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Page 45
"Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright: for the end of that man
is peace." Most beautifully was this truth exemplified in the closing
scenes of the life of this truly noble and good man. On Sunday, 5th
August, he was too weak to attend chapel, and spent a peaceful Sabbath
at home. He was very fond of hymns and would often repeat one after
another. In the evening he chose several which were sung, though
feebleness prevented him from joining the singing. Among those chosen
were: "The sands of time are sinking," "Come, Thou fount of every
blessing," "How sweet the name of Jesus sounds," and "Nearer, my God, to
Thee." His New Testament was his constant companion during these last
days, and whatever the topic of conversation, it always turned with him
to heaven and the Saviour.
On Monday he seemed somewhat better, but on Tuesday night he was much
worse. Hours of pain and sleeplessness were passed, yet he rose on
Wednesday and went out several times to the garden. In the evening he
became very ill and had a fainting fit, but managed after awhile to get
upstairs, and, after remaining on the bedside for some time, propped up
with pillows, he undressed, with little assistance and much
deliberation, winding up his watch, with a cold, trembling hand,--"for
the last time," he said.
The doctor arrived shortly afterwards, who found that he had broken a
blood-vessel. The night was passed partly in peaceful sleep, and partly
in converse with his children who were then present. His daughter says,
"He was just full of his Saviour's love and mercy all through his life;
he repeated many hymns and passages of Scripture."
On Thursday morning he was visited by Mr. Morley and two other friends,
with whom he conversed. He also had his Testament, but finding he could
not read it, his daughters read to him. He repeated many hymns, among
them the Scotch version of the hundred and third Psalm, but stopped and
said, "There is nothing like the original," which was then read from the
Bible. His mother's favourite hymn, "Hail, sovereign Light," was also by
his special desire read to him.
Another sleep--a wandering, perhaps unconscious, look at his children, a
struggle, and then a quietness? and the pilgrimage was over, the spirit
had fled to be present with the Lord whom he had loved so well and
served so faithfully. "His end was peace."
He died on the 10th of August, 1883, in his eighty-eighth year.
The funeral took place a few days later at Norwood Cemetery, when,
surrounded by such relatives as were in England, Sir Bartle Frere, Mr.
Samuel Morley and several other Members of Parliament, deputations from
the various Missionary and several Religious Societies, and by the Mayor
of Bloemfontein, his remains were consigned to the tomb.
Never had a truer hero been borne to the grave, nor one more thoroughly
worthy of the name of MAN.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XI.
CONCLUSION.
As soon as it was realised that Robert Moffat had actually gone, it was
felt that a truly great man had departed from among us. A niche in the
temple of earth's true nobility seemed empty. The prevailing feeling was
given expression to by some of the leading journals, which in eulogistic
articles commented upon the life, work, and character of him who had
gone.
_The Times_, in its review, contained the following remarks:--"His chief
work was among the Bechwanas. His picture of what they were when he
first knew them would hardly now be recognised, so entirely have they
changed under the new influences which Moffat was the first to bring to
bear upon them. He found them mere savages, constantly at war among
themselves and with their neighbours, ignorant of the arts of
agriculture, and in the utterly degraded state for which we must seek a
counterpart now in the more distant tribes, whom the message of
civilisation has not yet reached. His first care was to make himself
thoroughly master of the language of those to whom he was sent. For
fifty years he has declared he had been accustomed to speak the
Bechwana tongue; he reduced it to written characters, and translated the
Scriptures into it. The Bechwanas, under Moffat's guidance, became new
men. Mission work grew and spread among them; what Moffat had begun to
do was taken up by other hands; a permanent body of native pastors was
created from among the Bechwanas themselves, and the whole region was
raised out of the savage state in which Moffat had found it, and became,
in no small degree, civilised as well as Christianised.... It would
seem, indeed, that it is only by the agency of such men as Moffat and
his like that the contact of the white and black races can be anything
but a curse to the blacks. It is the missionary alone who seeks nothing
for himself. He has chosen an unselfish life. If honour comes to him, it
is by no choice of his own, but as the unsought tribute which others, as
it were, force upon him. Robert Moffat has died in the fullness both of
years and honours. His work has been to lay the foundations of the
Church in the central regions of South Africa. As far as his influence
and that of his coadjutors and successors has extended, it has brought
with it unmixed good. His name will be remembered while the South
African Church endures, and his example will remain with us as a
stimulus to others, and as an abiding proof of what a Christian
missionary can be and can do."
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