The clouds which overcast his prospect of ordination for the curacy of Wellington, were after a time dispersed, and he was admitted to deacon’s orders at Eccleshall, on the 26th of May, 1811, and on the following day he went to reside at Wellington. He not long after wrote to his sister, in reference to his new situation, as follows:—
“Through mercy I am going on pretty comfortably in parochial matters, and have reason to believe I am in the situation which God designed me to fill. My employment is my delight—my heart is in it—a circumstance I could seldom boast of when toiling through the drudgery of mathematics. Mr. E. and I go on in perfect harmony. I feel very much attached to him; and from the marks I am daily receiving of his kindness, I may conclude he looks with a favourable eye on my endeavours to help him in his important work.”
Wellington, 12th November, 1811.
In my last I promised an account of my parochial proceedings: though I have nothing brilliant to communicate, yet I hope I may say, after nearly six months’ residence, that I have good ground to believe I have not mistaken my path in entering the ministry. The increase of congregation, both among the poorer as well as the richer sort, afford me some encouragement, and I have frequently observed persons manifestly affected under the word delivered. I am not so sanguine as to expect great things should be done by so feeble a labourer as myself. “The honest and good hearted” among the congregation have already gladly received and profited by the word under my most excellent vicar, and, consequently, it is not to be expected that any remarkable change should be effected; but, as I have observed before, I have perceived that the Spirit of God is among us to apply the word, and so long as persons are not completely hardened, we may indulge some hope concerning them.
A few Sundays ago I supplied the church of a neighbouring minister who has not been long in these parts. I preached from these words, “The Lord turned and looked on Peter.” I had taken another sermon with me, but some how or other could not make up my mind to preach it, and it will appear by the sequel that the Lord had some gracious purpose to answer by it. A poor woman, a former hearer of Mr. — happened to come into this part of the country, and she mentioned to her daughter that she should like to go and hear her old minister, but related at the same time a dream that she had the night before, that a strange minister at Mr. C—’s church was the means of doing her good and recovering her from her backsliding state. She accordingly came, and no sooner did I enter the desk than she said to her daughter, “That is the clergyman I dreamed of who recovered me to God.” The subject by the Divine blessing was suitable to her case, and Mr. —, who related the anecdote to me, stated, that she began with fresh earnestness to devote herself to the service of God, and gave manifest tokens of the work being from above.
Wellington, September 17th, 1811.
My very dear Armstrong,
I have been regaling myself this afternoon with a perusal of a large packet of your letters, forwarded to me from time to time. They present my much esteemed friend under a great variety of feelings and circumstances: but they uniformly exhibit him as the sincere and devoted Christian, and as the warm and substantial friend. Oh, how do I pity that poor soul who has never experienced the exquisite delights of friendship! Believe me, Armstrong, I would not exchange the feelings which at present animate my soul for all the wealth in the universe. It would be bauble when contrasted with the inestimable blessing of a friend, whose heart, whose sentiments, whose pursuits, are congenial with your own. God forbid that I should ever see the time in which this blessing should he withholden from me. How do I admire those words of Shakspeare:—
“The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel.”
I lament, however, one circumstance in which my sentiments and my conduct were in this respect diametrically opposite; I mean when I so far gave way to the feelings of the moment as to write that letter, which seems to have caused you so much pain: your conciliatory answer, which I have just been reading, makes me more ashamed of myself than I can express; I hope, however, that it will prove a salutary warning through the whole of my subsequent life. You will be surprised, perhaps, at this apology made so long after the offence: I make it from a conviction that my former letter did not sufficiently express the feelings which I ought to have entertained. * * * * *
Believe me,
Your affectionately sincere
G. M.
Wellington, Jan. 28th, 1812.
My very dear Friend,
I very much long to see you and your little domestic circle, and, especially so, in consequence of the information contained in your last: for I am given to understand that personal intercourse will not much longer be vouchsafed me.
Do not suppose, however, that I would wish that any personal advantage, which I might promise myself from your remaining in England, should prove the least obstacle to that most glorious work which it has pleased God to incline you to desire and pursue. I rejoice most sincerely in the grace which he has poured upon you, and I admire the leadings of Divine Providence, which have so clearly and manifestly opened your path. But still, notwithstanding the approval which my judgment is constrained to give, yet I cannot altogether divest myself of that affection which would fain induce me to chain you to some nearer spot. It tells me that real friends are few; it whispers also that, among all my friends, no one has ever yet so completely merited the name. But still, as it has pleased God to put it into the heart of my friend to undertake so noble, so glorious an employment, I cannot for a moment indulge any feeling of complaint. It is all well; and, as I said before, I rejoice in the grace and providential dealings which have been manifested on your behalf.
It requires no small measure of faith and self-denial to leave the pleasures of social life—the intercourse of friends and the innumerable ties which a long series of years has tended to strengthen. I have often gazed in silent admiration at the peculiar kind of spirit which must animate a missionary, and have concluded that it must be peculiarly acceptable in the sight of Almighty God. But, alas! much as I have admired the spirit, I feel that I have scarcely a spark of it—not, indeed, that I should find it difficult to forego the pleasures which at present surround me, not that I should be staggered at leaving my present situation to live in one which is remote, and which is now unknown to me; but that I am sensible that these feelings would not last. The inconceivable ignorance of some, the stupidity of others, and the state (I was going to say) of moral and religious incapacity, to which a long indulgence in vicious habits has reduced the generality, would check my fervour, damp my zeal, and cause me either to slacken my exertions, or else to desist from the work in despair. When we get into discouraging circumstances, how readily do we slide into despondency. We may not, perhaps, altogether lose sight of the power of God, and its all-sufficiency to help us through; but we are apt to conclude that we are not the proper instruments; that we have protruded ourselves into situations which God never designed for us; and that, though he could most easily help us, yet that, for wise purposes, he sees fit to leave us in a great measure to ourselves. Such, my dear Armstrong, are our reasonings in general, when brought into discouraging circumstances; and, from a close examination of my own heart for some years past, I am persuaded that whatever zeal and self-denial might animate me in the first instance, yet that these blessed feelings would not last when brought to those severe trials which are the lot of the missionary—I mean of that person who has to contend with all the difficulties arising from a foreign station. These difficulties, however, in your case are greatly diminished, and even were it otherwise the Spirit vouchsafed to you, may enable you to grapple with them with the greatest ease. Oh! that this may be your constant experience! I rejoice in that spirit and temper which has hitherto regulated the conduct of my friend, and my constant, my stated prayers shall ascend up before the God of power and grace, that he may ever enjoy a rich unction—a complete baptism from above.
Assure Mrs. A. of my kind regards. Much as I admire your faith and self-denial, I think that of your dear partner no less conspicuous. When God has work to be done, how sweetly can he influence our minds so as to make us co-workers with himself.
Believe me,
Your most affectionate though
unworthy Friend,
G. M.
Mr. Mortimer was married February 21st, 1812, to Miss Barford, a lady of pious habits and of amiable manners, and who proved herself a most useful and affectionate helpmeet to him. In the view of this event, he prepared, some months before it took place, the following resolutions for his government in the married state:—
“Since it is very probable I shall soon be united with my dearest friend M. B., and since we are always in danger of overlooking the duties of each relation in life, while engaged in it, though, before we enter upon it, we may perceive them plainly enough, I would, therefore, now, in an humble dependence upon Almighty God, and as in his sight, set my hand to the following resolutions, which I would purpose never to swerve from upon any occasion, let it be ever so trivial:—
“1st. Since the grand secret of domestic comfort depends upon the regulation of our tempers, I would, in the first place, endeavour to keep a strict watch over these; would avoid pettishness, of every description, and would guard against a degree of pertinacity, which has always been more or less troublesome to me: would never be positive in argument, and will strive to remove every appearance of self-will, and never to oppose my dearest friend in any thing, excepting when duty imperiously calls; and even then, in such a manner as shall impress her more with an idea of my affectionate regards towards her, than of any wish to consult my own gratification.
“In the 2nd place: will cultivate a tender and affectionate manner, always seeking out means of promoting her comfort, and lessening her troubles; sharing every domestic and maternal anxiety with tender solicitude.
“In the 3rd place: will be completely open; will have no secrets; on the contrary, will consult her in everything; will give her the freest access to all my papers, letters, &c.; will also commit to her entire management all my money concerns; and will take no more for my private purse than we shall amicably settle between ourselves.
“Fourthly. With regard to company, will make choice of those persons who shall be most agreeable to herself, and will be very attentive to those of her relations with whom she may wish to be connected—especially her mother and sister.
“Fifthly. Being aware of the foolish trouble occasioned by fastidiousness in the choice of food, am determined never to express my partiality for any particular joint or dish, and never to make the smallest objection to anything which comes to table. Remember Duke Fortunatus, and the incessant squabbles occasioned by his fluctuating taste and pettish tempers.
“So lastly. As to the arrangement of domestic concerns, will interfere as little as need be, and will never meddle either in the choice or dismissal of the servants, and will be careful never to find with them unnecessary fault.
“These rules and regulations I will read over the first day of every month, so long as it shall please God to spare me, and will make them matter of most serious prayer.
“Should I see fit to make any additions to the above, will still never destroy this identical paper, but keep it as exhibiting my views previous to marriage, and as a witness against me in future life, should I deliberately violate them.
“I write these rules in my college rooms on the 20th of May, 1811, being the day on which I complete the 27th year of my age, and being also the last of my remaining in Cambridge.
“George Mortimer.”
Wellington, April 10th, 1812.
My very dear Friend,
I cannot describe the feeling of regret which the receipt of your last letter occasioned, and I sit down, with depressed spirits, to dictate an answer. There is something exceedingly gloomy in the recollection that one of the dearest friends I have on earth, is about to depart to a place where there is no human probability of our ever meeting; and that he should depart also without my being permitted to look him in the face, to clasp his hand, and to bid him a parting adieu. I feel truly grieved at the circumstance, and the more so, as I had expected that you would have been detained on shore longer than the time fixed on for your departure, and consequently that you would have had some little spare time to pay us a farewell visit.
* * * * * *
I feel comforted, however, with the hope of hearing from you occasionally, and do give you my promise that I will endeavour to write to you every other month, whether I hear from you or not; and my poor scrawls shall be duly forwarded to your good brother, as you have desired. I will inform you of our proceedings here as minutely as I can; and will take care to touch upon such of a more public nature as I conceive may possibly escape the attention of your other correspondents. But while I am thus writing, I cannot conceal from my Armstrong what has recently passed in my mind. I have long thought it to be a circumstance highly disgraceful to our Church that so few individuals have appeared who are willing to leave the comforts of life, and to endeavour to forward, by their own exertions, the grand and momentous work which the God of all grace is evidently carrying forward in all quarters of the globe; and I now begin to feel a desire (should the providence of God be pleased to open my path), to step forward in this great work. I have opened the matter to my Mary, and she tells me that she is willing to accompany me to any place where I should see it my duty to go. It has pleased God to give us a competency as to this world’s goods, and should any situation similar to the one you are going to, occur, we should really feel no hesitation in accepting it. What our future path may be is uncertain; but I should not wonder if my dear Armstrong hears of our following in the steps which he has marked out for us. There seems much to be done abroad, and few inclined to do it; should, therefore, God be pleased to accept of my poor intentions to be engaged in forwarding it, I shall rejoice in the circumstance, and gladly spend and be spent in so glorious an employment. I have said to my Armstrong what has been mentioned to no other individual whatever, my Mary excepted; I must therefore request he will not make the slightest allusion to it for the present.
I have taken the liberty to send you and Mrs. A. a small token of parting love; may they prove the means of your frequently remembering the unworthy donor, and whenever you think of him offer up a silent prayer for his spiritual advancement. I have also to request that you will accept of the enclosed notes; [30] they may, perhaps, prove serviceable in procuring a few more additional comforts for your voyage and future accommodations. May the God of love accompany you in your voyage, make you abundantly useful in your passage, and still more so in your destined situation. My prayers, my best wishes, do certainly attend you; and though we may not meet on earth, yet I hope—I would I could say more, but my treacherous heart will not permit me—but still I hope that you and I, our partners, and the children whom God may graciously give us, may all meet in that blissful state above. My Mary desires her kindest regards to Mrs. A. and yourself.
Believe me,
Your ever affectionate Friend,
G. M.
Wellington, July 6th, 1812.
My dear Friend,
As it respects myself, I must say that I feel the comparatively trifling duties which I have to perform to be a burden, which at times seems insupportable; but it is the burden which God has placed upon me, and, therefore, I strive to go on and to press forward, notwithstanding all my difficulties. You would hardly conceive how much I dread any public exercise until the moment in which I am actually engaged in it; I am filled with the most dismal forebodings; but then, through mercy all my fears vanish; and I have reason to believe, that my feeble efforts are not altogether in vain.
Nothing further has elapsed respecting any change in my situation. My Mary feels a good many apprehensions on the subject at present, and I believe I must leave matters till some circumstance or other makes my way clear and evident. Our time is very seldom God’s. There is a haste—a precipitancy—in our proceedings, which is never to be discovered in those of God. The creation of the world—the calling of his peculiar people—the coming of the Messiah—all show that God is slow in operation. I feel, my dear friend, that I have daily and hourly need of learning a lesson on this subject. Whenever I feel hurry of spirits, and solicited to do something or other in haste, I invariably find that it turns out badly. It is the power of the enemy—God’s procedure is orderly—calm—deliberate: he leads us gently on, and, while he forcibly convinces the mind, he opens our providential path.
* * * * * * *
We live in troublesome times, in a troublesome world. But still we have much to be thankful for, notwithstanding all, and we have a blessed hope of things infinitely better in the world to come. I delight to think of those blessed scenes, and am persuaded that we all of us lose much for want of reverting to them more frequently. With heaven in our eye, how cheerfully are we enabled to march forward; how courageously do we charge through all opposing difficulties; how contemptuously do we look upon the things of time and sense! Here was the grand support of the Redeemer; “For the joy which was set before him he endured the cross, and despised the shame.”
I have lately been very much gratified by reading a piece of Dr. Watts’ on the Separate State. We are apt to form too spiritual notions of the world to come, and, consequently, having nothing upon which we can solidly ground our investigations, we lose much of the interest and delight which would otherwise be imparted. When the literal meaning of Scripture seems to be absurd, we think we are fully justified in seeking other interpretations; but to reject the plain and obvious sense merely because it interferes with our pre-conceived notions of the subject, is, in my opinion, quite unwarrantable. We read of cities, temples, altars, mansions, feasts, trees, and rivers. And no doubt but many of our enjoyments will be exceedingly similar to those which Adam enjoyed on earth, when in a state of innocence; and it is very probable that the employments which engage us now will fit us for similar hereafter. All our peculiarities of mind and disposition will have room for their full exercise: the traveller may be permitted to take excursions into distant worlds. The philosopher may pursue, without limitation, the investigations of science and of art. The soul which is enchanted with harmony, may, like David, be the leader of some celestial band; and the divine will be delighted with fresh discoveries into the nature, the attributes, the perfections, of his God; while the other myriads of beings, each in their proper class and society, will be enjoying to the utmost of their capacity the blessings which are most calculated to administer to their delight.
* * * *
From your sincere Friend,
G. M.
Wellington, August 13th, 1812.
You have my condolence, my dear Miss — in not being able to attend the kind of ministry you approve of. Most individuals have a turn of mind, a peculiarity of thinking, which, in a great measure, may be considered as their own; and hence it should seem advisable that when the choice rests on ourselves, we should attend that ministry which comes nearest to our own case and circumstances. But, alas! this privilege is seldom allotted us; local situation, parental restraints, and a variety of other things, render it in general necessary to attend some place or other, which is not, perhaps, in every view, that which, if left to ourselves, we would have fixed upon. The question, then, is merely this—ought we, under the circumstances, to quarrel with the dispensations of providence, or quietly and patiently submit, endeavouring to extract from existing circumstances all the good we possibly can? The language of wisdom, as well as of piety, seems to direct to the latter course, as that best calculated to promote our present comfort, and future welfare. God has certainly some wise end or other to answer in every thing of this nature, and if we recollect, at the same time, how tenderly he loves us, how much he desires our spiritual improvement, as well as our eternal felicity, we shall rest so completely satisfied that we shall not have a single desire to alter in the minutest particular. But we are too apt to lose sight of the wisdom and love of God, as connected with our affairs, we listen to the suggestions of Satan, and fondly imagine that if we had the disposal of things we could easily regulate our concerns, so as to make them more effectually conduce to our welfare. How presumptuous is such language, when stripped of its false colouring, and presented under its real and proper appearance.
On the 30th November, 1812, he writes to his sister—I think that I mentioned in my last that there was an increase of congregation, and that I could discover some traces of the operation of the Spirit of God in applying the word. These effects, I gratefully acknowledge, are still to be seen, and it has pleased God to encourage me by bringing to my knowledge two instances in which I hope a decided and saving change has been produced—one on a lady of respectability in an adjoining parish, and the other on an individual among the lower circles.
On the 11th January, 1813, he writes to the same, on the birth of his eldest son;—I feel grateful to God for his goodness and mercy, as manifested on the present occasion, and I am cheered with a pleasing hope that the deposit which has this day been placed in my hands, will become an heir of immortality, a glory to his God, and an instrument of good to all around him. He has been the subject of my prayers for some time past, and I feel persuaded that God will not disappoint my hope. I, and its dear mother, feel anxious on its account, but what is our solicitude concerning him compared with that of the dear Redeemer! How kindly is he interested in his welfare; how ardently does he long to see in him of the travail of his soul that he may be satisfied! What encouragement does this consideration afford to the exercise of patient hope and persevering prayer.
And on the 24th of the following month, he wrote in reference to the baptism of the infant. We hope, should all be well, on this day se’nnight, to devote our little charge to his gracious God in baptism. I feel it to be a solemn occasion, for I cannot but think that much, both of its future happiness and usefulness, may depend on the manner in which it is thus surrendered. I am somewhat apprehensive that we shall not quite please you with respect to the name which we think of giving it. But it has long struck me as being a foolish custom which prevails at present of giving those names by way of distinction, which, in fact, owing to their commonness, are no distinction at all. George, Thomas, Henry, John, are used from generation to generation, and thus individuals are incessantly mistaken and confounded either for other. We have, therefore, ventured to step out of the beaten track, and have accordingly fixed upon Cecil, as one which, from many pleasing associations, has become endeared to both of us.
Wellington, March 16th, 1813.
I have enclosed a copy of a new edition of Alleine’s Alarm, published by Mr. Gilpin. It was this book, to which, under God, I feel indebted for the determination which some years ago I received, with respect to my views and conduct. I love it greatly in its old and less inviting garb, but far better now. Ah, my dear sister, many profess religion, many enjoy some of its comforts, feel pleasure in an attendance upon its institutions and its ordinances; but, to walk closely with God, to get a deep and thorough knowledge both of him and of our own souls, to penetrate beneath the surface of religion and to forward the life—the inward life of God in the soul, something more is required. In order to this, our eye must be kept constantly directed to one and the same point; we must learn that one thing is supereminently needful, and that everything which stands in competition with it must be considered as dung and as dross. May God in mercy impart to both of us such clear, such vivid and luminous views of its importance, that the present world and all its gaudy trifles may be lessened in our estimation, and that true and vital godliness, deep and genuine spirituality, may become more and more the objects of our pursuits. We were yesterday with dear Mrs. Fletcher, and received, as usual, much profit from her choice, savoury, and spiritual remarks. The book, which lay open before her, was her Bible. I could not help thinking how much more efficaciously we should all of us proceed, both as ministers and private Christians, if this blessed book were more frequently and more seriously perused. There is a strange feeling with respect to it existing in the minds of most persons who may be considered as even pious characters. They would not feel happy if they suffered the day to pass over without reading their chapter or chapters, but still they do it as a duty, merely as a duty. How rarely is it taken up as a privilege, as the book of books, as the very choicest treasure which we could possibly open; and yet, unless it be thus resorted to, thus feelingly read and studied, how can we expect to be great proficients in the Divine Life—how can we drink deep into the Spirit of our God? Could we see into the manner in which many individuals perform the duties of their closet, we should not be much at a loss to discover the reason of their want of spirituality. It might all be easily and naturally traced to this one single source—their hour thus set apart is gone through in a manner not very dissimilar to a horse in a mill; they go round and round with the same lifeless formality; and when their duty is over, they pass with unaltered uninfluenced feelings to anything which may next engage their attention; but how different from those who walk in their solitude with God; who go to their closets as if they were about to meet the very best friend they have upon earth; who feel heavenly emotions on every such occasion rekindled; whose hearts are made to burn within them; in short, who so wait upon God as to renew their strength; who carry from their privacy a holy influence which is easily discovered in the whole of their converse, tempers, and pursuits. Give our kind love to Eliza, and accept the same yourself. To both of you we feel no small degree of affectionate regards; we often talk of you, but still oftener make you the subject of our thoughts.
Wellington, April, 1813.
My dear Friend,
I have of late been obliged to give up all thoughts of missionary exertions; my present ministerial labours (small, alas! as they are when contrasted with the more extended operations of my dear friend) are a weight which presses very heavily upon my mind; they drink up all my spirits, and have so completely transformed me from the cheerful happy individual which I formerly used to be, that could you break in upon me accidentally and unawares you would hardly recognise me for the same. Ah, my dear friend, could I have foreseen these things, I should scarcely have dared to have encountered all the anxieties and perplexities attendant upon the ministerial office. I feel indeed that I have to sustain a burden; but there is one cheering consideration—it is the Lord’s burden; it is placed and appointed by him, and if patiently sustained, not only his glory, but my own eternal welfare, and perhaps that of others also, will be advanced. But if I feel the burden so great at present, how little am I cut out for so great a work as that which you have the honour and the privilege to be employed in!
In the service of the sanctuary there were hewers of wood and drawers of water. I seem to be of this description. But, though these individuals were mean and insignificant, compared with others, yet were they useful in their way; and, if God do but bless my labours, I trust I shall be content and be willing to be employed by him to the end of my days. I would gratefully acknowledge some of his gracious manifestations in this respect. Two individuals have, I trust, been savingly brought to the knowledge of God, and some few have, in other respects, been benefited. This is the Lord’s doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes.
But though my ministerial duties are thus oppressive, I have reason to be thankful in other respects. I have a dear wife, whom I tenderly love, and God has been pleased to present me, about three months since, with a sweet and interesting little son. He is healthy, animated, and vigorous, and proves to me a source of comfort which, I must frankly confess, I but little anticipated. I feel I have an important deposit placed within my hands; but I trust God will enable me to train him for the skies, and then all will be well. We have named him “Cecil,” after our trusty, excellent, and most valuable friend. I should have preferred to have prefixed in its stead that of my good friend whom I am addressing; but its length, as well as the number of consonants which compose it, render it as a Christian name somewhat harsh and sonorous.
Since I last wrote to you, I received a letter from our friend F—, of Trinity. It was the bearer of melancholy tidings; the cup of this excellent young man seems to be composed of sorrows peculiarly severe. He lost some time ago, as you will doubtless recollect, a tender father, under circumstances truly afflictive, and now he has lost his still dearer mother.
He heard, by letter, of her illness, rode to Inverness, where she then was, without the least intermission; but when he arrived, she was dead. The weight of this calamity upon his mind, together with the accumulated pressure of temporal and domestic concerns, have caused him to pass through deep waters; but God has given to them a sanctifying influence: you would be truly gratified at the genuine stream of piety which pervades the whole of his letter. It characterizes a real child of God.
I have lately been turning my attention towards botany. Should you ever be sending a packet to your brother, would you be so kind as to enclose me a few seeds of some of your choice and beautiful flowers; I mean those which are peculiar to your climate? You will favour me still further by affixing the names by which they are commonly known. If you have never amused yourself in this way, you will be surprised at the inexhaustible source of pleasure of which it is capable. I walked out with my Mary this morning through the adjoining country. We were pleased and exhilarated on various accounts; but our botanic pleasures were by far the greatest. Little, exquisitely tasty beauties were discovered by us, which before had completely escaped our notice; they lie before me on my table; and while I look at them, I am led to adore the Hand which so elegantly and ingeniously formed them.
* * * * * *
My best wishes and my constant weekly prayers attend you. I greatly love you—am tenderly concerned in your welfare, and shall always rejoice on being able to congratulate you on its realization.
From your ever sincere Friend,
G. M.
About the middle of the year 1814, Mr. Mortimer was joined by a coadjutor in the curacy of Wellington, of a kindred spirit with himself, and one with whom he seems to have taken sweet counsel, walking to the house and service of God as friends. This was the Rev. John King, already mentioned in the preface. In a letter to his sister, on the 3rd of June, 1814, is this short notice of the event just referred to:—“My dear friend King has joined us—he is beloved by all.” In another letter dated the 30th of the same month, he mentions his great attachment to Mr. King, their delightful opportunities of studying together, and that he esteems his coming under his roof as one of the greatest blessings ever vouchsafed. His intimacy with this gentleman was formed at the University; “being introduced to him,” as he mentions in a letter to the writer, “the very first evening of his coming to college, and we have,” he adds, “ever since remained in the closest bonds of union.”
Wellington, Sept. 1, 1814.
My very dear Friend,
I feel thankful that a day of comparative leisure enables me to fulfil my engagement as to writing to you. It is the Lord’s goodness; and I cannot help considering it as one out of many thousand other instances in which prayer and simple reliance upon God tend most effectually to forward us in our concerns. I fear to trust my own unstable and treacherous heart, and therefore begged of God that he would graciously assist me; and, were I to do so constantly, how much better would it be for me! how many good plans and well concerted schemes, instead of being rendered abortive, would have been sped and prospered! But, trusting in the goodness of the plan, instead of the blessing of the Lord, and, at the same time, overlooking my own utter insufficiency, I have been manifestly left to learn lessons of dependence, through the unwelcome medium of failure and disappointment. But, after all the pains which a gracious God has been pleased to take with me, how slow I am to learn, how unwilling to become nothing, that God may become all in all. And yet this is the only way in which we can be either extensively or permanently blessed. We are dealt with as children; but on which of his children will a judiciously affectionate parent bestow the greatest honour? Not on the forward and self-sufficient. This is a spirit which he must chasten and subdue by patient and humiliating discipline. It is the child who is modest, distrustful, and unassuming, who is diffident of his abilities, and afraid of leaning to his own understanding, that will meet with the countenance and support of the wise and tender father. But to one of a contrary temper, such a mode of treatment would be ruinous, and, therefore, utterly inadmissible on the part of a parent whose affectionate heart was regulated by a sound and enlightened judgment. Ah, my dear friend, how often do we put it out of the power even of the tender Father of mercies to speed and prosper us! How much humiliating discipline are we incessantly courting by attempting to rob God of that glory which belongs to himself alone!
A few evenings ago I received a letter from my agent in town, giving me an account of some loss which I had lately sustained. I took my dear wife with me into my study, and falling on our knees, we prayed to the Lord to bring us into a ready acquiescence with his divine will, and to keep us from every the least feeling of dissatisfaction or expression of complaint. While engaged in prayer, those words, “God is love,” came with sweet power to my mind. I felt convinced that it was that divine attribute, and that alone, which had appointed the circumstance; that I could not have done so well without as with it; and, consequently, that I had far more reason for gratitude and praise than for anything else. Since that time how clearly have I seen that the love of God is the only proper key to unlock all God’s dispensations, and that when this is used it will open to us treasures of mercies and of blessings which would otherwise be for ever closed from our view. The Lord teach me for the future to profit by the instruction; and enable us to label, as it were, each passing trial with some such inscription as this, “From your loving Father.”
You, my dear friend, have had much to bear; and perhaps Satan has whispered at times into your mind those considerations which are likely to distress and to discourage you; but all is well; all originates in love; and, therefore, as Parnell so sweetly teaches, “Where you can’t unravel,” “you should learn to trust.”
I hope you feel confidence in these blessed results of your labours. What a word is that of our gracious Redeemer’s, and how worthy to be graven on the palms of every minister of his truth! “Said I not unto thee, if thou wouldst believe thou shouldst see the glory of God?” Surely it is nothing but our unbelief which hinders the Lord from laying bare his arm, and doing wondrous things in righteousness. In our parish and neighbourhood we have lately seen a far more extensive work both of conversion and progression than we have ever yet been indulged with; and I cannot but ascribe it to the many prayers which have been recently offered up in reference to this point. Many of us have felt great confidence that the Lord would revive his work among us; and he who has taught us daily to pray that his kingdom might come, has in no way disappointed our hope. We trust, however, that what we have hitherto seen are merely the drops before the shower.
Mary and King unite with me in kindest love to yourself and dear Mrs. A., and I remain,
Your ever sincere and truly
affectionate Friend,
George Mortimer.
Mr. Mortimer, from his early connexion with the Methodists, imbibed many of their views, and followed out some of their practices. I cannot say that he succeeded in convincing me of the expediency of the plan described in the following letter, though possessed probably of some advantages; nor do I think that he continued always to approve of the same; but I think it right that he should speak for himself, and therefore I shall give several copies or extracts of his letters on the subject:—
Wellington, Salop. October 27, 1814.
Ah, my dear friend, what need have we all of being occasionally pulled down, stripped of our fancied excellencies, spoiled of our boasted props, and laid low in self-abasement and humility of soul at the feet of Jesus. And considering this our need, how kind is it in the Lord to take the painful pains with us which he does. He had much rather rejoice over us in unclouded prosperity; but our perverseness will not suffer him, and therefore he forces himself to grieve us. He constrains himself to cut off the dangerous limb—to amputate—when it would be injurious to spare.
We have two classes, after the manner of the Methodists; one consisting of men, and the other of women. The former led by Mr. Eyton, and the latter by myself. Out of the men’s class, Mr. E. has selected six young men, four of whom go out on a Monday evening, in turns, and expound to the poor in four cottages in different parts of the parish; and much good, I trust, has already been seen resulting from the plan. Mr. E. did not think of the classes till about a year and a half ago; but we all feel truly thankful to God that they were begun at last. You would have been struck at the effects which soon began to follow. A standard, if I may so speak, was by this means erected, and many, who in all probability would have remained halting and hesitating till the very end of their days, were induced, one after another, to flock around it, and I have been surprised at the degree of help which they have all received since they were thus united. And, in addition to their own personal benefit, they soon became instrumental of good to others. Our little society became a kind of nursery of expounders, exhorters, and assistants in prayer; and now, instead of a comparatively barren wilderness, we are rejoiced to behold, in many places, an incipient garden of the Lord.
Another benefit I would just beg leave to notice, and that refers to yourself. You will know much more of the state of your people, you will obtain a greater insight into their temptations, difficulties, and trials, and will be led to look around you for the means of obviating, or else helping them to bear them; and thus your manner of preaching will become far more experimental, and, consequently, far more useful. Without some such knowledge of our people as we thus obtain, our discourses, as Mr. Jerram used to say, will be about it, and about it, but seldom actually upon the mark. I have found a very material benefit myself in this way, and I would not have been without it for worlds. Now, my dear friend, what hinders but that you should enter upon such a class meeting? If you have only three or four, begin with them; meet with them weekly; begin with singing and prayer; relate to them the state of your own mind during the week, and then inquire into the state of their’s. Prayer may conclude. Mr. E. began, I think, with only four, and was some weeks before he got above two or three more; but now the men’s class is between thirty and forty, and the women’s not far short. Do not be afraid of the Methodistical appearance of the procedure. It is full of benefits, and I have no question but that if you can prevail upon yourself to adopt it, yourself and thousands more will have eternal reason to bless God for its institution. And, under such circumstances, should a name, or an appearance, cause you a moment’s hesitation? I trust it will not. * * *
I remain,
Your very sincere Friend
And Brother in the Lord,
George Mortimer.
The following letter is a beautiful manifestation of the greatest humility as to his own Christian experience; it was addressed to his sister:—
Wellington, Nov. 17th, 1814.
My dear Mary,
I have to thank my dear mother and yourself for the printed account, and the accompanying letter relative to the Lord’s gracious dealings with our dear departed brother: they have proved highly interesting, and, I trust, truly profitable to us. May our ears ever be disposed to listen to, and our hearts prepared to receive, instruction from all the gracious means which a God of infinite love and mercy is ever taking with us, in order to our good, and when it comes to our turn to drop the garments of mortality may it be with us, as it was with dear James, to be clothed with those of light. A tear may now and then involuntarily escape me when I advert to the difference between his envied situation and my own. He quite safe, I still surrounded with danger; still called to many a conflict with the Christian’s threefold enemy; still smarting from the wounds which my own unfaithfulness and presumption rendered expedient that I should receive. But I comfort myself with the recollection that the time will soon come when I hope to be crowned as victor, and that my continuance here below is with the merciful intention of giving me increased opportunity of getting some fresh jewels to my crown, and of getting those brightened which are already there. May the great Captain of my salvation so stand by me, that all these His gracious purposes may be abundantly answered! I bless God, I do feel an increasing desire to live to Him, and to the glory of his name; and there are times in which I feel that I have an increased power to do so. When I compare the general state of my religious experience with what it formerly was, I find that I am enabled to exercise more uniformly submission to his divine will, and to depend upon him more habitually for the supply of all my wants. I feel in many respects more crucified to the world, and the world seems to have become more so to me; so that I care but little about a variety of things which were at one time accustomed to engross much of my time and affections. In a word, I am led to conclude, that the life which I now live in the flesh is somewhat more a life of faith in the Son of God, a simple dependence and reliance upon Him, as my wisdom, righteousness, strength, and happiness, as my all-sufficient Saviour. But while I feel great cause for thankfulness in these respects, yet how far am I from so walking as to please my God! I was thinking over the state of my mind the other morning, and I felt deeply humbled before the Lord on account of it. My religion strikes me as being more superficial and circumstantial, than deep, inward, and spiritual. I possess a measure of union with God, but very little communion with Him. I am engaged in His works, and doing His will in the main, but I hold slight and frequently interrupted converse with Him. But how can such a walk be pleasing unto God? But, perhaps, you will not be able to enter into my feelings—as connected with this my defect in religious experience—unless I have recourse to some familiar illustration. An individual may be walking by my side, towards the place which I would have him proceed to, and in the way in which I would have him walk; but should he walk for miles and hours together, in total silence, never, during these intervals, drop a word expressive of his views and feelings, never communicate to me the least thing which is passing in his mind; or should he manifest a similar indifference concerning my communications to him, should he never listen to my voice, or suffer himself to be so amused with the surrounding prospect, or the incidents of the journey, as to have no ear for me, what opinion should I form of such an individual? Would he be walking so as to please me? The application is easy—we may be walking in God’s commands towards the place he would have us direct our face, and in those paths which he has been pleased to appoint; but if we do not hold converse with him, if we are backward to tell him what is passing in our minds, or if we have no ear to listen to his kind communications, suffering ourselves to be previously engaged with the things by which we are surrounded, how little can such a walk be gratifying to the blessed God! Now, my dear Mary, here is my defect; I do not cultivate, as I ought, that loving, gracious intercourse with my loving Redeemer which it is my privilege to enjoy: not only many moments, but, sometimes, even hours, pass without anything like direct communion with him. Oh, when shall I be able to adopt the language—the beautiful expressive language—of one of Mr. Wesley’s hymns—
“Far above all earthly things,
While yet my hands are here employed;
Sees my soul the King of kings,
And freely talks with God.”
Let us help one another, my dear sister, in this important matter by our mutual and fervent prayers.
Good Archbishop Leighton, alluding to the effects of intercourse kept up on the part of ministers with the blessed God, has happily expressed himself:—“They that converse most with the King, and are inward with him, know most of the affairs of state, and even the secrets of them, which are hid from others. And, certainly, those of God’s messengers who are oftenest with Himself, cannot but understand their business best, and know most of His meaning, and the affairs of His kingdom.” What a luminous proof did this most excellent man afford in his conduct of the truth of his own assertion, and what need have we, who are the ministers and stewards of the same mysteries, to follow him as he also followed Christ!
Wellington, Salop. Dec. 29, 1814.
My dear Friend,
* * * * * * *
In my last I mentioned to you the illness and expected removal of my youngest brother, James. He has since been called to his rest, and I am truly thankful to be enabled to state that his death was attended with circumstances highly satisfactory, especially when it is remembered that he was not in any way a communicative lad, but, on the contrary, very silent and reserved. Well! he is gone—gone, I trust, to eternal glory. The Lord, in his rich mercy, prepare us all to follow him! He was the youngest among us, and the least likely to be first called. I hope that we have most of us been induced by the circumstance to watch and to be sober; “so to number our days as to apply our hearts unto wisdom.” As far as regards myself, I think I may say that the lesson has been very salutary. I have been led to consider myself as the next which shall be called, and, of course, eternal and invisible things have appeared exceedingly near. I thank God that death has no sting to me. Its sting is sin, and that my gracious Redeemer has mercifully removed. The anticipation, therefore, far from being a means of uneasiness, is matter of entire and sober satisfaction; not that I have any cause for disquietude here below—not that I have any restlessness of desire arising from a querulous or pettish feeling of discontent. No, my dear friend, God has been, and still continues to be, abundant in mercy and truth. But still these things are not my God—this world is not my home. I seem to myself like a school-boy very agreeably placed at school—fond of his master, pleased with his companions, and interested by his studies, he has every sober ground for satisfaction, and, as such, does not pettishly wish to be gone—does not for a moment think of leaving till his vacation shall arrive: but still the thoughts of home delight him, and when the summer which calls him there arrives, he most cheerfully complies—his kind master, his pleasing companions—his engaging studies—all are most gladly left; for these are not his home. Ah, my dear friend, how lightly should we all sit to the things beneath, to those which are nearest and dearest, did we but consider heaven more as our own place—as our heavenly Father’s house!
I often wish, my dear friend, that the bounds of our habitation were so fixed that we might not only correspond with, but face to face converse with, each other. This privilege I now enjoy with my friend King, who for nearly a year has been on the same spot, and even in the same house. But I still feel my heart longing after my absent friend. This indeed may originate in some latent feeling of ingratitude and discontent, which leads me to overlook the mercy vouchsafed, and to long for that denied. And yet I am not conscious that this is altogether the case: hardly a day elapses in which I do not thank God for the blessing granted me, through the medium of my present friend. He is a most choice and valuable young man—one of ten thousand. And yet the question frequently arises in my mind, why did I ever know—why did I feel so exceedingly attached to my absent friend, if it were not the intention of a gracious and indulgent God to give him to me in like manner? But the ways of the Lord are in the great deep: his footsteps are not known; and yet gracious, though unknown, I would therefore be thankful that I have a dear—dear—very dear friend, to whom I can write, and for whom I can pray, if I can do no more; and my mind is solaced and comforted with the hope that a day is coming in which we shall join to part no more; that glorious inheritance is at hand where some adjacent mansion shall be assigned us, or where distance shall prove no impediment or barrier to our intercourse. May our loving Saviour, who is “the way, the truth, and the life,” guide us and ours all safe to this glorious kingdom!
I remain,
Your very affectionate Friend and old Collegian,
“Mort.”