In my last I mentioned to you the illness and expected removal of my youngest brother, James. He has since been called to his rest, and I am truly thankful to be enabled to state that his death was attended with circumstances highly satisfactory, especially when it is remembered that he was not in any way a communicative lad, but, on the contrary, very silent and reserved. Well! he is gone—gone, I trust, to eternal glory. The Lord, in his rich mercy, prepare us all to follow him! He was the youngest among us, and the least likely to be first called. I hope that we have most of us been induced by the circumstance to watch and to be sober; “so to number our days as to apply our hearts unto wisdom.” As far as regards myself, I think I may say that the lesson has been very salutary. I have been led to consider myself as the next which shall be called, and, of course, eternal and invisible things have appeared exceedingly near. I thank God that death has no sting to me. Its sting is sin, and that my gracious Redeemer has mercifully removed. The anticipation, therefore, far from being a means of uneasiness, is matter of entire and sober satisfaction; not that I have any cause for disquietude here below—not that I have any restlessness of desire arising from a querulous or pettish feeling of discontent. No, my dear friend, God has been, and still continues to be, abundant in mercy and truth. But still these things are not my God—this world is not my home. I seem to myself like a school-boy very agreeably placed at school—fond of his master, pleased with his companions, and interested by his studies, he has every sober ground for satisfaction, and, as such, does not pettishly wish to be gone—does not for a moment think of leaving till his vacation shall arrive: but still the thoughts of home delight him, and when the summer which calls him there arrives, he most cheerfully complies—his kind master, his pleasing companions—his engaging studies—all are most gladly left; for these are not his home. Ah, my dear friend, how lightly should we all sit to the things beneath, to those which are nearest and dearest, did we but consider heaven more as our own place—as our heavenly Father’s house!
I often wish, my dear friend, that the bounds of our habitation were so fixed that we might not only correspond with, but face to face converse with, each other. This privilege I now enjoy with my friend King, who for nearly a year has been on the same spot, and even in the same house. But I still feel my heart longing after my absent friend. This indeed may originate in some latent feeling of ingratitude and discontent, which leads me to overlook the mercy vouchsafed, and to long for that denied. And yet I am not conscious that this is altogether the case: hardly a day elapses in which I do not thank God for the blessing granted me, through the medium of my present friend. He is a most choice and valuable young man—one of ten thousand. And yet the question frequently arises in my mind, why did I ever know—why did I feel so exceedingly attached to my absent friend, if it were not the intention of a gracious and indulgent God to give him to me in like manner? But the ways of the Lord are in the great deep: his footsteps are not known; and yet gracious, though unknown, I would therefore be thankful that I have a dear—dear—very dear friend, to whom I can write, and for whom I can pray, if I can do no more; and my mind is solaced and comforted with the hope that a day is coming in which we shall join to part no more; that glorious inheritance is at hand where some adjacent mansion shall be assigned us, or where distance shall prove no impediment or barrier to our intercourse. May our loving Saviour, who is “the way, the truth, and the life,” guide us and ours all safe to this glorious kingdom!
I remain,
Your very affectionate Friend and old Collegian,
“Mort.”
Another of his friends, the Rev. J. C., the present rector of a parish in Cheshire, may be here introduced—a friend whom he esteemed very highly. This gentleman, in the former years of his life, was engaged in business, and his friend was very desirous of detaching his mind from this pursuit, and of leading him to turn his attention to the sacred office. In one of his early letters pressing this change upon his consideration, he makes the following pertinent remark:—
“It is not easy, when fixed by circumstances, and extensively surrounded by our secular concerns, to follow the example of Matthew, and immediately to arise. The din of business and the clamour of dear friends drown the soft intimations of our passing Lord, and, questioning the reality of his call, we find it difficult to leave all behind.”
In the following extract of a letter to the Rev. J. Armstrong, Mr. Mortimer states what he conceived to be the qualifications of a minister of the word in a foreign or uncultivated soil; and also his views of Arminianism. His remarks on the latter subject were addressed to the editor, to whom, in a former letter, he had given some account of a plan which he and some of his friends had devised of raising a fund for the purchase of livings, and had given to the designation of the object an Arminian character. The editor, who has often been considered as a Calvinist, wrote to his friend to say he objected to the title of his projected association; adding, that, in the event of his returning home invalided, or from other causes, he could expect to derive no benefit from his friend’s patronage:—
Wellington, Salop. Feb. 25th, 1815.
My dear Friend,