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,
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“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.
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Believe me, my dear Aunt,
Your ever-affectionate Niece,
Phebe Mortimer.