Your letter bears the goodly inscription of “Thornhill Parsonage;” but, alas! it is a sound without locality. It exists in my kind brother’s imagination, but nowhere else. A house indeed has long been talked of, and was at length erected, but a mere laical abode. But I am happy to say that matters are now likely to be on a proper footing. I have purchased four acres of land (at £50 an acre!!) near the church, for which the Lieutenant-Governor in Council has consented to allow me an equivalent in wild land, as well as for a sum not exceeding £500 for the erection of a parsonage. And operations have commenced, but when they shall be terminated I know not. The lumber must be sawn and seasoned, and continue seasoning till next spring, and we are told that a finished habitation will be ready for us in the fall of the next year, October the 1st, 1836. But what a distant period! my hand misgives me while I write it; for my whitened locks and weakly frame point to a far different abode. May my affection combine with my judgment, and may my short residue of days be so numbered by me, that wisdom’s lessons may both diligently and effectually be learnt! When I sat down I was purposing a tolerably close imitation of your own very lengthy (eleven-lined!) epistle, and was about to find some convincing, or at least plausible, reason for my shabbiness. Happily, however, my pen has kept sliding on; and finding myself so near the conclusion of the third side of my closely written sheet, I may assure you with a tolerably fair and unblushing front, of our unabated and most affectionate regards to yourself and all your endeared family, and not least, those of your sincerely devoted brother, GEORGE MORTIMER. P.S. Our kindest love also to all our endeared relatives. TO MRS. D. WHITMORE. Thornhill, August 21, 1835.