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,