And brother in the gospel,
GEORGE MORTIMER.
* * * * *
After an interval of eighteen years, I saw my late beloved friend only
for the second time after our leaving Cambridge and settling in life. I
saw him for a few short hours in the year 1824, and, from that time, I
had not that pleasure again until July, 1842, when I had the long-desired
happiness of paying him a visit at Thornhill, and passing a week with
him, in the society of his kind family, to whom I had never before been
personally introduced. We used, when at college, to promise ourselves
the pleasure of alternate annual visits, little thinking that, for so
long a period, the bounds of our habitation were to be no nearer together
than the eastern and western hemisphere. At Thornhill, I saw my endeared
friend in different circumstances and relations to what I had ever
personally known him before—as the pastor, the husband, and the father;
and I was not disappointed in contemplating him in these characters. He
was as venerable in appearance as grey—I might rather say white—hairs
could make him, and which crowned a countenance of the most benignant
aspect—serene, intelligent, animated, and beaming with tenderness and
affection. There was also in his manners, in the tones of his voice,
and, when speaking, in the peculiar expressiveness of his countenance,
something remarkably sweet, mild, and engaging. The general contour of
the upper part of his body, especially his long white hair behind,
reminded me of the later likenesses of the justly celebrated John Wesley.
His body was of low stature and deformed, which, at first sight, might
have given to a stranger but a lowly opinion of him; but every
disadvantage from appearance soon wore off, and the mind shone brightly
through the mean and weak and uncommanding body, which contained it. A
pleasing instance of this effect occurred when I was in Canada. He was
kind enough to spend three or four days with me at my son’s—a visit to
which the following letter has some reference, and which, as being the
last I ever received from him, though it contain nothing of any
importance, I insert with a deep recollection of the intercourse which I
had with my friend on the occasion. We were spending an evening together
at the house of a friend: a lady of piety and intelligence was present as
a visitor like ourselves, and who had never before seen Mr. Mortimer.
Before the evening passed, she observed to me, “That gentleman is no
common man,” so struck was she, and, perhaps, contrary to her
expectations, with the superior cast of his conversation, which I had
myself also observed in the course of the evening.