LIFE AND LETTERS. (continued 5)

Your letter bears the goodly inscription of “Thornhill Parsonage;” but, alas! it is a sound without locality. It exists in my kind brother’s imagination, but nowhere else. A house indeed has long been talked of, and was at length erected, but a mere laical abode. But I am happy to say that matters are now likely to be on a proper footing. I have purchased four acres of land (at £50 an acre!!) near the church, for which the Lieutenant-Governor in Council has consented to allow me an equivalent in wild land, as well as for a sum not exceeding £500 for the erection of a parsonage. And operations have commenced, but when they shall be terminated I know not. The lumber must be sawn and seasoned, and continue seasoning till next spring, and we are told that a finished habitation will be ready for us in the fall of the next year, October the 1st, 1836. But what a distant period! my hand misgives me while I write it; for my whitened locks and weakly frame point to a far different abode. May my affection combine with my judgment, and may my short residue of days be so numbered by me, that wisdom’s lessons may both diligently and effectually be learnt!

When I sat down I was purposing a tolerably close imitation of your own very lengthy (eleven-lined!) epistle, and was about to find some convincing, or at least plausible, reason for my shabbiness. Happily, however, my pen has kept sliding on; and finding myself so near the conclusion of the third side of my closely written sheet, I may assure you with a tolerably fair and unblushing front, of our unabated and most affectionate regards to yourself and all your endeared family, and not least, those of your sincerely devoted brother,

George Mortimer.

P.S. Our kindest love also to all our endeared relatives.

TO MRS. D. WHITMORE.

Thornhill, August 21, 1835.

* * * * * Your account of dear Mr. —’s increasing infirmities, and their necessary effect on yourself and Mr. G. W., has given rise to many a pensive, perhaps I ought to say, melancholy, feeling. Indeed, I hardly dare think of the breaking up of connexions, comforts, health, and so on. My foolish heart too frequently deceives itself with delusive hopes. I say, too generally, “I shall die in my nest”—the soft downy nest of easy pleasant dissolution. But when anything reminds me of the thorn, the sharp-pointed, piercing thorn, which is mostly found there, then I start, and my spirit almost sinks within me; and I have little either of manly fortitude, or of Christian magnanimity; at least, the subject is so unwelcome, that I rather turn from it, than submissively await it. At times, indeed, I feel willing that the taking down, the unpinning of the tabernacle, and the loosening of all its cords, should take place under any circumstances which my gracious God shall appoint, and I feel a persuasion that his faithful love will so adjust everything, that he will in nowise “suffer me to be tempted above what I shall be able” to bear; and it is to this point that I have of late so frequently directed my prayers, that all the preparatory circumstances of death, the undoing of that which has been inexpediently or criminally pursued, the pulling down of vain and worldly hopes, the detaching of the soul from even the last of its too-much-clinged-to objects, the patient endurance of the bodily evils which, as the precursors of death, in some shape or other await me; that all these may be so met, and so peacefully and cheerfully borne, that, instead of grieving the Spirit of my God by any unhallowed feelings, I may surrender everything with cheerfulness, and endure all in his blessed order. For the melancholy fact must not be withheld from you, that, after all I have known, and felt, and preached, I shrink from very many of the circumstances attendant on dissolution: and what, perhaps, will surprise you more, and what I am still more ashamed to be obliged to acknowledge, is, that I am frequently conscious of a kind of latent infidelity, as to the reality of the coming world. I do not absolutely disbelieve; for revelation assures, and all my reasoning confirms, and yet it is one of those points on which I am constrained to say,—“Lord, I believe, help thou my unbelief.” But how I have ventured to touch upon these topics I hardly know; for I carefully keep them from my own self, hardly daring to acknowledge their existence; and I am so ashamed of them, that I keep them still more carefully from others. And yet it has produced a strange relief to me, thus explicitly to advert to them; it has given to them more precision of shape and locality; I see with more distinctness what my enemies really are, and I seem encouraged to hope that, by the grace of God, even these may be overcome: and I trust also, that, by thus unfolding these weaknesses of my nature, I shall awaken in my kind friend that decree of sympathy, which shall call forth from her an occasional prayer on my behalf. I never more needed prayer, nor never so much estimated its value, as I have done of late; it is truly wondrous in all the branches and bearings of its beneficial influence.

But I must turn to other matters. I often think of your self-imposed silence when we were leaving England, evidently not approving of our step, and yet not wishing to enter into any enlarged reasoning or discussion; and I as often think, was my endeared friend right in her non-approval? I am ready to acknowledge, that we were never so out in our calculation as in many of the results of our Canadian migration; and in the estimation of observant friends we must appear, I should think, to have strangely missed our path. And yet so marked are all the leading circumstances which have transpired, that we cannot, for a moment, question either the permissive or the appointing mercy of our God. It has been of essential benefit to myself; it has been of especial good to — also; her views and feelings have undergone a most material change, so that I quite marvel at the wise and gracious process; and in various ways has the removal been beneficial to our children. But all this is hidden from outward observation; no one perceives either the needs-be, or the result, but the outward appearance it is which puzzles them—all is completely in contrast with our former selves, and so little in accordance with our property and with what we have a kind of right to expect in the shape of accommodation from our parishioners. We would, indeed, without much difficulty, should we see it to be our duty, bring ourselves into altered circumstances; we could retrace at once our migratory steps and reach our native land richer by, at least, a thousand pounds than when we left it. We could also leave our present unaccommodating people, purchase or build on some advantageously situated spot, retire from the peculiar awkwardnesses of Canadian ministrations, and more privately exercise, without cost to any, the exposition of God’s word, and the visiting of the sick and needy. We might also build, at once, in this place, at our own cost, and, without pecuniary regret, let slip a few hundreds of pounds on the impolitic speculation of procuring somewhat more of suitable and becoming accommodation. We might dash also through some others of our temporary unseemlinesses, and be able to write in an altered and more gratifying strain to our now wondering friends—might encourage our sons, for example, to launch out into avocations, or attempt other branches, which, while they have more appearance of gentility, would only sap the foundation of their future respectability and comfort. We might do all this and much more, and pride would suggest its partial or total performance; but we should be either forcing our way, or premature in our movements. Grace and duty bid us calmly and patiently to await God’s time; and we are not without hope, that he will at length bring us into his wealthy place. All is well: with our hearts, we can say so, and with this conviction, we may and ought to be content. And I say this, not to justify our procedures (for this really has become to us a very small matter), but to bring an endeared friend into a more correct estimate of what is actually passing among us—to show her that, while discomfort appears to be in some respects outwardly surrounding our little edifice, much of God’s blessing, with peaceful acquiescence and comfort, is still found within.

I need make no mention of the termination of our endeared mother’s earthly career, on whose account we are at present in mourning; we have heard no particulars of her last moments, nor, indeed, are these necessary in order to assure us that her end was blessed. You and ourselves have known her in her married life, and in her widowed state. But even in this her limited sphere, we have seen her as a most distinguished and honoured servant of the Lord; but, from all I have heard and read, almost all the brilliancy conspicuous in her unmarried life was then suffering an eclipse; and so those of the brightest and most dazzling rays of the Miss Richie of former times, were nearly forgotten in the conjugal and domesticated Mrs. Mortimer. Her life, you know perhaps, is in the course of publication, and I shall look for it with much interest. I fear, however, that it will be wanting in incident, though her diary, which she has kept for many years, may supply much of unexpected material. Her published letters I read many years since with peculiar pleasure. * * *

Yours,

My dear Madam, ever gratefully obliged, George Mortimer.

TO MISS E. FORD.

Thornhill, July 28, 1836.

My dear Madam,

I am becoming so sadly neglectful of my duties, as a correspondent, that I not only richly deserve from my friends their censure, but a total discontinuance of their kind communications. To yourself and respected sister, however, my neglect assumes the aspect of ingratitude; you have so diversified and heaped on me your kind and delicate attentions. I can say so little that is apologetic, that I will not make the attempt; but, as in my approach to a Higher Power, I would at once acknowledge the fulness of my delinquency, and solicit from your united kindly feelings that indulgence which I am in nowise entitled to expect. I trust, however, that your forbearance will not be exercised in vain, and that it will be long before I again trespass to a similar extent.

But though I have no apology to offer for my long silence, it may in some measure be accounted for in the present uncertain state of our affairs; for I have long been hoping that something definite would arise, and I was unwilling to write to you before. But week passed on after week, and we are still in statu quo. The B—s have probably informed you of our intention to remove to some other situation, for the sphere is exceedingly limited, and the church-people unusually few; so that, after a four years’ trial, I should hardly feel justified in spending my little residuum of strength in a spot where the deficiency of proportionate result is so great. Our accommodation, too, in our confined lodgings, are far from suitable, and all our personal attempts, as well as expectations from others to amend them, have hitherto failed. This minor matter, indeed, would not, of itself, have been sufficiently strong, to induce us to remove, but, taken in conjunction with all the other matters, I have, at length, felt it my duty either to fix in some other mission, as our cures are here denominated, or else to retire altogether from public to more private engagement. I have written to our good bishop on the subject, expressing a preference for the vicinity of our children, or some more southerly and more genial part of the province near the lake shores. He has kindly promised to do all in his power to meet my wishes, but he has not hitherto been able to succeed, and we are waiting the result of his further endeavours. You have heard enough, I doubt not, of our political affairs to need any enlargement on this point. Very nearly, indeed, were we on the point of provincial ruin. But through God’s mercy the decision and good sense of the Lieutenant-Governor have saved us from anything immediate, and, I hope, also, from ultimate evil; for there is a strong conservative feeling brought into exercise, which is not very likely soon to subside. In our last Parliament, which the Lieutenant-Governor dissolved, there was a large Radical majority; but from the recent return for the ensuing Parliament, out of sixty-two members forty-four are Conservative, and only eighteen Radical; so that we have good reason to expect an amended state of things. It will be months and years, however, before we attain to a sound, healthy, and flourishing state; for emigration is very nearly at a stand; capitalists, of course, have no courage to venture among such a set of revolutionary ruffians. The less monied, who are compelled to go somewhere, proceed to the States to the far west by hundreds and thousands. Labourers and mechanics not only turn aside from us, but leave us after settling among us from want of employment, or, rather, from want of money to pay them for their labour. Toronto, for months past, has had quite an appearance of gloom; so many shops shut up, and so little trade done; and other towns complain in like manner. Farming, too, where farming labour is paid for, is so losing a concern, that, if it were not absolutely necessary for the supply of their family in country places, there is scarcely a gentleman but would give it up. I have annually lost by mine—little indeed, but still, lost; and the general cry among my neighbours is, Nothing is to be got by farming. Indeed, were it not for the comparative poverty of the settlers, the tide of emigration would soon set homewards: but, to realize the means of return would, on a general scale, be impossible; were they to attempt to sell, no sufficient number of purchasers could be obtained, and the sum realized would go but a little way towards living in the same style in England; so tarry they must. Still, the hearts of many are turning towards their beloved country, and they would soon rejoin their friends if they could.

TO MRS. WHITMORE.

Thornhill, near Toronto, Upper Canada, November, 12, 1836.

* * * * During most of the time since I last wrote to you, we have been in great uncertainty concerning our movements. At one time I felt so sinking under my ministerial duties, combined with the peculiarities of the climate, that my wife and Cecil were strongly urgent on me to retire from all public and obligatory duty, and to do no more than what my strength or spirits would enable me occasionally and privately to attend to. With this intention, after inspecting numerous places, we made a purchase in the salubrious and delightful district of Niagara, and were just on the point of removing thither; but, on inspection, the title did not appear satisfactory, and, at the suggestion of the solicitor, I did not complete the purchase. While, however, this matter was pending, my people, at a public meeting, strongly expressed their hope, that I would not adhere to my intentions of removal, and so unanimously and affectionately pressed my continuance among them, that I at length consented; and have since made arrangements for building a house at my own expense, on some land I had previously purchased near the church, and am intending now to go on with as much prudence as I can; but still to go on, and to die, if it please God, in the harness. Of late, however, the Lord has been pleased so to enable me to use appropriate exercise in the open air, and so to husband my little strength, that all the unfavourable symptoms under which I was labouring some few months ago, have altogether disappeared; and with present adequacy of physical powers and with more than usual encouragement in spirit, I am proceeding with my work, and trust all will be well.

After speaking of his family, he adds,

* * * * * Much have we, indeed, of God’s temporal smile, nor is the light of his gracious countenance withheld. All, all is love, and we would not only submissively, but gratefully adore. Permit me to assure you of our best wishes for the months or years, which may yet be in reserve, may they prove pre-eminently the best! “For such power belongeth unto God;” and believe me, Yours, my dear Madam, very sincerely,

G. Mortimer.

Mr. Mortimer left England in part to avoid the storms and tempests which overhung that country, little thinking that in attempting to avoid a possible danger, he ran into an actual one; so very dim is our foresight and so weak our power of resistance. A destructive rebellion took place in Canada in 1837, which, from his residence being on one of the main roads to Toronto, whither the rioters were proceeding, put even the personal safety of his family in great jeopardy. He refers especially to this event in the following letter:—

TO MRS. HOLLAND.

Thornhill, April 3, 1838.

You kindly allude to the circumstance of apparent danger in which we have been placed during our recent revolt, but God has been very merciful to us, and, not merely screened us under the sheltering wing of his good providence, but graciously kept our minds in sweet serenity and peace. You may judge of the apparent peril to which we were exposed, when I tell you, that on the afternoon of the evening on which they (the rebels) proceeded to Toronto, two parties passed our door, the one consisting of 200, and the other of 300 persons; and were, under God’s providence, kept from the execution of their murderous and destructive designs against the persons and houses of the more loyal and opulent, merely in consequence of their being obliged to hurry past us to Toronto two or three days sooner than they had anticipated. As a clergyman too, and more especially as a beneficed one, noted and vilified as possessing one of the obnoxious rectories, concerning which they have so loudly clamoured; on this account I was a doubly marked man; my name was inserted in their list of intended arsons, and my family as well as myself were to be shot, as we were attempting to escape the flames; at least, such were the pleasing tidings which were widely circulated among us, and the fearful and timid found it no easy matter to restrain their feelings, or to exhibit calmness of spirit, or manliness of conduct. Many passed sleepless nights, and all around us gave indication that there were solid and extensive grounds for alarm. Colonel M—, the person who was shot on the first night of the revolt, was an attendant on our church and a resident in our neighbourhood, and, in the very midst of the excitement, was brought to our churchyard for interment. A hostile attack was expected by many, and the mob, who assembled to pay the last sad offices to their veteran friend and neighbour, came accoutred in their swords, daggers, pistols and fowling pieces. A novel and a painful scene, but which was altogether uncalled for; no attempt having been contemplated. My eye glanced on one of the assembly; a loyal, but strange and penurious man, whose habits had never suffered him to become possessed of anything in the shape of arms, and he was leaning on his trusty lengthened pitch fork, a weapon, of which I heard, he was afterwards vaunting that there was nothing like that. His presence, however, to my mind at least, was far from pleasing; it ill-accorded with the scene before us, and seemed so ridiculous, that I could hardly refrain from a momentary smile. Of the general and more public details you are doubtless most fully apprized; for I perceive that our Canadian affairs are exciting a peculiar interest in our fatherland, and are commented on with an accuracy, which shows that they must have been perused with every means of the fullest information lying before them. All is now, through God’s providence, in a state of quietness; while, therefore, we feel indebted to our friends for their kind sympathy, and their affectionate expressions of hope, that our provincial troubles may cause us either quickly, or eventually to retrace our steps towards our beloved native land, we must still assure them that nothing is further from our thoughts; our path has been deliberately chosen, our objects have been extensively gained, much of God’s temporal smile is resting upon us, we are now established in our ample, commodious, and, I might say, beautiful house, the society around us is superior to what is found in most country places in England; our income is ample and enough for all exigencies. Life is gliding gently along with as little disquietude and as much comfort as we can ever expect to find in the present world; peace and tranquillity reign in our domestic circle, God’s spiritual blessings are experienced by the majority of our family, and some hopeful indications given by all, and, therefore, why should we wish for a change? Of myself and my own immediate duties, I would say, but little good is being done. Ministers are much wanted, and, were I in England, it would be only to extrude and thrust out some of the partially engaged or wholly unoccupied with which you are overburdened already. No, my endeared sister, much as we love our native land, much as we value our still more beloved friends, we ought not to close our eyes on our present mercies, or so mix up the cherishing of regret with causes for thanksgiving, as to destroy their efficacy, or to diminish their heart-stirring effect.

While Mr. Mortimer’s friends did not approve of his expatriating himself and family, so some of them, who visited him in Canada, were by no means convinced of his having improved on his lot and position in life by his change of country. The Rev. B. Luckock was one of these, who was so struck with the inferiority of everything which he saw, that he afterwards wrote to him in no very measured terms of his dislike and almost detestation of what he called his wretched situation. These condoling and sympathizing notes produced no echo in the mind of Mr. Mortimer, and he wrote to his friend in the following playful terms, united to strains of piety and seriousness, very expressive of his own satisfaction with the change which he had made:—

“Both your letters found me at Thornhill, and from the same miserable and deserted place, I date, as you will perceive, my present letter. It is difficult to determine what class of feelings we should indulge in at the accumulated epithets of loathing and abhorrence with which you speak of our delightfully happy sojourn; our disposition, however, to merriment prevailed, and we all laughed most heartily at your intemperate and ill-timed abusings, so completely and so pleasantly had the whole class of our own feelings and circumstances been changed since your visit to that anything but “happy valley.” I need not detail to you the various incidents which, through the kind providence of our God, have tended both to fix our steps and to settle our minds; the hundreds of miles which were previously travelled—the ineligibility of every spot and every abode in some important particular—the striking Providence which put some unexpected and final stop to our negotiations in each of the matters on which we were disposed to venture—the altered feeling and conduct discovered by my people, when they perceived me fully resolved to leave—their solicitations, accompanied with proffered, though not accepted, pecuniary liberality to remain among them—the erection of a large, commodious, and tasty, not to say beautiful, house, on the few acres of my own, near the church, which I had some time before purchased—the settling of a most esteemed, and delightful, intelligent, well-educated, Christian family, within a few stones’ throw of our residence—and, finally, the induction and installing of the long unbeneficed curate into that most lucrative and honourable piece of preferment, “the Rectory of Thornhill.” Happy consummation of the most ambitious wishes, or only to be credited by the envied and enviable dignitaries of our Church, of which “I am proud to think” that my valued and respected friend is one! But I wander; there, then, we are at Thornhill; but, through God’s mercy, under circumstances of great comfort, much, very much, indeed, which calls forth our gratitude and praise; so that what I partly smilingly, partly ironically, and partly believingly, predicted, has been strongly fulfilled; the course adopted by the Abyssinian Prince has been closely followed by ourselves, and not an atom of wish do we now feel to exchange the place of our abode for any other in the province, and we may say even in the world. Of the younger branches of the family, I am not of course speaking; they may possibly be far from the rest and quiet, a and satisfaction of the older folk. As to ourselves, however, we wish for no change; to live and to die where God’s good providence has now at length fixed us is the ultimatum of all our wishes.”

TO THE REV. JOHN ARMSTRONG.

Thornhill, Upper Canada, Feb. 11, 1840.

My dear Armstrong,

I feel much indebted to you for having complied with Mr. Ditcher’s suggestion, as well as to Mr. D. himself, for so kindly and judiciously making it. [226] And I hope that now we shall be able to enjoy a little occasional intercourse, not perhaps to the same extent, or with the same buoyant energetic feelings of our more youthful bygone days, but with the spirit of those who are drawing nearer and nearer to life’s peaceful termination, and who, while grateful for the attached intercourse which has characterised a few of their past years, must still feel that in this world of severings and perturbations we form our several friendships, not so much to enjoy them on earth, as to renew and perfect them in heaven.

What you mention concerning your dear family has greatly interested me. God has been very very gracious to you and them, and I do sincerely praise him on your and their behalf.

I have thought a good deal on the hints you throw out respecting my namesake and endeared godson, and hope the best wishes of your heart will be realised with regard to him. Canada, however, does not strike me as being the place for him, at least in a pecuniary point of view. £150 sterling, with a house, and three or four acres of land, is the utmost he should calculate on. Though a rector, I have no more than £135 sterling, and have no parsonage house, but am dwelling in one erected by myself, at my own cost. The general allowance made by the bishop at present is £100 sterling; and this is paid out of the sum contributed by the different societies in England, principally the Propagation, or by the fund arising from the sale of clergy reserves. In addition, however, to this £100, the bishop expects that the congregation should provide four acres of land, build a parsonage, and pledge themselves to give a salary of £50. But this pledge is too frequently merely nominal, the money being very seldom fully, or at all nearly, paid, and little more is obtained beyond the bishop’s allowance, excepting what may arise from surplice fees and the rental of church pews. Something in addition, however, may be expected when the vexatious matter of the clergy reserves shall be settled; but as these will be uncleared land, no immediate advantage to any extent would of course accrue. Upper Canada, indeed, I consider as one of the most necessitous of all our provinces, and none offer so little in the shape of just and equitable remuneration. Much, therefore, as I should rejoice on many accounts at Mr. George’s coming here, I am afraid he would find it very difficult to procure the means of adequate support. Orders, indeed, if only tolerably qualified, he might with ease and without expense obtain. Important spheres, also, of ministerial engagement are numerously presented. And to one who has no thought of entering on a married life, or is prepared to rough it, or contentedly to sink below the customary grade of his profession—to one so prepared, the missionary field of Canada is the very place. But to those who are otherwise minded, we ought, in Christian charity, and even in common fairness, to present the salutary cave. Sir George Arthur, no doubt, would do all in his power to assist him, should we be permitted to retain him among us; but in Canada his means of this description are exceedingly limited, and I should almost think that he could exert a more beneficial influence on his behalf by endeavouring to obtain, through his English friends, some appointment as chaplain to one of the colonies, or, should this be questionable, some benefice in Australia, or elsewhere, under circumstances of more encouragement than we are authorized to hold out in our poor, neglected, harassed province.

You speak of the possibility of giving us a visit; I need scarcely assure you how greatly it would delight us all; I fear, however, that Sir George will have left us, unless you are somewhat agile in your movements. I have been apprised by him (though quite confidentially) of his kind intentions towards yourself. How astonished should I have been at their realization, and how unspeakably rejoiced. But still all is well; and if time discover not this, faith can tell us of an important day that will.

You lay on me, my endeared friend, a next to impossible injunction; what a string of kind affectionate inquiries relative to my own procedures, personally, parochially, domestically.

My labours, I trust, are not altogether in vain in the Lord; our congregation has been increasing ever since I came here, and this year the church was enlarged to nearly double its former size, and the additional pews were all let in three or four days after they were offered for rental. Some few of my people seem to have been under gracious influence, and have given me much of encouragement and hope. And my people at large show me much kindness, and appear attached to my ministrations.

Socially and domestically we have much of comfort. Good house and premises, good servants, one of whom has been with us twenty-three years—and good neighbourhood—pleasant distance (twelve or thirteen miles) from Toronto—almost every English comfort within our reach, not to say every luxury. The only cause of regret, perhaps, is that in these matters we are going too much a-head.

We are far too gay, as a neighbourhood, for my simple liking. A few evenings since, one gentleman had a party of sixty persons present, many more invited, with a part of the band of the 93rd regiment, from Toronto. And very shortly after, another of my congregation had a still gayer and more extensive assemblage. But you will now begin to sigh over my interminable and undecipherable scrawl; and therefore, in simple pity to your straining eyes, I shall only add, that with most affectionate and Christian regards, in which my whole family unite, to yourself and dear Mrs. A.,

I remain,

Your ever attached, though unworthy friend, George Mortimer.

I insert the following address, not only because it may be generally useful, but because it may be as applicable now to those for whose use it was originally written, as at the time of its publication: and if a stranger may be allowed to urge their attention afresh to the warm and affectionate remonstrance of their late pastor, he would just remind them, that Divine worship, on the Lord’s day, being a paramount duty, an attendance upon both services is obligatory on all sincere Christians, except duties of mercy or necessity preclude such attendance. All other excuses or reasons admit of no justification, and in the great day will be viewed only in the light of positive neglect of God’s service, arising either from sinful disobedience, or culpable indifference. The partially formal observance of the Lord’s Day, by an attendance on the morning service, spending the rest of the day in pursuits entirely alien from sacred duties, is the Sabbath of the mere nominal Christian, not of the sincere disciple of Christ.

ADDRESS TO THE INHABITANTS OF THE TOWNSHIP OF THORNHILL

Thornhill, Oct. 1, 1840.

My much-endeared Parishioners,

I persuade myself you will receive with your wonted kindness a few words which I am desirous of pressing on your serious attention.

Our church, I am happy to think, has, through your own liberality and the kind assistance of our English friends, been so far enlarged as to admit of considerable increase in the attendance; and it affords me matter of much satisfaction, that even before its completion, the whole of the extra-sittings were secured. And though occasionally pained at the irregular attendance of some, still I cannot but feel gratified in meeting, on the Sabbath mornings, so encouraging a congregation as that which usually attends.

But here I am sorry to say that much of my satisfaction, as connected with our church attendance, terminates. For when the morning service is concluded, as though the Sabbath itself were also ended, we see no more of the mass of our congregation till we meet them on the following Sunday. A painful inquiry, then, as you will easily conceive, is often presented to our minds, as to the probable manner in which the remaining hours of your Sabbath are employed. Some few of you, I know, are kindly endeavouring to instruct the young in our Sunday-schools; some few also (oh that there were more!) make a point of instructing their own families at home; and some few more attend the evening service in the church. But what, I would affectionately inquire, becomes of our congregation at large, after the morning service? As consistent churchmen, I take for granted that you conscientiously confine yourselves to the ministrations of the church: for, convinced that the principles of dissenters are in direct opposition to—are altogether subversive of—the interests, if not the very existence of the church, you cannot but abstain from everything which may seem in any degree to support them; and as your attendance on their place of worship must be so considered, I may naturally conclude that you refrain from frequenting them. But as you go to no dissenting place of worship, and as only a very small number attend the evening service in the church, in what way must I suppose that the rest of the Sabbath is, for the most part, employed? Oh, think not that I am uncharitable, if I cannot help suspecting that it is too frequently frittered away in idleness, or in unprofitable pursuits; in unhallowed reading; in domestic amusements; in visiting or receiving visits; in Sabbath rambles; or possibly in some other still more decided profanations of this sacred day.

Under this impression, then, you will permit me to urge upon you the bounden duty of increased conscientiousness in regard to Sabbath-employments? Let the golden moments be duly appreciated and diligently improved. Religious reading, family instruction, and personal devotions, should, of course, employ a portion of your time, especially your Sunday afternoons; but as to your Sabbath evenings, I should hope that you will be convinced of the paramount obligation, to devote these to an attendance on the second service, which is now regularly afforded to you in the church: and that you will strive also so to arrange your other matters, as to admit of your being accompanied by as many as possible of your respective households.

I ought not, perhaps, to withhold from you, that much surprise has frequently been expressed by my clerical and other friends, that I should not as yet have succeeded in obtaining a more regular attendance on the second service, which, at so many different times, I had been attempting to establish: and our excellent bishop was much at a loss to account for the painful circumstance. I am hoping, however, that this reproach will ere long, by the Divine blessing, be removed from among us. Public opinion is now so universally in favour of having a second service in our churches, whenever the clergy have it in their power to give one, that I have no need to enter upon this point. But surely if it be admitted that it is the duty of the clergy to provide such a service, is it not equally a duty on the part of the people to attend it when it shall be provided for them?

Suffer me, then, to request your kind and willing co-operation in this matter, calculated, as it so evidently is, to promote the spiritual good of yourselves and of the neighbourhood at large. And will you permit me to tell you how repeatedly my heart has sunk within me, when I have adverted to the little I have hitherto been able to effect in this matter? How grieved have I been to look around our church on the Sabbath evening, and to see so many seats vacated, which in the morning had been so cheeringly filled. Oh how difficult do I then find it to believe that such absentees can feel much of affection either towards myself or my assistant—their church or their Saviour. But I try to check these feelings, and would hope for better things. I well know the kindness of your hearts, for many a proof have I received of your affectionate regards. And I trust you will not only bear with me in this expostulation and appeal, but so co-operate with me, that in my next report to our respected bishop, I may be able to convey the gratifying intelligence, that the attendance on the evening service is little short of that, which, with such pleasure, we so generally meet with on the Sabbath morning.

Believe me,

My much endeared friends and parishioners,

Your truly affectionate Rector, George Mortimer.

TO HIS SISTER, MRS. HOLLAND.

Thornhill, Oct. 21, 1840.

* * * * * * * *

We congratulate you on dear Henry’s account. Oh, how glad should we have been had Canada been commiserated by him: had I twenty sons and should you ask, how I should wish to dispose of them, I would say, Oh, let them be clergymen—pious, faithful, useful ministers of our beloved Church, and let them all be fixed in Canada. I hope my dear nephew will be on his guard: caution him against a religion of forms and ceremonies, and high priestly assumption, none of which can be maintained without sapping the grand fundamental article of our Protestant religion, Justification by Faith. Once admit that there is anything inherently gracious in anything but what is simple faith, and Protestantism is virtually at an end: let anything be expected otherwise than from Christ by faith through the power and agency of the divine Spirit, and carry out this admission to its full length, and you are inevitably landed safely in Romanism. I fear much for the younger clergy.

In another letter, in reference to the above subject, he writes:—

Oh, my dear sister, I quite tremble when I think of the probable results of the present wide spread of tractarian notions. High churchism, if it be suffered to proceed, and does not meet with a speedy and most effectual check from the rulers of our Church, will hurry hundreds and thousands into Romanism, or force the decidedly Evangelical into secession. Awful times seem to be awaiting us, and I hardly dare think of them: indeed, I keep putting away every consideration almost as fast as it comes; or, rather, I endeavour to keep rolling the weighty care upon One who is both able and pledged, in answer to believing prayer, to sustain it. These principles are exerting no small degree of influence in our province. Oh, forget us not in your prayers! we greatly need them. As to myself I need say but little. My health and spirits are restored to a degree which I little anticipated, and I am enabled to go through such duties as I engage in with comparative ease and comfort. A calm, tranquil, peaceful old age has been mercifully vouchsafed me, and all I want is more grace to enjoy and improve my many mercies. I am always backward to speak of spiritual things, lest while recounting God’s mercies, “self-applause should step in;” but I still owe it to the goodness of my condescending God and Saviour to testify that I do hope his work is not retrograding in my soul. Infirmities, I have many—mental and spiritual, as well as bodily; but still some precious deepenings are I hope not fallaciously discernible.

TO THE REV. JOHN COOPER.

Thornhill, near Toronto, Upper Canada, Jan. 4, 1841.

My much endeared Friend,

How can I convey to you the heartfelt satisfaction, which I received in perusing your most truly welcome letter? My many infirmities will hardly admit of my complying with your request of an early reply; for I have only written one letter, I believe, for many months past, and that with extreme difficulty; and I have no expectation of being able to finish this without sundry rests and postponements. But I am desirous of making the attempt, and indeed should feel myself altogether unworthy of so endeared and estimable a friend were I to place his letter among my unanswered accumulations, or avail myself of the filial aid of one of the amanuenses to whom, on especial occasions, I am constrained to have recourse.

But while I allude to the circumstance of difficulty connected with writing, I ought not, I suppose, to pass on to other matters, without a few words of explanation. About a year and half ago, I suffered sundry strains and contusions from a fall, from which I have never yet quite recovered; and though I feel no positive pain, when I am perfectly at rest, yet when I use my shoulder or the muscles connected with it, in any continuous operation, I am sure to suffer; and, whenever I imprudently and pertinaciously persist, I feel the effects for days, weeks, and even months. A habit of caution therefore, has crept upon me; and having at no time possessed any strong predilections for the labours of the pen, and especially for the duties of the correspondent, I have, at length, almost persuaded myself, that I am fully released from the obligation.

I am reluctant to fill my sheet with reference to myself, and yet I ought not to withhold from you the yet further allusion to infirmities. Long have I been failing in my health, and long have my ministerial duties proved too great a call on my general strength, and especially my nervous system; but I still feel reluctant to retire from them. My wife and children were indeed repeatedly striving to bring me to the point, and represented to me the desirableness of withdrawing before such an attack should be experienced, as would render the residue of life burdensome to myself, distressing to my friends, and useless to all. Still, I shrunk,—it seemed almost an awful thing to retire from duties so solemnly undertaken; and from which none but God could release me. In this state of uncertainty I was seized with so violent a nervous affection, while engaged in some public but unimportant matter, that I lost, in the course of few minutes, all power to read, and could not for some days make out the very commonest words without spelling them just like a child; and though, as my nerves acquired a little more tone, I was enabled to recover somewhat of my suspended powers, it was not till several weeks after my seizure, that I was enabled to appear again in public duties; and then I could merely preach, not read. But this resumption of my duties gradually brought on such oppressive, not to say alarming, symptoms, that I, at length, felt fully convinced that my poor weakly frame was no longer able to bear such onerous duties; and having, through God’s mercy, obtained an assistant, who exactly suits both myself and people, I have turned over to him my yearly stipend with every public and oppressive duty, and am now rector indeed in name, but little further: I visit, indeed, parochially, and am endeavouring in various little ways, to counsel, regulate, and forward the movements of others, and to be a bond of union to the somewhat heterogeneous mass around us; and the silent intercessor for their diversified good, when it is not in my power in any other way to aid them. And I trust, that God is still among us as a people. As to other things, the kind interest which you have ever taken in my welfare, makes me wish that you would just introduce yourself, if only for a few minutes, into our midst. I could not have believed that so much comfort awaited me in my latter days. Pecuniary means quite adequate, not only for necessaries, but for extensive comforts; a commodious, elegant, and tasty abode, close and open carriage for summer, a cutter and sleigh for winter &c.; estimable society, and superior by far to most neighbourhoods in the province, within two hours’ easy drive of the capital (Toronto), and this well and even luxuriously supplied. No lack of literature. I see the best books, and have access to, or take in myself, the most approved periodicals and newspapers, almost to overpowering. And all this, when I derive no income from my ministry (excepting the pittance from letting the glebe of my rectory), and having no aid, as in England, from pupilizing; so great are the advantages of residing in this fine province. In England all was struggling and difficulty, and no possibility of settling my family; while here, I am enabled to call every reasonable comfort around me, and to live in a style, not indeed of ostentation and display, which has never been my aim, but of comparative ease and comfort, such as calls for many an expression of grateful praise. The earlier part of my residence and ministrations in this place were not indeed over abundant in encouragement, and I had frequent thoughts of relinquishing my apparently hopeless charge, and escaping from my comfortless location. But my way never appeared to me so satisfactorily opened as to authorize the final step, and truly thankful am I that I continued. For three or four years past all has been encouraging, and I cannot but regard the spot in which I hope now to end my days, as one of the most eligible and pleasant, which this fine country can present. The visit paid to us by Mr. B. L—, and to which you allude in your letter, was in the very midst of our discouragements, and most affectionately did he sympathize with us. A few months after his return he expressed similar sympathy in the letter he wrote to me, which quite made me smile, as descriptive of scenes and feelings which seemed to have reference to “the lang syne;” so completely had our circumstances amended. But when, in a subsequent letter of a few months later date, his mind seemed only able to dwell on the same mournful scenes, and we had got fully established in our comfortable abode, with all our numerous satisfactions around us, and at the same time enjoying abundant proofs of our being deeply and firmly seated in the affections of our attached people. Thus circumstanced . . .

March 25, 1841.

Thus far, my endeared friend, had I written nearly three months ago, and then abruptly terminated my operose endeavour, effected at four different sittings, and at length laid by, almost in despair. But through God’s mercy, I am beginning again to use my pen with far less of annoyance; and, after having despatched three short letters, on the three last days, and being tolerably sound after the operation, I have looked out my suspended communication, and have no small pleasure in resuming.

The non-completed sentence will, I suppose, speak for itself, the intention being simply to assure you that, though possibly you may have heard through Mr. B. L—, of our being surrounded by nothing but desagrémens, we are, in fact, some of the most delightfully located persons in the province—perfect joy and satisfaction—a paradisaical blessedness—a very elysium of delight. Unfortunately, however, for my description, it was written in January instead of March,—the provinces since united—seat of government removed—radical elections—a fearful preponderance of rebel abettors—destructives and liberals—our beloved Church threatened—the Papacy fearlessly exhibited, and giving but too much reason for anticipating its eventual triumph, and Protestant Episcopal subversion. All around us gloomy, and full of dismal forebodings; and our only hope (if the Divine Disposer be overlooked) in the detrusion from office of those Whigs, who so vexatiously retain their places at home, and not content with liberalism, and bringing into jeopardy England’s every good, are carrying with a yet higher hand their destructive and church-subversive measures in its colonies. Such, alas! is the present aspect of our horizon! But as to myself, I am happy to say that it does not much trouble me. It is indeed not a little cloud which hangs over us, but dark and far-spreading; and yet I cherish hope that it will soon blow over. We have had our direful threatenings before, but God has dealt very mercifully with us; and I trust that similar mercies are now also in reserve.

But I am hardly leaving myself room to say a few words on other matters. Greatly did it rejoice me, my endeared friend, to follow you in your most pleasing recital of the numerous exhibitions of God’s mercy and faithfulness to yourself and family, and I have no question but that in many respects you will see yet greater things than these;—yes! all is well—much of spiritual good has been reaped by my beloved friend. He has gone forth bearing precious seed, and even here has come again with joy, bringing his sheaves with him.

April 21, 1841.

Much to my mortification, I was unable, as I had wished, to finish my letter, when I added the few lines about a month ago; but that slight effort brought on a return of my disability, and obliged me to be again quiet; and, were I to consult the suggestions of prudence, I should not, I believe, now venture on a few lines which I am desirous of appending by way of conclusion. But I am so thoroughly ashamed of both my apparent neglect, and the fussiness attendant on my endeavours to write to you the letter I have done, that I can keep my sheet by me no longer, and, though I seem to have many things to say to you, I must content myself with the assurance, that with unabated affection, and with every good wish for yourself, Mrs. C—, and family, in which Mrs. M— most sincerely unites, I have the pleasure to subscribe myself,

Your long attached Friend

And brother in the gospel, George Mortimer.

After an interval of eighteen years, I saw my late beloved friend only for the second time after our leaving Cambridge and settling in life. I saw him for a few short hours in the year 1824, and, from that time, I had not that pleasure again until July, 1842, when I had the long-desired happiness of paying him a visit at Thornhill, and passing a week with him, in the society of his kind family, to whom I had never before been personally introduced. We used, when at college, to promise ourselves the pleasure of alternate annual visits, little thinking that, for so long a period, the bounds of our habitation were to be no nearer together than the eastern and western hemisphere. At Thornhill, I saw my endeared friend in different circumstances and relations to what I had ever personally known him before—as the pastor, the husband, and the father; and I was not disappointed in contemplating him in these characters. He was as venerable in appearance as grey—I might rather say white—hairs could make him, and which crowned a countenance of the most benignant aspect—serene, intelligent, animated, and beaming with tenderness and affection. There was also in his manners, in the tones of his voice, and, when speaking, in the peculiar expressiveness of his countenance, something remarkably sweet, mild, and engaging. The general contour of the upper part of his body, especially his long white hair behind, reminded me of the later likenesses of the justly celebrated John Wesley. His body was of low stature and deformed, which, at first sight, might have given to a stranger but a lowly opinion of him; but every disadvantage from appearance soon wore off, and the mind shone brightly through the mean and weak and uncommanding body, which contained it. A pleasing instance of this effect occurred when I was in Canada. He was kind enough to spend three or four days with me at my son’s—a visit to which the following letter has some reference, and which, as being the last I ever received from him, though it contain nothing of any importance, I insert with a deep recollection of the intercourse which I had with my friend on the occasion. We were spending an evening together at the house of a friend: a lady of piety and intelligence was present as a visitor like ourselves, and who had never before seen Mr. Mortimer. Before the evening passed, she observed to me, “That gentleman is no common man,” so struck was she, and, perhaps, contrary to her expectations, with the superior cast of his conversation, which I had myself also observed in the course of the evening.

TO THE REV. JOHN ARMSTRONG.

Thornhill, Aug. 7, 1842.

My dear Armstrong,

It struck me that the last thing you said to me in parting was, that you would inform me of your movements, and for such information I have hitherto been waiting; but as I possibly may have misunderstood you, and you are expecting to hear from me, I had better write at once.

Circumstances, I find, will not admit of my going to New York just at present, nor do I apprehend that I shall find it necessary for the accomplishment of my literary purpose to go beyond Buffalo, or Rochester at the farthest, though this I cannot quite settle till I see you.

I shall hope, if all be well, to sleep in Toronto on Monday next, and proceed the next morning for Niagara or Queenston; or, in fact, whatever place I shall find, on inquiry on board the steamer Transit, shall be the nearest point to your son’s abode; and from that point shall make my way to him as I can. I am no nice traveller on such occasions, and therefore very readily get accommodated.

There are two or three matters I am wishing to talk over with you, and which strike me as of no small importance in reference to our Canadian ecclesiastical matters. I suppose you have not been able to arrive at any decision in our favour; and, while we are beating our rough and perilous way, you will be felicitating yourself, when in some tranquil cozy retreat, that you have escaped the threatening danger of our more unquiet seas. But whether such outward tranquillity is awaiting my endeared friend or not, I trust he will ever experience much of that peace which his peace-imparting Saviour can alone bestow; and may the peace and rest which awaits him in heaven be realized by him in all its delightful fulness. And oh, may his unworthy friend be privileged to meet him there! Our kindest regards to yourself and our endeared young friend,

Yours ever, my dear Armstrong,

Most affectionately and sincerely, George Mortimer.

The last letter addressed to his fondly attached sister, Mrs. Holland, was written in a broken manner, and was probably among the last, except on mere matters of business, which he ever wrote. I have myself seen but one other written after the date which this bears, and which will be noticed presently.

TO HIS SISTER.

Thornhill, April 6, 1844.

Am not dead, dear Mary, but increasingly abhorrent of the epistolary—it’s no use scolding—quite inveterate. [After entering more minutely than usual into family details, he adds,] Self alive again—marvel greatly—though an old man, still two full services on the Sunday—no assistant—do all the parochial—visit not a little from house to house, more regularly and systematically than has been my wont—never felt my duties less onerously—peaceful dependent, and more hopeful—more power to cast my burden on another, and find my Redeemer mighty—oh never fails—so faithful, condescending, kind. Sorry, oh sorry, that deafness has appeared; but could Brother G. heal as well as sympathise, he would soon show, by its immediate removal, that blundering affection, instead of the wisdom of love, which marks mortals’ wishes and decisions; but, dear Mary, it’s more than compensated. May that blessed Christian grace of patience have its perfect work! Am a middle man still—hate Dissent, but never preach against Dissenters—love the men, but greatly deplore the evils of the whole system—therefore budge not from my long wont—a real Churchman I hope still, but neither ultra high, nor ultra low. And now, dear Mary, adieu—your letter has shamed, has lovingly shamed me, and therefore have written something. Kindest love from all to all.

Yours as ever,

G. M.

The day before his death, Mr. Mortimer addressed a long letter to his brother, the Rev. Thomas Mortimer, full of interest and full of kindness, and which, no doubt, will be treasured up by him with great care and affection; but it is of so personal and domestic a tenor, that it is only a single short extract that I can with propriety insert in this memoir, though nothing could be more appropriate, as a conclusion to his correspondence.

June 14, 1844.

* * * * Of myself a word or two will suffice. Though old and grey-headed, my God forsakes me not; but graciously imparts a gleam of sunshine in my latter days, which almost makes me marvel. I have just completed my sixtieth year, and, though encompassed, as ever, with infirmities, have for the last twelvemonth done full duty twice on the Sabbath.

The flame yet flickers, and till it shall sink into total darkness, may it send forth some shining ray to enlighten the minds and change the hearts of my beloved Canadian people.

Adieu, my beloved Brother,

Ever affectionately yours, George Mortimer.

Mr. Mortimer’s death, which took place on Saturday, June 15, 1844, has been so suitably and feelingly described by others that I have nothing to do but to avail myself of their services. These consist of notices of the event, taken by the public papers of Toronto; a resolution of the Central Board of the Church Society of the Diocese of Toronto, presented to Mrs. Mortimer by the Rev. W. W. Ripley, secretary; a brief memoir drawn up by the Rev. Thomas Grinfield, and inserted in the Bristol Journal; and letters written by his amiable and excellent daughter, Miss Phebe Mortimer, giving some account of the last years of her father’s life, as well as of the circumstances and particulars of his death.

(From the “Church” newspaper of June 21, 1844.)

It is with feelings of no ordinary pain and grief that we announce the sudden and afflictive death of a venerable friend and fellow-labourer in this diocese, the Rev. George Mortimer, M.A., Rector of Thornhill.

As this deeply-lamented gentleman was proceeding on Saturday afternoon last from his residence to Toronto, his horse, when about half way through the village, took fright, and the reins breaking, the carriage was upset, and Mr. Mortimer was thrown violently against the stump of a tree. He received immediate assistance, and was carried into the house of a neighbour, Mr. Griffiths. Dr. Paget, his medical attendant, speedily arrived, and drove him home. On the way he spoke with cheerfulness, and hopes were entertained that the injury would not prove very serious; but soon after his arrival at his own house, he expressed his conviction that he had not long to survive—an apprehension which was confirmed by his kind and afflicted medical friend. Having called his family round him, he addressed them in his own peculiarly affectionate and earnest manner, upon the solemn change he was soon to undergo, blessed them, and presently after sunk to his rest, so calmly and quietly that they knew not of his departure until the mournful event was communicated by Dr. Paget. About two hours only had elapsed between the occurrence of the accident and his death.

The servant who had driven him, was thrown also with great violence against a heap of stones, and severely hurt; but he is now, we are happy to say, recovering.

The well-known excellencies of Mr. Mortimer in every Christian sphere and relation, render any extended remarks of our own unnecessary. He was all that the mind can conceive, in this imperfect state, of a gentle, consistent, and established Christian. With talents and acquirements of the highest order, a polished mind and a benevolent heart, he was fitted to adorn any society; while the zealous and conscientious discharge of every pastoral duty to which his strength was equal, added to a large and systematic charity, endeared him, in a peculiar degree, to the flock who were so fortunate as to enjoy his ministrations.

In the diocese at large, as a well-informed, pious, and influential clergyman, his loss will be severely felt; a loss the more afflictive to many, from the very recent opportunity occurring at the late visitation, where he attended apparently in unusual health, of enjoying the benefits and gratification of his society.

He has gone to his rest in a mature, though not old age; and, in the words of a contemporary, “the chief consolation to the family and friends of this truly good man will be, that he died in the full assurance of entering into the perfect realization of the true believer’s promised happiness.”

(From the Toronto Patriot, of Tuesday, June 18, 1844.)

Melancholy Accident.—It has seldom been our task to announce a more truly melancholy accident than that which, on Saturday evening, deprived the diocese of Toronto of one of its most zealous, useful, and truly respected clergymen, the Rev. George Mortimer, of Thornhill. * * * * * * * Few men could have moved in a sphere of more active Christian usefulness than this most excellent minister of religion. To the poor, and the neighbourhood generally, of Thornhill, his death will be a severe loss. His charities were large, and extended to the bounds of his clerical remuneration and a large private income. The chief consolation to the family and friends of this truly Christian man will be, that he died in the full assurance of entering into the perfect realization of the true believer’s promised happiness.

(From the “British Colonist,” a Presbyterian paper, of Tuesday, June 18, 1844.)

With much regret we announce the death of the Rev. Mr. Mortimer, of Thornhill. * * * * * * * * * *

Mr. Mortimer was the incumbent of the Episcopal Church, at Thornhill; he was beloved by his congregation, and held in high respect by all around him, and distinguished for his benevolence and charity.

At a meeting of the Central Board of the Church Society, of the diocese of Toronto, held at the Society’s House, on the 3rd July, 1844, the Lord Bishop in the chair: on the motion of the Rev. H. J. Grasett, M.A., domestic chaplain to the Lord Bishop, seconded by the Hon. W. Allan, it was

Resolved—That the Central Board of the Church Society of Toronto, with feelings of the deepest emotion, embrace the first opportunity of their meeting together since the sudden and lamented death of the Rev. George Mortimer, M.A., Rector of Thornhill, to express their sorrow in the removal of a member of their body, who, for warm yet humble piety, enlarged and Christian charity, a self-denying course of life, and a holy devotedness to his Heavenly Master’s cause, was surpassed by none of those who have been commissioned to feed the flock of Christ in this diocese.

And while the Board view in this melancholy bereavement, the chastening hand of a merciful and gracious Father, who scourgeth every son whom he receiveth, they most sincerely beg to offer their condolence to the widow and family of their deceased brother, who, his warfare being accomplished, has been thus suddenly called from the Church militant to join the society of those who have departed hence in the faith and fear of the Lord.

(Signed) John Toronto.

(From the Bristol Journal.) THE REV. GEORGE MORTIMER, M.A.

With deep regret and affectionate esteem, we record the death of one, whose memory (we are persuaded) is embalmed in the hearts of many among our fellow-citizens—the Rev. George Mortimer. In the midst of his ministerial usefulness in Upper Canada, whither he emigrated from this city about ten years ago, his valuable life was suddenly terminated by one of those mysterious dispensations of Infinite Wisdom, which, while they make us feel our deep ignorance, exercise at once reverential submission and Christian confidence. Thrown from an open carriage against the stump of a tree, he received a fatal injury on his chest; and having been carried to his home, and placed on his bed, he expired within two hours. It is remarkable that, as a fall, suffered in his infancy, had injured his growth, and distorted his person, a fall should have proved the occasion of his death. For several years (between 1826 and 1834) he resided in this neighbourhood; first at Horfield, when he officiated as evening preacher at St. Mary-le-Port, in this city; afterwards, as curate of the Rev. Alfred Harford, at Hutton, in Somerset. He was a man equally distinguished by his intellectual and Christian excellence. The strength and symmetry of his mental constitution presented a striking contrast and relief to the imperfection of his stature and his form—imperfection redeemed by a countenance eloquently expressive of benignity blended with intelligence. Those who enjoyed his personal intimacy will remember him long among the most instructive and interesting of companions—among the most kind and faithful of friends. As a preacher, he was eminently popular, powerful, and profitable; peculiarly excelling in accurate details of practical and social duty, and also in discriminative representations of the character and the heart. A mind acute, perspicuous, methodical, enriched with knowledge at once varied and exact; a natural unwritten eloquence, aided by a voice of peculiar and pathetic tone—imparted an extraordinary charm to those evening discourses, which, delivered to crowded auditories in St. Mary-le-Port Church, have left, we doubt not, vivid and valued impressions on the memory and the heart of many a surviving hearer. At this moment we well recollect particular passages of his preaching; and especially his farewell address, heard with mournful eagerness by an overflowing throng on the evening of the day preceding his departure for America: the text, “Choose ye this day whom ye will serve!”—the sermon, a masterpiece of comprehensive and momentous exhortation. On the next morning (Monday) in company with many of his attached friends and hearers, “we accompanied him to the ship, sorrowing most of all for this, that we should see his face no more.” (Acts, xx. 38.) Our Canadian colony, then the scene of large emigration, and greatly in need of able clergymen, rejoiced to receive the treasure which Bristol once enjoyed. By his natural and acquired endowments, Mr. Mortimer was singularly qualified for usefulness in the new field of his ministry. In his extensive parish of Thornhill, the parish church was considerably enlarged during the year preceding his last, towards which he contributed greatly; and also effected the establishment of two other churches, with clergymen attached to them, in the same extensive district. During a long course of years, Mr. M— had made it his rule to expend a tenth part of his income annually, on the various objects of Christian benevolence: his liberality must have proved doubly valuable, where, while numerous necessities demanded relief, the people are generally slow to give. In what high esteem he was held by his Canadian brethren, is sufficiently attested by the extraordinary honours of his funeral: the Bishop of Toronto, accompanied by more than forty clergymen, many from distant places, attended his remains to their sepulchral rest, with tears of mingled love and grief. He has left an excellent widow and six children to lament his loss, and cherish his memory. Of his sons, two are engaged in the ministry; one as a missionary among the Chippeway Indians, and the youngest is studying in the College of Toronto for the same sacred destination. May the spirit of their father be perpetuated in his children’s children.

T. G.

August 7, 1844.

TO MISS ELIZA FORD.

Thornhill, September 25, 1844.

My dear Madam,

In compliance with the wishes expressed in your letter to Mamma, and at her request, I proceed to retrace the latest years of my dear father’s life. Though it is in some respects a painful task, and one for which I feel myself incompetent, I shall be quite repaid if I afford any pleasure to the respected and valued friends of my late beloved father.

I think you must have heard of the distressing nervous attack which my dear father had about four years since, and which, for a time, entirely incapacitated him for the discharge of his ministerial duties, and obliged him to engage the services of a curate. When he had partially recovered, but, at the same time, felt unequal to the resumption of his ministrations at Thornhill, he undertook a service in a retired place, nearly four miles distant, where no church service had been before held. He felt very much interested in this self-imposed charge, which he termed, in speaking of it to me, the nursling of his old age. Many of the members of this congregation, which consisted entirely of farmers, mechanics, and labourers, have frequently spoken in strong terms of gratitude for his attention to them, and I hope that his labours there were in some measure appreciated. When he afterwards gave Mr. Townley some assistance in Thornhill Church, [252] he still continued his exposition, as he was accustomed to call it, at the German Mills, but then went only once a fortnight, and my youngest brother, with the consent of the bishop, officiated as lay-reader, on the alternate Sundays. At the end of June, in last year, my dear father having felt very anxious to resume his charge at Thornhill, at length came to the determination of dismissing his curate, notwithstanding the fears of his family that he would be unequal to bear the sole burden of the then greatly increased parochial duties. Connected with this determination, was a resolution to devote himself entirely to his ministerial work, and he re-entered upon it with renewed zeal and ardour. At the same time he entirely gave up all his literary pursuits, and, as if to confirm his purpose, removed from his study all the geological and other scientific works, which had previously engaged and captivated his attention. This was an evident and great sacrifice, but it was made with cheerfulness for the sake of his Divine Redeemer; and the comfort and great peace of mind which he enjoyed in doing his Master’s work, fully recompensed him for this act of self-devotion. Our fears respecting his health proved to have been groundless, for he frequently said that he never felt his ministerial duties less oppressive than he then did. The good health which he enjoyed was greatly promoted by the practice which he had adopted of driving out regularly every day, and which he then continued both for the benefit of the exercise, and also for the purpose of visiting his parishioners, very many of whom lived at a distance of many miles. His visits have been frequently alluded to, and they appear to have been prized by many, as marks of kindness and condescension, when they could not appreciate their spiritual advantage. During this last year of my dear father’s life, owing perhaps to the exclusively religious nature of his studies, his conversation much more frequently than before took a serious turn. I was frequently much struck with the beauty of his observations, and at times the thought occurred that his remarks were those of one ripening for glory. At the end of last May, Arthur and his bride came to visit us, and we then effected a family meeting, every member being present excepting Maria. During the next week, my dear father was present at the bishop’s triennial visitation, and at the annual meeting of our Diocesan Church Society; and his apparent good health was generally remarked by his clerical and other friends. The ceremony of opening a church in our neighbourhood, occurring in the following week, he thought it his duty to attend; but these exertions, combined with the excitement of an enlarged family circle, affected his health, and on that account, during the three last days he spent the whole of his time in parochial visiting. The man-servant spoke with much feeling of his conversation during their drives, and mentioned his having said, each day, when they reached home, “Once more, Stephen, God has brought us home in safety.” Some of the persons that he visited on those days remarked to a young friend, that their minister spoke to them particularly of preparation for death. On Saturday, the 15th of June, having heard that his bookseller in Toronto had received a supply of new books, he determined upon going there to select some theological works. While he was waiting for the carriage, he returned to the dining-room, and talked in a very lively manner till it was ready. He had only proceeded about a mile on his journey, when the fatal accident occurred. The newspapers gave a correct account of the accident, which perhaps you have heard—that the horse ran away; that one rein broke suddenly, though nearly new, which caused the horse to make so sudden and violent a turn, that the carriage was overturned, and that the man, though thrown out as well as his master, was only slightly injured, while the latter received his deathblow on the chest, by being thrown with violence against the stump of a tree. It had long been the practice of my endeared father, and one which he recommended from the pulpit, to make death a daily subject of prayer, and a part of that, I believe, daily petition, was that he might, if consistent with the will of God, have an easy death. The testimony of his kind and skilful medical attendant, is a decisive evidence to the striking fulfilment of this prayer; for he told us that no other death was so easy, excepting when occasioned by lightning, as that which terminated the existence of my dear father, who, he assured us, suffered no pain. He also mentioned that he considered it a very remarkable circumstance, that he should have survived so long a time as four hours: for that two hours was deemed the utmost length of time that life could be prolonged, under such circumstances, and that instant death was the frequent result of such a blow. That such was not the case in this instance, we felt very thankful, and he himself expressed his satisfaction at being brought home to his own bed, and his thankfulness that none of his bones were broken; not knowing then the fatal nature of his accident. He expressed a desire that some of his family should leave the room, that he might be quiet, and we all therefore quitted his room, excepting Dr. Paget and Arthur. He was perfectly composed, and resigned to the will of God, whatever that might be, but expressed a wish that he might fall asleep in Jesus. When he became aware, or rather suspected, that his end was approaching, he sent for all the members of his family who were then at home, mentioning us by name, and we received in succession his last blessing. He was then perfectly calm, and in a peaceful state of mind. Almost his last words were expressive of his admiration of, and thankfulness for, the wonderful plan of redemption: his words I do not remember accurately enough to quote, but his last petition was for his beloved flock! Dr. Paget, though his affectionate heart felt deep sorrow, said, that it was a privilege to witness such a death. The testimony which has been borne by all ranks to the esteem in which he was held, is very gratifying. The bishop came from Toronto, though with great inconvenience, to pay the last mark of respect to the dear remains of one whom, to the credit of both parties, he greatly respected, though differing from him in many points. The church was greatly crowded on the mournful occasion, and a deep feeling appeared to pervade the assembly. The pulpit, &c. were hung with black cloth, and all the genteel residents in the neighbourhood put on mourning. These are the consolations which the world has in its power to offer to mourning relatives, and very many have we received, nor were they by any means undervalued by us, but, added to them, we had far higher sources of comfort, in the perfect assurance that he whom we mourned had entered into his rest, and in the full assurance that the event, deeply afflicting as it was to us, was ordered by an allwise and gracious God.

Mamma desires her Christian respects to yourself and your dear sister, of whose very afflictive state of deprivation of almost every outward comfort, she was truly grieved to hear.

My dear father was much affected when he heard, through Miss B—, the sad intelligence, and he more than once alluded to your dear sister’s blindness with tears of sympathy.

Believe me, dear Madam,

Very sincerely and respectfully yours, Phebe Mortimer.

The following letter, written by the same hand, repeats so much of what was said in the foregoing, that at first the writer of these memoirs determined, on the omission of one of them: but, upon consideration that, though there was repetition, there was also so much variety of expression, as well as of additional matter, he judged it best to insert both—a judgment which he doubts not will be approved by his readers.

TO MRS. HOLLAND.

Thornhill, Feb. 8, 1845.

My dear Aunt,

* * * * * * * *

“The memory of the just is” indeed “blessed”; and I wish that the last remembrances of my beloved father could have been traced for you by a more able hand than mine. His memory is, I am sure, treasured in the hearts of very many here who knew him. I wish it may incite them to follow him as he followed Christ.

The last year of my beloved father’s life was marked by an entire devotion to his ministerial work; for when he came to the determination of resuming the entire charge of his parish, it was accompanied by a resolution to abandon every other pursuit, and to devote all his time and powers to the one object of winning souls to Christ. As if to confirm this purpose, he put away from his study library all the geological and other scientific and literary books with which it was furnished, and replenished it with theological works. It was to him an act of great self-denial thus entirely to give up the studies and pursuits which had previously so engaged and captivated his attention; but they were relinquished with cheerfulness, because for his Redeemer’s sake; for he observed at the time that he made this sacrifice, “Oh! it is a very little thing to do for my Saviour.” He was fully recompensed for this devotion to his Heavenly Father’s cause, as appears from his having expressed to mamma the great comfort and peace of mind which he afterwards enjoyed in his clerical avocations. From that time a change was apparent in his conversation; for although he was always accustomed to introduce religious subjects in conversation with his family, especially in the evening, when he would sit with us for a short time after family prayers, still, during the last year, his conversation, partaking of the exclusive nature of his studies, was more uniformly serious than it had been previously. I was frequently much struck with the beauty and spirituality of his observations, and, once or twice, while listening to his conversation, the idea presented itself, that the sentiments and feelings he expressed were those of one who was ripening for the garner. This, however, was merely a passing thought, and never at all realized or dwelt upon; for my dear father was, at that time, particularly well, and he frequently told us that he never felt his ministerial duties less burdensome. One of his remarks, which made an impression on my mind at the time, has since struck me the more from the coincidence of the following text being written in one of the blank leaves of the Bible that he was accustomed to use, until within the last two or three years of his life: “When I am old and grey-headed, O God, forsake me not.” Psalm lxxi. 18. The remark which he made in conversation was this: “He has been my God from my youth up, but I never felt that he was so near to me as now in my old age.” These are not, I think, quite the expressions he made use of, for I quote from memory, and although I attempted to write them down the same day, I could not even then recall the words that he used. Often similar attempts that I made failed also, and I then relinquished the idea that I had entertained, of preserving in writing some of my endeared father’s religious observations. During one of our drives to the station at the German Mills, speaking of the ministering of angels, a subject of which he was very fond, he remarked, that the dispensation of faith under which we are placed made it necessary that an unseen agency should be employed for our protection and deliverance, as otherwise faith would be lost in sight; and also that, had these ministering spirits been made visible to us, we should have been very prone to place our reliance upon them, instead of putting our trust simply in God. He pursued the conversation as we ascended a very steep hill, and said, “I think we are little aware how constantly angels are employed on our behalf; perhaps now, an angel is leading that horse by the bridle, and encouraging it onwards.” One of the horses, a fine animal, was then exerting itself to the utmost; for the roads were very bad at the time, and the hill was therefore very difficult of ascent. I think the following anecdote will be interesting to you, as it is one which made a strong impression on my dear father’s mind, and, as it is short, I am tempted to copy it for you: “As one said to Philip J. Jenks just before he expired, ‘How hard it is to die,’ he replied, ‘Oh, no, easy dying, blessed dying, glorious dying.’ Looking up at the clock, he said, ‘I have experienced more happiness in dying this day, than in my whole life. It is worth living for, it is worth a whole life, to have such an end as this. I have long desired that I might glorify God in my death; but oh! I never thought that such a poor worm as I could have come to such a glorious death.’” I believe this account of “happiness experienced in death,” contributed very much to weaken his apprehension of the pains of death, which he afterwards entirely lost. It had, however, long been his own practice, and one which he recommended to others from the pulpit, to make death a daily subject of prayer, particularly as regarded its time and manner; and I believe one of these daily petitions was, that he might have an easy death, if consistent with the will of God. This petition was answered by his Heavenly Father in a striking manner, for our kind friend and physician assured us, that he suffered no pain, not even so much as a person experiences in fainting. It is also remarkable, as Dr. Paget mentioned to us, that in no other way could his existence have been terminated with this absence of pain, except by a stroke of lightning. The doctor also considered it remarkable that he survived so long after the fatal accident, as instant death frequently occurs under such circumstances. That such was not his case was an unspeakable comfort to us; and he himself expressed his satisfaction at being brought home to his own comfortable bed. He also stated his thankfulness for the circumstance of no bone being broken, or even dislocated, and quoted that passage of Scripture, “He keepeth all his bones, not one of them is broken.” This was before he was aware of the fatal nature of the accident. He expressed a wish to be left alone that he might be quiet, and we all left the room in consequence, except Arthur and Dr. Paget. We had no idea that any danger was to be apprehended, till a few moments before he expired, when he sent for us, asking for each by name, and for the servants also. He said he thought he was dying, and added, “Do not be surprised if I should struggle at the last.” Immediately after he said, “What a salvation is that which Christ has purchased for us; what a blessing that I have nothing to do now! My dear flock, may the Lord bless them all, and provide for them!” Then seeing us all around him, he said to each, “May the Lord bless you.” These were his last words, except the expression of his wish to lie down. I supported his head on my arm, and thought that he was falling asleep—but no, it was the sleep of death.

Mr. Osier preached a most excellent funeral sermon from this appropriate text, “Blessed are those servants, whom their Lord, when he cometh, shall find watching.” My dear father was employed to the very last in doing his Lord’s work: his three last days were spent entirely in parochial visiting, contrary to his usual practice of spending the greater portion of each day in his study, and two or three hours in his drives and in visiting his people. Some of those whom he visited on these days, afterwards told a young friend, that he talked to them principally about preparation for death. The man-servant also has spoken with much feeling of his conversation during those drives, and he mentioned also, that each day, when they reached home, he said, “Once more, Stephen, God has brought us home in safety.” My beloved father’s consistency of conduct won for him the respect and esteem of all who knew him, even of those who differed from him, sometimes widely, in religious opinions. Such was the case with the bishop, who however not only respected him, but entertained very kind feelings towards him, which he evinced by coming from Toronto, though with great inconvenience, and unsolicited, to pay the last mark of respect to his remains. The public testimony which was borne to the excellence of my dear father’s character, in a resolution of the Central Board of the Church Society, of which body he was a member, was so gratifying, that I cannot refrain from copying a part of it. He is spoken of in the resolution as one “who for warm yet humble piety, enlarged and Christian charity, a self-denying course of life, and a holy devotedness to his Heavenly Master’s cause, was surpassed by none of those who have been commissioned to feed the flock of Christ in this diocese.”

One of the features of character alluded to in this resolution had been especially observed by a young clerical friend, who, when speaking with much warmth of the high estimation he entertained of my dear father’s character, particularly mentioned his great humility. As an instance of this, he told us, that, when he had gone with my father into the vestry after preaching what Mr. D. considered a most excellent sermon, he had spoken of it as furnishing cause for fresh humiliation, and a stimulus to greater exertions and more earnest prayers for the future. Mr. D., on the same occasion, alluded to the peculiar facility with which he constantly introduced religious remarks in conversation, which, he said, he had particularly noticed on the few occasions on which he had met him in company. In answer to an observation, that my dear father had often deplored the want of this very gift, Mr. D. remarked, that this circumstance afforded a fresh proof of his humility.

* * * * * * * * *

Believe me, my dear Aunt,

Your ever-affectionate Niece, Phebe Mortimer.

PREACHING.

Mr. Mortimer, says one of his friends [262] (well fitted to form a correct estimate of him), was “a rarely gifted person.” As a preacher, he possessed very considerable excellence. His extemporaneous discourses were of a very finished kind, lucid in order, striking in illustration, and powerful in application. These discourses were not the mere effusions of thoughts unprepared and of matter undigested, but the result of diligent reading, close study, and fervent prayer, which alone can enable even the competent extempore speaker to address a Christian congregation with any good effect. He was eminently a practical preacher, and signally excelled in pourtraying the unfair arts so often practised by men of business with a view to their worldly gain: and, as his hearers were mostly tradesmen, his graphic delineations were sometimes keenly felt in the consciences of individuals, who were ready to say, “Art thou come to call our sins to our remembrance?” More than one of his mercantile hearers has asked him, in private intercourse, by what means he had acquired so exact and extraordinary an acquaintance with the varieties of fraud, which, however familiar in the busy walks of trade, might be supposed little known to a minister of the gospel. To such a question he has replied, that he had derived his knowledge, partly from the habitual study of his own heart, partly from his personal experience of a busy life in his earlier years; as he had been apprenticed to an eminent London bookseller, previously to his collegiate preparation for the ministry.

So searchingly did he probe the consciences of his hearers, that it was not unfrequent with some among them to visit him for the purpose of private conference, counsel, and consolation. He well knew how to “speak a word in season to the weary,” with a peculiar sympathy and kindness. Yet quite as well he knew how to apply “the terror of the Lord:” and I remember his telling me, that one of the most effective sermons (as he had reason to believe) which he had ever preached, was of terrific character, and founded on those words of overwhelming horror; “In Hell he lifted up his eyes, being in torments.” That sermon (he had reason to hope) had been used by the Lord as an instrument for rescuing “a brand from the burning,” which the preacher aimed to represent. Another of his most striking sermons, divided between the morning and evening of the same Sabbath, was formed on a theme contrasted with the preceding, the conduct and the reward of the faithful Christian, as exemplified in St. Paul: “I have fought the good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith: henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day.” [264]

But, whatever excellencies he possessed as a preacher, Mr. Mortimer was unconscious of them himself: for he frequently deplored what he considered the inefficiency of his ministrations, and was accustomed to speak in the most humble terms of his sermons. On one such occasion, he said, “When I come out of the pulpit, and turn over in my mind what I have said, I think, What does it all amount to? How much more to the purpose it might have been, and how much more useful!”

On the Sunday evenings, after committing his past endeavours into the hands of his God by prayer, he would turn his thoughts from the review of what he considered his past failures to the hope of future usefulness, by at once renewing his exertions. With this view, he was accustomed, before he retired to rest on the Sunday evening, to look out a text for the following Sunday, and to form the outline of the sermon. But although he was thus peculiarly anxious about the preparation of his sermons, he seldom spoke on the subject without remarking upon the necessity of the accompanying influences of the Holy Spirit, to render efficacious even the most highly wrought, powerful, and most convincing sermon. Indeed, he has expressed the opinion, that the most common-place sermons were often made the most useful; because, in such cases, the preacher, being aware of their defects, and being thus divested of all feelings of self-congratulation, was led, in more humble dependence upon God, to entreat that He would give the increase.

In connexion with this subject, he once mentioned having preached for a friend on a rainy day to an exceedingly small congregation. The comparatively large number of empty pews presented a very discouraging aspect, and tended very much to depress his spirits;—altogether such was the effect produced on his mind, that least of all on that day would he have expected any favourable result from his sermon. Some time afterwards, when he was spending an evening at the house of a person who resided at some distance both from the place where he preached and from his own home, a lady, who was of the party, took an opportunity of stating how much she felt indebted to him for the spiritual sight that she had received through his instrumentality. He was at a loss to know what she alluded to, for he had no recollection of having seen her before: but she brought to his recollection the thinly scattered congregation in his friend’s church, for whom he had preached on a very rainy day: and then stated that she was one of those few hearers, and that the sermon had made so deep an impression on her mind as to have been productive of lasting benefit.