Thornhill, Feb. 8, 1845.
My dear Aunt,
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“The memory of the just is” indeed “blessed”; and I wish that the last
remembrances of my beloved father could have been traced for you by a
more able hand than mine. His memory is, I am sure, treasured in the
hearts of very many here who knew him. I wish it may incite them to
follow him as he followed Christ.
The last year of my beloved father’s life was marked by an entire
devotion to his ministerial work; for when he came to the determination
of resuming the entire charge of his parish, it was accompanied by a
resolution to abandon every other pursuit, and to devote all his time and
powers to the one object of winning souls to Christ. As if to confirm
this purpose, he put away from his study library all the geological and
other scientific and literary books with which it was furnished, and
replenished it with theological works. It was to him an act of great
self-denial thus entirely to give up the studies and pursuits which had
previously so engaged and captivated his attention; but they were
relinquished with cheerfulness, because for his Redeemer’s sake; for he
observed at the time that he made this sacrifice, “Oh! it is a very
little thing to do for my Saviour.” He was fully recompensed for this
devotion to his Heavenly Father’s cause, as appears from his having
expressed to mamma the great comfort and peace of mind which he
afterwards enjoyed in his clerical avocations. From that time a change
was apparent in his conversation; for although he was always accustomed
to introduce religious subjects in conversation with his family,
especially in the evening, when he would sit with us for a short time
after family prayers, still, during the last year, his conversation,
partaking of the exclusive nature of his studies, was more uniformly
serious than it had been previously. I was frequently much struck with
the beauty and spirituality of his observations, and, once or twice,
while listening to his conversation, the idea presented itself, that the
sentiments and feelings he expressed were those of one who was ripening
for the garner. This, however, was merely a passing thought, and never
at all realized or dwelt upon; for my dear father was, at that time,
particularly well, and he frequently told us that he never felt his
ministerial duties less burdensome. One of his remarks, which made an
impression on my mind at the time, has since struck me the more from the
coincidence of the following text being written in one of the blank
leaves of the Bible that he was accustomed to use, until within the last
two or three years of his life: “When I am old and grey-headed, O God,
forsake me not.” Psalm lxxi. 18. The remark which he made in
conversation was this: “He has been my God from my youth up, but I never
felt that he was so near to me as now in my old age.” These are not, I
think, quite the expressions he made use of, for I quote from memory, and
although I attempted to write them down the same day, I could not even
then recall the _words_ that he used. Often similar attempts that I made
failed also, and I then relinquished the idea that I had entertained, of
preserving in writing some of my endeared father’s religious
observations. During one of our drives to the station at the German
Mills, speaking of the ministering of angels, a subject of which he was
very fond, he remarked, that the dispensation of _faith_ under which we
are placed made it necessary that an unseen agency should be employed for
our protection and deliverance, as otherwise faith would be lost in
sight; and also that, had these ministering spirits been made visible to
us, we should have been very prone to place our reliance upon _them_,
instead of putting our trust simply in God. He pursued the conversation
as we ascended a very steep hill, and said, “I think we are little aware
how constantly angels are employed on our behalf; perhaps now, an angel
is leading that horse by the bridle, and encouraging it onwards.” One of
the horses, a fine animal, was then exerting itself to the utmost; for
the roads were very bad at the time, and the hill was therefore very
difficult of ascent. I think the following anecdote will be interesting
to you, as it is one which made a strong impression on my dear father’s
mind, and, as it is short, I am tempted to copy it for you: “As one said
to Philip J. Jenks just before he expired, ‘How hard it is to die,’ he
replied, ‘Oh, no, easy dying, blessed dying, glorious dying.’ Looking up
at the clock, he said, ‘I have experienced more happiness in dying this
day, than in my whole life. It is worth living for, it is worth a whole
life, to have such an end as this. I have long desired that I might
glorify God in my death; but oh! I never thought that such a poor worm
as I could have come to such a glorious death.’” I believe this account
of “happiness experienced in death,” contributed very much to weaken his
apprehension of the pains of death, which he afterwards entirely lost.
It had, however, long been his own practice, and one which he recommended
to others from the pulpit, to make death a daily subject of prayer,
particularly as regarded its _time_ and _manner_; and I believe one of
these daily petitions was, that he might have an easy death, if
consistent with the will of God. This petition was answered by his
Heavenly Father in a striking manner, for our kind friend and physician
assured us, that he suffered _no pain_, not even so much as a person
experiences in fainting. It is also remarkable, as Dr. Paget mentioned
to us, that in no other way could his existence have been terminated with
this absence of pain, except by a stroke of lightning. The doctor also
considered it remarkable that he survived so long after the fatal
accident, as instant death frequently occurs under such circumstances.
That such was not his case was an unspeakable comfort to us; and he
himself expressed his satisfaction at being brought home to his own
comfortable bed. He also stated his thankfulness for the circumstance of
no bone being broken, or even dislocated, and quoted that passage of
Scripture, “He keepeth all his bones, not one of them is broken.” This
was before he was aware of the fatal nature of the accident. He
expressed a wish to be left alone that he might be quiet, and we all left
the room in consequence, except Arthur and Dr. Paget. We had no idea
that any danger was to be apprehended, till a few moments before he
expired, when he sent for us, asking for each by name, and for the
servants also. He said he thought he was dying, and added, “Do not be
surprised if I should struggle at the last.” Immediately after he said,
“What a salvation is that which Christ has purchased for us; what a
blessing that I have nothing to do now! My dear flock, may the Lord
bless them all, and provide for them!” Then seeing us all around him, he
said to each, “May the Lord bless you.” These were his last words,
except the expression of his wish to lie down. I supported his head on
my arm, and thought that he was falling asleep—but no, it was the sleep
of death.
Mr. Osier preached a most excellent funeral sermon from this appropriate
text, “Blessed are those servants, whom their Lord, when he cometh, shall
find watching.” My dear father was employed to the very last in doing
his Lord’s work: his three last days were spent entirely in parochial
visiting, contrary to his usual practice of spending the greater portion
of each day in his study, and two or three hours in his drives and in
visiting his people. Some of those whom he visited on these days,
afterwards told a young friend, that he talked to them principally about
preparation for death. The man-servant also has spoken with much feeling
of his conversation during those drives, and he mentioned also, that each
day, when they reached home, he said, “Once more, Stephen, God has
brought us home in safety.” My beloved father’s consistency of conduct
won for him the respect and esteem of all who knew him, even of those who
differed from him, sometimes widely, in religious opinions. Such was the
case with the bishop, who however not only respected him, but entertained
very kind feelings towards him, which he evinced by coming from Toronto,
though with great inconvenience, and unsolicited, to pay the last mark of
respect to his remains. The public testimony which was borne to the
excellence of my dear father’s character, in a resolution of the Central
Board of the Church Society, of which body he was a member, was so
gratifying, that I cannot refrain from copying a part of it. He is
spoken of in the resolution as one “who for warm yet humble piety,
enlarged and Christian charity, a self-denying course of life, and a holy
devotedness to his Heavenly Master’s cause, was surpassed by none of
those who have been commissioned to feed the flock of Christ in this
diocese.”
One of the features of character alluded to in this resolution had been
especially observed by a young clerical friend, who, when speaking with
much warmth of the high estimation he entertained of my dear father’s
character, particularly mentioned his _great humility_. As an instance
of this, he told us, that, when he had gone with my father into the
vestry after preaching what Mr. D. considered a most excellent sermon, he
had spoken of it as furnishing cause for fresh humiliation, and a
stimulus to greater exertions and more earnest prayers for the future.
Mr. D., on the same occasion, alluded to the peculiar facility with which
he constantly introduced religious remarks in conversation, which, he
said, he had particularly noticed on the few occasions on which he had
met him in company. In answer to an observation, that my dear father had
often deplored the want of this very gift, Mr. D. remarked, that this
circumstance afforded a fresh proof of his humility.
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Believe me, my dear Aunt,
Your ever-affectionate Niece,
PHEBE MORTIMER.
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