* * * * * * * Your fame, my frater, has long ago reached this far distant province, and I ought gratefully to acknowledge that it has, in more instances than one, proved the passport to gracious and kindly reception. It was to this, I think, that my boys were principally indebted for the footing they obtained in Kingston, and many other little turning points of good are pleasingly associated in my mind with the high estimate and kind feeling, which has been cherished towards you as a minister, or an author. Once, indeed, it appeared rather the precursor of evil; for our good bishop, previous to my introduction, fancied that I was the _actual man_; the great Mr. Mortimer himself, the author, the distinguished preacher in London. And many a congratulation had he cherished within, to think that he had obtained so goodly a fish in his Canadian net. “Then you are not Mr. Mortimer from London, the author.” “No, my lord, his brother.” “Oh, only his brother!” was the consolatory adjunct; and the dismayed little man was left in his own littleness, unpatronized, unbefriended, to make his own way; and to this day is, in all probability, reaping the bitter fruits of the unhappy prepossession; for, though his self-complacency keeps him from concluding, that his diocesan regards him as a mere blank, yet he cannot but be aware that the rich prize still remains in the wheel, and which he had fondly imagined had been proclaimed as his very own. My ministerial matters, however, notwithstanding this inauspicious commencement, are pleasingly progressive. My salary has been fixed by our good governor at £100 per annum; £20, or £25, I obtain from the rental of pews; a house is provided for me by my congregation, free of expense; arid I have a promise of some good glebe land, which, in a few years, will be of considerable value. My people are kind; ministrations seemingly acceptable; church and expositions well attended; temporal matters encouraging; living cheap; and two tolerably advantageous purchases secured for the children; so that the good hand of the Lord appears to be resting upon me. Indeed, never for a moment, that I recollect, have I repented of my step since I have been here. Once or twice, during our voyage, “when no small tempest lay upon us,” when the raging billows seemed on the point of ingulphing us, so great did my responsibility seem, as connected with the immortal souls of my little unprepared party, that I almost wished that I had never ventured on the perilous step. But, never for a moment, since our arrival here, have I had the least cause to retrace; and my only regret is, that I did not proceed before. But, perhaps, all is right, as to time also; and, indeed, when I glance upon some few of the deterring circumstances which intervened to retard me, I cannot doubt but that these also were from the Lord; that the deed, the time, the place, have all been under the