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.