In another letter, in reference to the above subject, he writes:—
Oh, my dear sister, I quite tremble when I think of the probable results of the present wide spread of tractarian notions. High churchism, if it be suffered to proceed, and does not meet with a speedy and most effectual check from the rulers of our Church, will hurry hundreds and thousands into Romanism, or force the decidedly Evangelical into secession. Awful times seem to be awaiting us, and I hardly dare think of them: indeed, I keep putting away every consideration almost as fast as it comes; or, rather, I endeavour to keep rolling the weighty care upon One who is both able and pledged, in answer to believing prayer, to sustain it. These principles are exerting no small degree of influence in our province. Oh, forget us not in your prayers! we greatly need them. As to myself I need say but little. My health and spirits are restored to a degree which I little anticipated, and I am enabled to go through such duties as I engage in with comparative ease and comfort. A calm, tranquil, peaceful old age has been mercifully vouchsafed me, and all I want is more grace to enjoy and improve my many mercies. I am always backward to speak of spiritual things, lest while recounting God’s mercies, “self-applause should step in;” but I still owe it to the goodness of my condescending God and Saviour to testify that I do hope his work is not retrograding in my soul. Infirmities, I have many—mental and spiritual, as well as bodily; but still some precious deepenings are I hope not fallaciously discernible.
Thornhill, near Toronto, Upper
Canada,
Jan. 4, 1841.
My much endeared Friend,
How can I convey to you the heartfelt satisfaction, which I received in perusing your most truly welcome letter? My many infirmities will hardly admit of my complying with your request of an early reply; for I have only written one letter, I believe, for many months past, and that with extreme difficulty; and I have no expectation of being able to finish this without sundry rests and postponements. But I am desirous of making the attempt, and indeed should feel myself altogether unworthy of so endeared and estimable a friend were I to place his letter among my unanswered accumulations, or avail myself of the filial aid of one of the amanuenses to whom, on especial occasions, I am constrained to have recourse.
But while I allude to the circumstance of difficulty connected with writing, I ought not, I suppose, to pass on to other matters, without a few words of explanation. About a year and half ago, I suffered sundry strains and contusions from a fall, from which I have never yet quite recovered; and though I feel no positive pain, when I am perfectly at rest, yet when I use my shoulder or the muscles connected with it, in any continuous operation, I am sure to suffer; and, whenever I imprudently and pertinaciously persist, I feel the effects for days, weeks, and even months. A habit of caution therefore, has crept upon me; and having at no time possessed any strong predilections for the labours of the pen, and especially for the duties of the correspondent, I have, at length, almost persuaded myself, that I am fully released from the obligation.
I am reluctant to fill my sheet with reference to myself, and yet I ought not to withhold from you the yet further allusion to infirmities. Long have I been failing in my health, and long have my ministerial duties proved too great a call on my general strength, and especially my nervous system; but I still feel reluctant to retire from them. My wife and children were indeed repeatedly striving to bring me to the point, and represented to me the desirableness of withdrawing before such an attack should be experienced, as would render the residue of life burdensome to myself, distressing to my friends, and useless to all. Still, I shrunk,—it seemed almost an awful thing to retire from duties so solemnly undertaken; and from which none but God could release me. In this state of uncertainty I was seized with so violent a nervous affection, while engaged in some public but unimportant matter, that I lost, in the course of few minutes, all power to read, and could not for some days make out the very commonest words without spelling them just like a child; and though, as my nerves acquired a little more tone, I was enabled to recover somewhat of my suspended powers, it was not till several weeks after my seizure, that I was enabled to appear again in public duties; and then I could merely preach, not read. But this resumption of my duties gradually brought on such oppressive, not to say alarming, symptoms, that I, at length, felt fully convinced that my poor weakly frame was no longer able to bear such onerous duties; and having, through God’s mercy, obtained an assistant, who exactly suits both myself and people, I have turned over to him my yearly stipend with every public and oppressive duty, and am now rector indeed in name, but little further: I visit, indeed, parochially, and am endeavouring in various little ways, to counsel, regulate, and forward the movements of others, and to be a bond of union to the somewhat heterogeneous mass around us; and the silent intercessor for their diversified good, when it is not in my power in any other way to aid them. And I trust, that God is still among us as a people. As to other things, the kind interest which you have ever taken in my welfare, makes me wish that you would just introduce yourself, if only for a few minutes, into our midst. I could not have believed that so much comfort awaited me in my latter days. Pecuniary means quite adequate, not only for necessaries, but for extensive comforts; a commodious, elegant, and tasty abode, close and open carriage for summer, a cutter and sleigh for winter &c.; estimable society, and superior by far to most neighbourhoods in the province, within two hours’ easy drive of the capital (Toronto), and this well and even luxuriously supplied. No lack of literature. I see the best books, and have access to, or take in myself, the most approved periodicals and newspapers, almost to overpowering. And all this, when I derive no income from my ministry (excepting the pittance from letting the glebe of my rectory), and having no aid, as in England, from pupilizing; so great are the advantages of residing in this fine province. In England all was struggling and difficulty, and no possibility of settling my family; while here, I am enabled to call every reasonable comfort around me, and to live in a style, not indeed of ostentation and display, which has never been my aim, but of comparative ease and comfort, such as calls for many an expression of grateful praise. The earlier part of my residence and ministrations in this place were not indeed over abundant in encouragement, and I had frequent thoughts of relinquishing my apparently hopeless charge, and escaping from my comfortless location. But my way never appeared to me so satisfactorily opened as to authorize the final step, and truly thankful am I that I continued. For three or four years past all has been encouraging, and I cannot but regard the spot in which I hope now to end my days, as one of the most eligible and pleasant, which this fine country can present. The visit paid to us by Mr. B. L—, and to which you allude in your letter, was in the very midst of our discouragements, and most affectionately did he sympathize with us. A few months after his return he expressed similar sympathy in the letter he wrote to me, which quite made me smile, as descriptive of scenes and feelings which seemed to have reference to “the lang syne;” so completely had our circumstances amended. But when, in a subsequent letter of a few months later date, his mind seemed only able to dwell on the same mournful scenes, and we had got fully established in our comfortable abode, with all our numerous satisfactions around us, and at the same time enjoying abundant proofs of our being deeply and firmly seated in the affections of our attached people. Thus circumstanced . . .
March 25, 1841.
Thus far, my endeared friend, had I written nearly three months ago, and then abruptly terminated my operose endeavour, effected at four different sittings, and at length laid by, almost in despair. But through God’s mercy, I am beginning again to use my pen with far less of annoyance; and, after having despatched three short letters, on the three last days, and being tolerably sound after the operation, I have looked out my suspended communication, and have no small pleasure in resuming.
The non-completed sentence will, I suppose, speak for itself, the intention being simply to assure you that, though possibly you may have heard through Mr. B. L—, of our being surrounded by nothing but desagrémens, we are, in fact, some of the most delightfully located persons in the province—perfect joy and satisfaction—a paradisaical blessedness—a very elysium of delight. Unfortunately, however, for my description, it was written in January instead of March,—the provinces since united—seat of government removed—radical elections—a fearful preponderance of rebel abettors—destructives and liberals—our beloved Church threatened—the Papacy fearlessly exhibited, and giving but too much reason for anticipating its eventual triumph, and Protestant Episcopal subversion. All around us gloomy, and full of dismal forebodings; and our only hope (if the Divine Disposer be overlooked) in the detrusion from office of those Whigs, who so vexatiously retain their places at home, and not content with liberalism, and bringing into jeopardy England’s every good, are carrying with a yet higher hand their destructive and church-subversive measures in its colonies. Such, alas! is the present aspect of our horizon! But as to myself, I am happy to say that it does not much trouble me. It is indeed not a little cloud which hangs over us, but dark and far-spreading; and yet I cherish hope that it will soon blow over. We have had our direful threatenings before, but God has dealt very mercifully with us; and I trust that similar mercies are now also in reserve.
But I am hardly leaving myself room to say a few words on other matters. Greatly did it rejoice me, my endeared friend, to follow you in your most pleasing recital of the numerous exhibitions of God’s mercy and faithfulness to yourself and family, and I have no question but that in many respects you will see yet greater things than these;—yes! all is well—much of spiritual good has been reaped by my beloved friend. He has gone forth bearing precious seed, and even here has come again with joy, bringing his sheaves with him.
April 21, 1841.
Much to my mortification, I was unable, as I had wished, to finish my letter, when I added the few lines about a month ago; but that slight effort brought on a return of my disability, and obliged me to be again quiet; and, were I to consult the suggestions of prudence, I should not, I believe, now venture on a few lines which I am desirous of appending by way of conclusion. But I am so thoroughly ashamed of both my apparent neglect, and the fussiness attendant on my endeavours to write to you the letter I have done, that I can keep my sheet by me no longer, and, though I seem to have many things to say to you, I must content myself with the assurance, that with unabated affection, and with every good wish for yourself, Mrs. C—, and family, in which Mrs. M— most sincerely unites, I have the pleasure to subscribe myself,
Your long attached Friend
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.
Thornhill, Aug. 7, 1842.
My dear Armstrong,
It struck me that the last thing you said to me in parting was, that you would inform me of your movements, and for such information I have hitherto been waiting; but as I possibly may have misunderstood you, and you are expecting to hear from me, I had better write at once.
Circumstances, I find, will not admit of my going to New York just at present, nor do I apprehend that I shall find it necessary for the accomplishment of my literary purpose to go beyond Buffalo, or Rochester at the farthest, though this I cannot quite settle till I see you.
I shall hope, if all be well, to sleep in Toronto on Monday next, and proceed the next morning for Niagara or Queenston; or, in fact, whatever place I shall find, on inquiry on board the steamer Transit, shall be the nearest point to your son’s abode; and from that point shall make my way to him as I can. I am no nice traveller on such occasions, and therefore very readily get accommodated.
There are two or three matters I am wishing to talk over with you, and which strike me as of no small importance in reference to our Canadian ecclesiastical matters. I suppose you have not been able to arrive at any decision in our favour; and, while we are beating our rough and perilous way, you will be felicitating yourself, when in some tranquil cozy retreat, that you have escaped the threatening danger of our more unquiet seas. But whether such outward tranquillity is awaiting my endeared friend or not, I trust he will ever experience much of that peace which his peace-imparting Saviour can alone bestow; and may the peace and rest which awaits him in heaven be realized by him in all its delightful fulness. And oh, may his unworthy friend be privileged to meet him there! Our kindest regards to yourself and our endeared young friend,
Yours ever, my dear Armstrong,
Most affectionately and
sincerely,
George Mortimer.
The last letter addressed to his fondly attached sister, Mrs. Holland, was written in a broken manner, and was probably among the last, except on mere matters of business, which he ever wrote. I have myself seen but one other written after the date which this bears, and which will be noticed presently.
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,
G. M.
The day before his death, Mr. Mortimer addressed a long letter to his brother, the Rev. Thomas Mortimer, full of interest and full of kindness, and which, no doubt, will be treasured up by him with great care and affection; but it is of so personal and domestic a tenor, that it is only a single short extract that I can with propriety insert in this memoir, though nothing could be more appropriate, as a conclusion to his correspondence.
June 14, 1844.
* * * * Of myself a word or two will suffice. Though old and grey-headed, my God forsakes me not; but graciously imparts a gleam of sunshine in my latter days, which almost makes me marvel. I have just completed my sixtieth year, and, though encompassed, as ever, with infirmities, have for the last twelvemonth done full duty twice on the Sabbath.
The flame yet flickers, and till it shall sink into total darkness, may it send forth some shining ray to enlighten the minds and change the hearts of my beloved Canadian people.
Adieu, my beloved Brother,
Ever affectionately yours,
George Mortimer.
Mr. Mortimer’s death, which took place on Saturday, June 15, 1844, has been so suitably and feelingly described by others that I have nothing to do but to avail myself of their services. These consist of notices of the event, taken by the public papers of Toronto; a resolution of the Central Board of the Church Society of the Diocese of Toronto, presented to Mrs. Mortimer by the Rev. W. W. Ripley, secretary; a brief memoir drawn up by the Rev. Thomas Grinfield, and inserted in the Bristol Journal; and letters written by his amiable and excellent daughter, Miss Phebe Mortimer, giving some account of the last years of her father’s life, as well as of the circumstances and particulars of his death.
It is with feelings of no ordinary pain and grief that we announce the sudden and afflictive death of a venerable friend and fellow-labourer in this diocese, the Rev. George Mortimer, M.A., Rector of Thornhill.
As this deeply-lamented gentleman was proceeding on Saturday afternoon last from his residence to Toronto, his horse, when about half way through the village, took fright, and the reins breaking, the carriage was upset, and Mr. Mortimer was thrown violently against the stump of a tree. He received immediate assistance, and was carried into the house of a neighbour, Mr. Griffiths. Dr. Paget, his medical attendant, speedily arrived, and drove him home. On the way he spoke with cheerfulness, and hopes were entertained that the injury would not prove very serious; but soon after his arrival at his own house, he expressed his conviction that he had not long to survive—an apprehension which was confirmed by his kind and afflicted medical friend. Having called his family round him, he addressed them in his own peculiarly affectionate and earnest manner, upon the solemn change he was soon to undergo, blessed them, and presently after sunk to his rest, so calmly and quietly that they knew not of his departure until the mournful event was communicated by Dr. Paget. About two hours only had elapsed between the occurrence of the accident and his death.
The servant who had driven him, was thrown also with great violence against a heap of stones, and severely hurt; but he is now, we are happy to say, recovering.
The well-known excellencies of Mr. Mortimer in every Christian sphere and relation, render any extended remarks of our own unnecessary. He was all that the mind can conceive, in this imperfect state, of a gentle, consistent, and established Christian. With talents and acquirements of the highest order, a polished mind and a benevolent heart, he was fitted to adorn any society; while the zealous and conscientious discharge of every pastoral duty to which his strength was equal, added to a large and systematic charity, endeared him, in a peculiar degree, to the flock who were so fortunate as to enjoy his ministrations.
In the diocese at large, as a well-informed, pious, and influential clergyman, his loss will be severely felt; a loss the more afflictive to many, from the very recent opportunity occurring at the late visitation, where he attended apparently in unusual health, of enjoying the benefits and gratification of his society.
He has gone to his rest in a mature, though not old age; and, in the words of a contemporary, “the chief consolation to the family and friends of this truly good man will be, that he died in the full assurance of entering into the perfect realization of the true believer’s promised happiness.”
Melancholy Accident.—It has seldom been our task to announce a more truly melancholy accident than that which, on Saturday evening, deprived the diocese of Toronto of one of its most zealous, useful, and truly respected clergymen, the Rev. George Mortimer, of Thornhill. * * * * * * * Few men could have moved in a sphere of more active Christian usefulness than this most excellent minister of religion. To the poor, and the neighbourhood generally, of Thornhill, his death will be a severe loss. His charities were large, and extended to the bounds of his clerical remuneration and a large private income. The chief consolation to the family and friends of this truly Christian man will be, that he died in the full assurance of entering into the perfect realization of the true believer’s promised happiness.
With much regret we announce the death of the Rev. Mr. Mortimer, of Thornhill. * * * * * * * * * *
Mr. Mortimer was the incumbent of the Episcopal Church, at Thornhill; he was beloved by his congregation, and held in high respect by all around him, and distinguished for his benevolence and charity.
At a meeting of the Central Board of the Church Society, of the diocese of Toronto, held at the Society’s House, on the 3rd July, 1844, the Lord Bishop in the chair: on the motion of the Rev. H. J. Grasett, M.A., domestic chaplain to the Lord Bishop, seconded by the Hon. W. Allan, it was
Resolved—That the Central Board of the Church Society of Toronto, with feelings of the deepest emotion, embrace the first opportunity of their meeting together since the sudden and lamented death of the Rev. George Mortimer, M.A., Rector of Thornhill, to express their sorrow in the removal of a member of their body, 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.
And while the Board view in this melancholy bereavement, the chastening hand of a merciful and gracious Father, who scourgeth every son whom he receiveth, they most sincerely beg to offer their condolence to the widow and family of their deceased brother, who, his warfare being accomplished, has been thus suddenly called from the Church militant to join the society of those who have departed hence in the faith and fear of the Lord.
(Signed) John Toronto.
With deep regret and affectionate esteem, we record the death of one, whose memory (we are persuaded) is embalmed in the hearts of many among our fellow-citizens—the Rev. George Mortimer. In the midst of his ministerial usefulness in Upper Canada, whither he emigrated from this city about ten years ago, his valuable life was suddenly terminated by one of those mysterious dispensations of Infinite Wisdom, which, while they make us feel our deep ignorance, exercise at once reverential submission and Christian confidence. Thrown from an open carriage against the stump of a tree, he received a fatal injury on his chest; and having been carried to his home, and placed on his bed, he expired within two hours. It is remarkable that, as a fall, suffered in his infancy, had injured his growth, and distorted his person, a fall should have proved the occasion of his death. For several years (between 1826 and 1834) he resided in this neighbourhood; first at Horfield, when he officiated as evening preacher at St. Mary-le-Port, in this city; afterwards, as curate of the Rev. Alfred Harford, at Hutton, in Somerset. He was a man equally distinguished by his intellectual and Christian excellence. The strength and symmetry of his mental constitution presented a striking contrast and relief to the imperfection of his stature and his form—imperfection redeemed by a countenance eloquently expressive of benignity blended with intelligence. Those who enjoyed his personal intimacy will remember him long among the most instructive and interesting of companions—among the most kind and faithful of friends. As a preacher, he was eminently popular, powerful, and profitable; peculiarly excelling in accurate details of practical and social duty, and also in discriminative representations of the character and the heart. A mind acute, perspicuous, methodical, enriched with knowledge at once varied and exact; a natural unwritten eloquence, aided by a voice of peculiar and pathetic tone—imparted an extraordinary charm to those evening discourses, which, delivered to crowded auditories in St. Mary-le-Port Church, have left, we doubt not, vivid and valued impressions on the memory and the heart of many a surviving hearer. At this moment we well recollect particular passages of his preaching; and especially his farewell address, heard with mournful eagerness by an overflowing throng on the evening of the day preceding his departure for America: the text, “Choose ye this day whom ye will serve!”—the sermon, a masterpiece of comprehensive and momentous exhortation. On the next morning (Monday) in company with many of his attached friends and hearers, “we accompanied him to the ship, sorrowing most of all for this, that we should see his face no more.” (Acts, xx. 38.) Our Canadian colony, then the scene of large emigration, and greatly in need of able clergymen, rejoiced to receive the treasure which Bristol once enjoyed. By his natural and acquired endowments, Mr. Mortimer was singularly qualified for usefulness in the new field of his ministry. In his extensive parish of Thornhill, the parish church was considerably enlarged during the year preceding his last, towards which he contributed greatly; and also effected the establishment of two other churches, with clergymen attached to them, in the same extensive district. During a long course of years, Mr. M— had made it his rule to expend a tenth part of his income annually, on the various objects of Christian benevolence: his liberality must have proved doubly valuable, where, while numerous necessities demanded relief, the people are generally slow to give. In what high esteem he was held by his Canadian brethren, is sufficiently attested by the extraordinary honours of his funeral: the Bishop of Toronto, accompanied by more than forty clergymen, many from distant places, attended his remains to their sepulchral rest, with tears of mingled love and grief. He has left an excellent widow and six children to lament his loss, and cherish his memory. Of his sons, two are engaged in the ministry; one as a missionary among the Chippeway Indians, and the youngest is studying in the College of Toronto for the same sacred destination. May the spirit of their father be perpetuated in his children’s children.
T. G.
August 7, 1844.
Thornhill, September 25, 1844.
My dear Madam,
In compliance with the wishes expressed in your letter to Mamma, and at her request, I proceed to retrace the latest years of my dear father’s life. Though it is in some respects a painful task, and one for which I feel myself incompetent, I shall be quite repaid if I afford any pleasure to the respected and valued friends of my late beloved father.
I think you must have heard of the distressing nervous attack which my dear father had about four years since, and which, for a time, entirely incapacitated him for the discharge of his ministerial duties, and obliged him to engage the services of a curate. When he had partially recovered, but, at the same time, felt unequal to the resumption of his ministrations at Thornhill, he undertook a service in a retired place, nearly four miles distant, where no church service had been before held. He felt very much interested in this self-imposed charge, which he termed, in speaking of it to me, the nursling of his old age. Many of the members of this congregation, which consisted entirely of farmers, mechanics, and labourers, have frequently spoken in strong terms of gratitude for his attention to them, and I hope that his labours there were in some measure appreciated. When he afterwards gave Mr. Townley some assistance in Thornhill Church, [252] he still continued his exposition, as he was accustomed to call it, at the German Mills, but then went only once a fortnight, and my youngest brother, with the consent of the bishop, officiated as lay-reader, on the alternate Sundays. At the end of June, in last year, my dear father having felt very anxious to resume his charge at Thornhill, at length came to the determination of dismissing his curate, notwithstanding the fears of his family that he would be unequal to bear the sole burden of the then greatly increased parochial duties. Connected with this determination, was a resolution to devote himself entirely to his ministerial work, and he re-entered upon it with renewed zeal and ardour. At the same time he entirely gave up all his literary pursuits, and, as if to confirm his purpose, removed from his study all the geological and other scientific works, which had previously engaged and captivated his attention. This was an evident and great sacrifice, but it was made with cheerfulness for the sake of his Divine Redeemer; and the comfort and great peace of mind which he enjoyed in doing his Master’s work, fully recompensed him for this act of self-devotion. Our fears respecting his health proved to have been groundless, for he frequently said that he never felt his ministerial duties less oppressive than he then did. The good health which he enjoyed was greatly promoted by the practice which he had adopted of driving out regularly every day, and which he then continued both for the benefit of the exercise, and also for the purpose of visiting his parishioners, very many of whom lived at a distance of many miles. His visits have been frequently alluded to, and they appear to have been prized by many, as marks of kindness and condescension, when they could not appreciate their spiritual advantage. During this last year of my dear father’s life, owing perhaps to the exclusively religious nature of his studies, his conversation much more frequently than before took a serious turn. I was frequently much struck with the beauty of his observations, and at times the thought occurred that his remarks were those of one ripening for glory. At the end of last May, Arthur and his bride came to visit us, and we then effected a family meeting, every member being present excepting Maria. During the next week, my dear father was present at the bishop’s triennial visitation, and at the annual meeting of our Diocesan Church Society; and his apparent good health was generally remarked by his clerical and other friends. The ceremony of opening a church in our neighbourhood, occurring in the following week, he thought it his duty to attend; but these exertions, combined with the excitement of an enlarged family circle, affected his health, and on that account, during the three last days he spent the whole of his time in parochial visiting. The man-servant spoke with much feeling of his conversation during their drives, and mentioned his having said, each day, when they reached home, “Once more, Stephen, God has brought us home in safety.” Some of the persons that he visited on those days remarked to a young friend, that their minister spoke to them particularly of preparation for death. On Saturday, the 15th of June, having heard that his bookseller in Toronto had received a supply of new books, he determined upon going there to select some theological works. While he was waiting for the carriage, he returned to the dining-room, and talked in a very lively manner till it was ready. He had only proceeded about a mile on his journey, when the fatal accident occurred. The newspapers gave a correct account of the accident, which perhaps you have heard—that the horse ran away; that one rein broke suddenly, though nearly new, which caused the horse to make so sudden and violent a turn, that the carriage was overturned, and that the man, though thrown out as well as his master, was only slightly injured, while the latter received his deathblow on the chest, by being thrown with violence against the stump of a tree. It had long been the practice of my endeared father, and one which he recommended from the pulpit, to make death a daily subject of prayer, and a part of that, I believe, daily petition, was that he might, if consistent with the will of God, have an easy death. The testimony of his kind and skilful medical attendant, is a decisive evidence to the striking fulfilment of this prayer; for he told us that no other death was so easy, excepting when occasioned by lightning, as that which terminated the existence of my dear father, who, he assured us, suffered no pain. He also mentioned that he considered it a very remarkable circumstance, that he should have survived so long a time as four hours: for that two hours was deemed the utmost length of time that life could be prolonged, under such circumstances, and that instant death was the frequent result of such a blow. That such was not the case in this instance, we felt very thankful, and he himself expressed his satisfaction at being brought home to his own bed, and his thankfulness that none of his bones were broken; not knowing then the fatal nature of his accident. He expressed a desire that some of his family should leave the room, that he might be quiet, and we all therefore quitted his room, excepting Dr. Paget and Arthur. He was perfectly composed, and resigned to the will of God, whatever that might be, but expressed a wish that he might fall asleep in Jesus. When he became aware, or rather suspected, that his end was approaching, he sent for all the members of his family who were then at home, mentioning us by name, and we received in succession his last blessing. He was then perfectly calm, and in a peaceful state of mind. Almost his last words were expressive of his admiration of, and thankfulness for, the wonderful plan of redemption: his words I do not remember accurately enough to quote, but his last petition was for his beloved flock! Dr. Paget, though his affectionate heart felt deep sorrow, said, that it was a privilege to witness such a death. The testimony which has been borne by all ranks to the esteem in which he was held, is very gratifying. The bishop came from Toronto, though with great inconvenience, to pay the last mark of respect to the dear remains of one whom, to the credit of both parties, he greatly respected, though differing from him in many points. The church was greatly crowded on the mournful occasion, and a deep feeling appeared to pervade the assembly. The pulpit, &c. were hung with black cloth, and all the genteel residents in the neighbourhood put on mourning. These are the consolations which the world has in its power to offer to mourning relatives, and very many have we received, nor were they by any means undervalued by us, but, added to them, we had far higher sources of comfort, in the perfect assurance that he whom we mourned had entered into his rest, and in the full assurance that the event, deeply afflicting as it was to us, was ordered by an allwise and gracious God.
Mamma desires her Christian respects to yourself and your dear sister, of whose very afflictive state of deprivation of almost every outward comfort, she was truly grieved to hear.
My dear father was much affected when he heard, through Miss B—, the sad intelligence, and he more than once alluded to your dear sister’s blindness with tears of sympathy.
Believe me, dear Madam,
Very sincerely and respectfully
yours,
Phebe Mortimer.
The following letter, written by the same hand, repeats so much of what was said in the foregoing, that at first the writer of these memoirs determined, on the omission of one of them: but, upon consideration that, though there was repetition, there was also so much variety of expression, as well as of additional matter, he judged it best to insert both—a judgment which he doubts not will be approved by his readers.
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.