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

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

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

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