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.