I forgot to mention, in my last, how much I felt obliged to Mr. Hartwell Horne, for the sundry introductions, and other tokens of kindness, which his parcel conveyed to me, just on the eve of my departure from England. Be so obliging as to convey to him my sincere thanks.
As to tuition, I have, I believe, myself altogether done with it. Hundreds of pleasant hours has it, in various ways, procured me, and during some few of the weeks I have been in Canada, have my classical studies been resumed with peculiar interest. This, partly for their own sake, and partly as a preparation for any opening that might arise in the college, or elsewhere. But I have now taken my final leave, not in dudgeon, nor with painful regret; but in calm surrender to the will of a superior power. Dear King, was, I think, in his kind and affectionate counsel in the matter, quite wrong; such employments are not so much my duty as my snare. The scales have at length fallen from my eyes, and though I cannot say, I can now see clearly, yet I see enough to convince me that, for the residue of my short life, I ought to give myself wholly to my one grand and absorbing avocation. Let, therefore, collegiate honours be sought and enjoyed by others. With these altered views, perhaps, were I permitted to gain the ear of an endeared relative, whom you well know, I should whisper certain cautionary monitions in reference to similar points; for though from his endeared lips the confessed “weakness of his heart” has had a charm and a persuasive influence which won my full approval, yet now that the syren notes can no longer bewilder me, I see, as in my own case, the snare rather than the duty, and the couplet of the almost forgotten Dryden, in which he cautions the aspirant parson, chimes in with my own overlate, but salutary musings:
“Those who contend for place and high degree,
Are not his sons, but those of Zebedee.”
Whisper, then, in my stead, in some auspicious moment, to this endeared individual what I am so desirous to convey; but mind that you whisper it in tenderness and love.
But my sheet is filling up so fast, that I have hardly left myself room to assure you of the interest which I still, and I hope, ever shall feel in all the concerns—personal, domestic, and ministerial—of my endeared brother. His opportunities of leisure are so few, that I must not often expect any direct communications, but whenever conveyed they will be most grateful. Accept then yourself, and convey to our dear mother, Eliza, and all your beloved family, the sincere and warmest love of your ever attached brother.
George.
TO MRS. D. WHITMORE.
Thornhill, near York, Upper Canada,
August 18, 1833.
My dear Madam,
We were much indebted to you for your last most kind and welcome letter: most joyfully was it received and opened, and with peculiar interest were its instructive and interesting contents perused. So long and so closely written a letter, however, must, we fear, have been sadly trying to your eyes; and we fear this the more, as we learn from Miss E. Ford, that you have recently been experiencing somewhat of failure in your sight. We know how peculiarly trying this circumstance must prove to one, whose enjoyments have been so principally derived from this source; and we tremble at the least intimation of its probable diminution. But we would still say in the language of the man of God, “But the Lord is able to give you much more than this.” And, from what you have experienced under past seasons of privation and discipline, you may still expect that, should God be pleased to try you yet further in this most painful visitation, he will not withhold from you that superabounding grace, which in its blessed issue of spiritual and eternal good is more than tantamount to the most valued of our other joys. My endeared mother, as you well know, has been called to the acuteness of the same trial with yourself; but, O, how sweetly does she bear it—so cheerfully resigned—so peacefully yielding all to the wise and loving discipline of her kind and compassionate Lord, saying, in the language of her favourite hymn:—