to take nourishment, he would say, "Give it to me in John's cup." When his little grand-daughter brought flowers from the garden, he was careful to have them placed by the bedside, where he could see them continually. After he was unable to rise to take his meals, he asked to have two cups and plates brought to him, if it were not too much trouble; for he said it would seem pleasant, and like old times, to have Hannah's company. So his wife ate with him, as long as he was able to partake of food. A china bird, which a ransomed slave had given to his daughter, when she was a little girl, was placed on the mantel-piece, because he liked to look at it. A visitor, to whom he made this remark one day, replied, "It must be very pleasant to you now to remember how many unfortunate beings you have helped." He looked up, and answered with frank simplicity, "Yes, it is pleasant."

He made continual efforts to conceal that he was in pain. When they asked why he was so often singing to himself, he replied, "If I didn't sing, I should groan." Even as late as the day before he died, he indulged in some little "Cheeryble" pleasantries, evidently intended to enliven those who were nearly exhausted by their long attendance on him. At this period, his son-in-law, James S. Gibbons, wrote to me thus: "Considering his long bodily weakness, now ten weeks, he is in an extraordinary state of mental strength and clearness. Reminiscences are continually falling from his lips, like leaves in autumn from an old forest tree; not indeed green, but rich in the colors that are of the tree, and characteristic. Thou hast known him in the extraordinary vigor and freshness of his old age; cheating time even out of turning his hair gray. But thou shouldst see him now; when, to use his own words, he feels that 'the messenger has come.' All his thoughts have tended to, and reached this point. The only question with him now is of a few more days. Though prostrate in body, his mind is like a sturdy old oak, that don't care which way the wind blows. As I sat by his bedside, last evening, I thought I never had seen so beautiful a close to a good man's life."

He had no need to make a will; for he died, as he had lived, without property. But he disposed of his little keepsakes with as much cheerfulness as if he had been making New-Year's presents. He seemed to remember everybody in the distribution. His Quaker library was left in the care of his children, with directions that it should be kept where members of the Society of Friends or others interested could have ready access to it. To his daughter Sarah he entrusted the paper written by her mother, at fourteen years of age; still fastened by the pin she had placed in it, which her dear hand had invested with more value than a diamond, in his eyes. He earnestly recommended his wife to the affectionate care of his children; reminding them that she had been a kind and faithful companion to him during many years. He also gave general directions concerning his funeral. "Don't take the trouble to make a shroud," said he. "One of my night-shirts will do as well. I should prefer to be buried in a white pine coffin; but that might be painful to my family; and I should not like to afflict them in any way. It may, therefore, be of dark wood; but be sure to have it entirely plain, without varnish or inscription. Have it made by some poor neighbor, and pay him the usual price of a handsome one; for I merely wish to leave a testimony against vain show on such occasions." He appeared to be rather indifferent where he was buried; but when he was informed that his son and daughter had purchased a lot at Greenwood Cemetery, it seemed pleasant to him to think of having them and their families gathered round him, and he consented to be laid there.

I was summoned to his death-bed, and arrived two days before his departure. I found his mind perfectly bright and clear. He told over again some of his old reminiscences, and indulged in a few of his customary pleasantries. He spoke of rejoining his beloved Sarah, and his ancient friends William Savery, Nicholas Waln, Thomas Scattergood, and others, with as much certainty and pleasure as if he had been anticipating a visit to Pennsylvania. Sometimes, when he was much exhausted with physical pain, he would sigh forth, "Oh, for rest in the kingdom of heaven!" But nothing that approached nearer to complaint or impatience escaped his lips. On the last day, he repeated to me, what he had previously said to others, that he sometimes seemed to hear voices singing, "We have come to take thee home." Once, when no one else happened to be near him, he said to me in a low, confidential tone, "Maria, is there anything peculiar in this room?" I replied, "No. Why do you ask that question?" "Because," said he, "you all look so beautiful; and the covering on the bed has such glorious colors, as I never saw. But perhaps I had better not have said anything about it." The natural world was transfigured to his dying senses; perhaps by an influx of light from the spiritual; and I suppose he thought I should understand it as a sign that the time of his departure drew nigh. It was a scene to remind one of Jeremy Taylor's eloquent words: "When a good man dies, one that hath lived innocently, then the joys break forth through the clouds of sickness, and the conscience stands upright, and confesses the glories of God: and owns so much integrity, that it can hope for pardon, and obtain it too. Then the sorrows of sickness do but untie the soul from its chain, and let it go forth, first into liberty, and then into glory."

A few hours before he breathed his last, he rallied from a state of drowsiness, and asked for a box containing his private papers. He washed to find one, which he thought ought to be destroyed, lest it should do some injury. He put on his spectacles, and looked at the papers which were handed him; but the old man's eyes were dimmed with death, and he could not see the writing. After two or three feeble and ineffectual attempts, he took off his spectacles, with a trembling hand, and gave them to his beloved daughter, Sarah, saying, "Take them, my child, and keep them. They were thy dear mother's. I can never use them more." The scene was inexpressibly affecting; and we all wept to see this untiring friend of mankind compelled at last to acknowledge that he could work no longer.

Of his sixteen children, ten were living; and all but two of them were able to be with him in these last days. He addressed affectionate exhortations to them at various times; and a few hours before he died, he called them, one by one, to his bedside, to receive his farewell benediction. At last, he whispered my name; and as I knelt to kiss his hand, he said in broken accents, and at long intervals, "Maria, tell them I loved them—though I felt called to resist—some who claimed to be rulers in Israel—I never meant—." His strength was nearly exhausted; but after a pause, he pressed my hand, and added, "Tell them I love them all." I had previously asked and obtained permission to write his biography; and from these broken sentences, I understood that he wished me to convey in it a message to the Society of Friends; including the "Orthodox" branch, with whom he had been brought into painful collision, in years gone by.

After several hours of restlessness and suffering, he fell into a tranquil slumber, which lasted a long time. The serene expression of his countenance remained unchanged, and there was no motion of limb or muscle, when the spirit passed away. This was between eight and nine o'clock in the evening, on the seventh of May, 1852. After a long interval of silent weeping, his widow laid her head on the shoulder of one of his sons, and said, "Forty-seven years ago this very day, my good father died; and from that day to this, he has been the best friend I ever had."

No public buildings were hung with crape, when news went forth that the Good Samaritan had gone. But prisoners, and poor creatures in dark and desolate corners, wept when they heard the tidings. Ann W. with whose waywardness he had borne so patiently, escaped from confinement, several miles distant, and with sobs implored "to see that good old man once more." Michael Stanley sent the following letter to the Committee of the Prison Association: "When I read the account of the venerable Friend Hopper's death, I could not help weeping. It touched a tender chord in my heart, when I came to the account of his being the prisoner's friend. My soul responded to that; for I had realized it. About six years ago, I was one of those who got good advice from 'the old man.' I carried it out, and met with great success. I was fatherless, motherless, and friendless, with no home, nobody to take me by the hand. I felt, as the poet has it,

"'A pilgrim stranger here I roam, From place to place I'm driven; My friends are gone, and I'm in gloom; This earth is all a lonely tomb; I have no home but heaven.'

"Go on in the work of humanity and love, till the Good Master shall say, 'It is enough. Come up higher.'"

Nearly all the domestics in Friend Hopper's neighborhood attended the funeral solemnities. One of these said with tears, "I am an orphan; but while he lived, I always felt as if I had a father. He always had something pleasant to say to me, but now everything seems gone." A very poor man, who had been an object of his charity, and whom he had employed in many little services, could not rest till he had earned enough to buy a small Arbor-vitae, (Tree of Life,) to plant upon his grave.

The Executive Committee of the Prison Association met, and passed the following Resolutions:

"Resolved:—That the combination of virtues which distinguished and adorned the character of our lamented friend, eminently qualified him for the accomplishment of those benevolent and philanthropic objects to which he unremittingly devoted a life far more extended than ordinarily falls to man's inheritance.

"That in our intimate associations with him for many years, he has uniformly displayed a character remarkable for its disinterestedness, energy, fearlessness, and Christian principle, in every good word and work.

"That we tender to the family and friends of the deceased our sincere condolence and sympathy in their sore bereavement, but whilst sensible that words, however truly uttered, cannot compensate for the loss of such a husband, father, and guide, we do find both for ourselves and for them, consolation in the belief that his peaceful end was but the prelude to the bliss of Heaven.

"That in the death of Isaac T. Hopper, the community is called to part with a citizen of transcendent worth and excellence; the prisoner, with an unwearied and well-tried friend; the poor and the homeless, with a father and a protector; the church of Christ, with a brother whose works ever bore unfailing testimony to his faith; and the world at large, with a philanthropist of the purest and most uncompromising integrity, whose good deeds were circumscribed by no sect, party, condition or clime."

The American Anti-Slavery Society received the tidings while they were in session at Rochester. Mr. Garrison, after a brief but eloquent tribute to the memory of the deceased, offered the following Resolution:

"Resolved:—That it is with emotions too profound for utterance, that this Society receives the intelligence of the decease of the venerable Isaac T. Hopper, on Tuesday evening last, in the city of New-York; the friend of the friendless—boundless in his compassion—exhaustless in his benevolence—untiring in his labors—the most intrepid of philanthropists, who never feared the face of man, nor omitted to bear a faithful testimony against injustice and oppression—the early, steadfast, heroic advocate and protector of the hunted fugitive slave, to whose sleepless vigilance and timely aid multitudes have been indebted for their deliverance from the Southern House of Bondage;—in whom were equally blended the gentleness of the lamb with the strength of the lion—the wisdom of the serpent with the harmlessness of the dove; and who, when the ear heard him, then it blessed him, when the eye saw him, it gave witness to him, because he delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had none to help him. The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon him, and he caused the widow's heart to sing for joy. He put on righteousness, and it clothed him; his judgment was as a robe and a diadem. He was eyes to the blind, and feet was he to the lame. The cause which he knew not he searched out, and he broke the jaws of the wicked, and plucked the spoil out of its teeth."

He moved that a copy of this resolution be forwarded in an official form to the estimable partner of his life, and the children of his love, accompanied by an assurance of our deepest sympathy, in view of their great bereavement.

Several spoke in support of the Resolution, which was unanimously and cordially adopted.

The Committee of the Prison Association desired to have public funeral solemnities, and the family complied with their wishes. Churches of various denominations were immediately offered for the purpose, including the meeting-houses of both branches of the Society of Friends. The Tabernacle was accepted. Judge Edmonds, who had been an efficient co-laborer, and for whom Friend Hopper had a strong personal affection, offered a feeling tribute to the virtues and abilities of his departed friend. He was followed by Lucretia Mott, a widely known and highly respected minister among Friends. In her appropriate and interesting communication, she dwelt principally upon his efforts in behalf of the colored people; for whose sake she also had encountered obloquy.

The Society of Friends in Hester-street, to which he had formerly belonged, offered the use of their burying-ground. It was kindly meant; but his children deeply felt the injustice of their father's expulsion from that Society, for no other offence than following the dictates of his own conscience. As his soul had been too much alive for them, when it was in the body, their unity with the lifeless form was felt to avail but little.

The body was conveyed to Greenwood Cemetery, followed only by the family, and a very few intimate friends. Thomas McClintock, a minister in the Society of Friends, addressed some words of consolation to the bereaved family, as they stood around the open grave. Lucretia Mott affectionately commended the widow to the care of the children. In the course of her remarks, she said, "I have no unity with these costly monuments around me, by which the pride and vanity of man strive to extend themselves beyond the grave. But I like the idea of burial grounds where people of all creeds repose together. It is pleasant to leave the body of our friend here, amid the verdant beauty of nature, and the sweet singing of birds. As he was a fruitful bough, that overhung the wall, it is fitting that he should not be buried within the walls of any sectarian enclosure."

Three poor little motherless German boys stood hand in hand beside the grave. Before the earth was thrown in, the eldest stepped forward and dropped a small bouquet on the coffin of his benefactor. He had gathered a few early spring flowers from the little garden plot, which his kind old friend used to cultivate with so much care, and with childish love and reverence he dropped them in his grave.

Soon after the funeral Lucretia Mott called a meeting of the colored people in Philadelphia, and delivered an address upon the life and services of their friend and protector. There was a very large audience; and among them were several old people, who well remembered him during his residence in that city. At the Yearly Meeting also she paid a tribute to his virtues; it being the custom of Friends, on such occasions, to make tender allusion to the worthies who have passed from among them in the course of the year.

The family received many letters of sympathy and condolence, from which I will make a few brief extracts. Mrs. Marianne C.D. Silsbee, of Salem, Massachusetts, thus speaks of him, in a letter to his son John: "I have thought much of you all, since your great loss. How you must miss his grand, constant example of cheerful trust, untiring energy, and love to all! What a joy to have had such a father! To be the son of such a man is ground for honest pride. The pleasure of having known him, the honor of having been in social relations with him, will always give a charm to my life. I cherish among my most precious recollections the pleasant words he has so often spoken to me. I can see him while I write, as vividly as though he were with me now; and never can his benign and beautiful countenance lose its brightness in my memory. Dear old friend! We cannot emulate your ceaseless good works; but we can follow, and we can love and remember."

Mrs. Mary E. Stearns, of Medford, Massachusetts, wrote as follows to Rosalie Hopper: "The Telegraph has announced that the precious life you were all so anxiously watching has 'passed on,' and that mysterious change we call death has taken it from your midst forever. It is such a beautiful day! The air is so soft, the grass so green, and the birds singing so joyously! The day and the event have become so interwoven with each other, that I cannot separate them. I think of his placid face, sleeping its last still sleep; and through the open window, I see the springing grass and the bursting buds. My ears are filled with bird-music, and all other sounds are hushed in this Sabbath stillness. All I see and hear seems to be hallowed by his departed spirit. Ah, it is good to think of his death in the Spring time! It is good that his soul, so fresh, so young and hopeful, should burst into a higher and more glorious life, as if in sympathy with the ever beautiful, ever wonderful resurrection of nature. Dear, blessed old man! I shall never see his face again; but his memory will be as green as this springing grass, and we shall always think and talk of our little experience with him, as one of the golden things that can never pass away."

Dr. Russ, his beloved co-laborer in the Prison Association, wrote thus in a note to Mrs. Gibbons: "I have found it for my comfort to change the furniture of the office, that it might not appear so lonely without your dear, venerable father. I felt for him the warmest and most enduring friendship. I esteemed him for his thousand virtues, and delighted in his social intercourse. I am sure no one out of his own immediate family, felt his loss more keenly than myself."

James H. Titus, of New-York, thus expresses himself in a letter to James S. Gibbons: "I have ever considered it one of the happiest and most fortunate events of my life, to have had the privilege of an acquaintance with Friend Hopper. I shall always recur to his memory with pleasure, and I trust with that moral advantage, which the recollection of his Christian virtues is so eminently calculated to produce. How insignificant the reputation of riches, how unsatisfactory the renown of victory in war, how transient political fame, when compared with the history of a long life spent in services rendered to the afflicted and the unfortunate!"

Ellis Gray Loring, of Boston, in a letter to John Hopper, says: "We heard of your father's death while we were in Rome. I could not restrain a few tears, and yet God knows there is no room for tears about the life or death of such a man. In both, he was a blessing and encouragement to all of us. He really lived out all the life that was given him; filling it up to such an age with the beauty of goodness, and consecrating to the divinest purposes that wonderful energy of intellect and character. In a society full of selfishness and pretension, it is a great thing to have practical proof that a life and character like his are possible."

Edmund L. Benzon, of Boston, writing to the same, says; "You will imagine, better than I can write, with what deep sympathy I learned the death of your good father, whom I have always esteemed one of the best of men. I cannot say I am sorry for his death. My only regret is that more of us cannot live and die as he has done. I feel with regard to all good men departed, whom I have personally known, that there is now another witness in the spirit, before whose searching eyes my inmost soul lies open. I shall never forget him; not even if such a green old age as his should be my own portion. If in the future life I can only be as near him as I was on this earth, I shall deem myself blest."

From the numerous notices in papers of all parties and sects, I will merely quote the following: The New-York Observer thus announces his death:

"The venerable Isaac T. Hopper, whose placid benevolent face has so long irradiated almost every public meeting for doing good, and whose name, influence, and labors have been devoted with an apostolic simplicity and constancy to humanity, died on Friday last, at an advanced age. He was a Quaker of that early sort illustrated by such philanthropists as Anthony Benezet, Thomas Clarkson, Mrs. Fry, and the like.

"He was a most self-denying, patient, loving friend of the poor, and the suffering of every kind; and his life was an unbroken history of beneficence. Thousands of hearts will feel a touch of grief at the news of his death; for few men have so large a wealth in the blessings of the poor, and the grateful remembrance of kindness and benevolence, as he."

The New-York Sunday Times contained the following:

"Most of our readers will call to mind in connection with the name of Isaac T. Hopper, the compact, well-knit figure of a Quaker gentleman, apparently about sixty years of age, dressed in drab or brown clothes of the plainest cut, and bearing on his handsome, manly face the impress of that benevolence with which his whole heart was filled.

"He was twenty years older than he seemed. The fountain of benevolence within, freshened his old age with its continuous flow. The step of the octogenarian, was elastic as that of a boy, his form erect as the mountain pine.

"His whole physique was a splendid sample of nature's handiwork. We see him now with our 'mind's eye'—but with the eye of flesh we shall see him no more. Void of intentional offence to God or man, his spirit has joined its happy kindred in a world where there is neither sorrow nor perplexity."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ISAAC T. HOPPER,

BORN, DECEMBER 3D, 1771,

ENDED HIS PILGRIMAGE, MAY 7TH, 1852.

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