There are two or three matters I am wishing to talk over with you, and which strike me as of no small importance in reference to our Canadian ecclesiastical matters. I suppose you have not been able to arrive at any decision in our favour; and, while we are beating our rough and perilous way, you will be felicitating yourself, when in some tranquil cozy retreat, that you have escaped the threatening danger of our more unquiet seas. But whether such outward tranquillity is awaiting my endeared friend or not, I trust he will ever experience much of that peace which his peace-imparting Saviour can alone bestow; and may the peace and rest which awaits him in heaven be realized by him in all its delightful fulness. And oh, may his unworthy friend be privileged to meet him there! Our kindest regards to yourself and our endeared young friend,
Yours ever, my dear Armstrong,
Most affectionately and sincerely,
George Mortimer.
The last letter addressed to his fondly attached sister, Mrs. Holland, was written in a broken manner, and was probably among the last, except on mere matters of business, which he ever wrote. I have myself seen but one other written after the date which this bears, and which will be noticed presently.
TO HIS SISTER.
Thornhill, April 6, 1844.
Am not dead, dear Mary, but increasingly abhorrent of the epistolary—it’s no use scolding—quite inveterate. [After entering more minutely than usual into family details, he adds,] Self alive again—marvel greatly—though an old man, still two full services on the Sunday—no assistant—do all the parochial—visit not a little from house to house, more regularly and systematically than has been my wont—never felt my duties less onerously—peaceful dependent, and more hopeful—more power to cast my burden on another, and find my Redeemer mighty—oh never fails—so faithful, condescending, kind. Sorry, oh sorry, that deafness has appeared; but could Brother G. heal as well as sympathise, he would soon show, by its immediate removal, that blundering affection, instead of the wisdom of love, which marks mortals’ wishes and decisions; but, dear Mary, it’s more than compensated. May that blessed Christian grace of patience have its perfect work! Am a middle man still—hate Dissent, but never preach against Dissenters—love the men, but greatly deplore the evils of the whole system—therefore budge not from my long wont—a real Churchman I hope still, but neither ultra high, nor ultra low. And now, dear Mary, adieu—your letter has shamed, has lovingly shamed me, and therefore have written something. Kindest love from all to all.
Yours as ever,
G. M.
The day before his death, Mr. Mortimer addressed a long letter to his brother, the Rev. Thomas Mortimer, full of interest and full of kindness, and which, no doubt, will be treasured up by him with great care and affection; but it is of so personal and domestic a tenor, that it is only a single short extract that I can with propriety insert in this memoir, though nothing could be more appropriate, as a conclusion to his correspondence.