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.