Sojourn at Griqua Town (continued)

The Moffats were now settled down for a few months at Griqua Town, and the following from Mary Moffat is a simple description of the homely ways which obtained in those secluded regions — indeed it will still hold good of what may still be found in some parts of South Africa:

“I dare say my friends often wonder how we proceed in our domestic concerns. In some of them we are extremely awkward, and in others pretty well. For instance, in this part of the country it is the custom to have the kitchen separate from the house, a thing which few English women can reconcile their minds to; for when that is the case the kitchen of the missionary is the place of common resort, and if one turns one’s back, perhaps half of the food is gone, and spoons, knife, fork, or whatever lies about, is away. They are generally such places as an English person cannot sit in, because there is no chimney and the place is full of smoke, and it must all go out at the door or not at all. Add to this the wood fire, which requires one person’s constant attendance to keep in and regulate.

“Those who have tolerably good houses have generally what is called a fore-house. It is the place of entrance. The outer door renders it cool and comfortable, which door is in the middle, as in a hall; and this place is generally the largest in the house. It is the houseplace of the family, where they eat, fold and iron their clothes, prepare victuals for the fire, &c. At each end of this place is a small room, one of them the bed-room, the other the private sitting-room, study, or whatever you may call it. Behind are detached pack-houses, where everything is kept. This is the plan of a good missionary house here, and I approve it, only I would have both kitchen and pack-houses attached to the dwelling-houlse. If I want a little coffee, sugar, or butter, I like to have it at least a little nearer the house than they have it Custom seems to have established this awkward system, which is productive of many evils: for instance, it ruins servants, and there is such a propensity in all the natives of this country to assist each other to food, when they have it in their power, that you cannot keep them from it whilst the kitchen is out of your sight.

•’ However, my good man dislikes it as much as I do, and has promised to order matters differently when he builds, which will be on our return to the Kuruman. No servant will like it, as she will not then have an opportunity of displaying her liberality. They seem to account all Europeans stingy. Poor creatures! they are ignorant of the value of most things, and they think we should eat everything up at once as they do, and starve all the rest of the time.

“The washing is done at the river, in cold water, and instead of rubbing they beat things upon the stones, which wears them fast. When we get settled, I wish very much to wash in the English way. We cannot at present for want of tubs, but Moffat has promised to make me some, as I know he will.

“With regard to animal food, all missionaries, however small the family, kill a sheep (but the sheep are small in this land) every week in the moderate weather. They must do it on account of the people they have about them — people in the garden, &c., who all eat more than their work is worth, for it will take two or three generations to get indolence out of their nature. The chief part of the sheep’s fat is in the tail, which is an enormous size, a burthen for it to carry. The fat of this is of quite an oily nature and very rich; this we melt, and it assists in cookery. In the heat of summer it will not stiffen unless mixed with hard fat and set in a cool place. With the hard fat we make candles, and some people soap; but that is an immense and troublesome business, being three weeks every day on the fire and requiring the most constant attention.

“As much of the mutton as we can we salt for the summer, for fresh meat will not keep a day here in that season. Sometimes an ox or a cow is killed, and the chief part of it salted. The salt here is used in its natural state, and is both salt and saltpetre. We smoke the meat to keep the moth out of it, otherwise it would be devoured — and is even then sometimes.

*’ Most missionaries have a brick oven for their bread. We leaven our bread, always keeping a lump of leaven, and the bread is as sweet as any yeast could make it if we do not let it work too long. We have the wheat all ground down together, and I like it better than sifted for household bread.

•’ The cows in this country give very little milk. Seven or eight are no better than one English cow. When I was in England we used to wonder what the * thick milk ’ was of which Mr. Campbell spoke, and now I can tell you. It is only the natives who make it, but I shall certainly have it too if ever I get abundance of milk, it is so good. They get a goat-skin and scrape the hair quite clean off, so that you could not tell that it had been hairy. Then they tui-n the outer side in, sew it up into a bag with a narrow neck like a bottle. At the bottom they have a very small peg stuck in, a thick peg at the top which closes the mouth of the sack. Into this sack of goat’s-skin they pour their milk as it comes from the cow. Perhaps in three or four days it is full. It is hung in a pretty warm place. They pull out the small peg at the bottom and let the whey off. The milk is poured out at the top end of the sack, and comes to the table wet, but not swashy. This when served up looks like a dish of light curds. The milk here being very rich it has quite a yellow appearance. It is rather sour, and with a little sugar and new milk it is delightful. I did not fancy it at first, but probably it was on account of its being brought in their dirty vessels. I have now got over that, and eat it with relish. Moteebe frequently brought us a dish of it, which is a great mark of esteem. The Bootsuanas have it much nicer than others, because they let no dirt into the bag.

“I have yet another of our customs to relate. You will perhaps think it curious when I tell you that we smear all our room floors with cow dung once a week at least. At first when I saw Sister Helm do it I thought to myself, * But I’ll do without that dirty trick, or I will try hard.’ However, I had not been here long but was glad to have it done, and I had hardly patience to wait till Saturday. It lays the dust better than anything, kills the fleas which would otherwise breed abundantly, and is a fine clear green. You observe it is mixed with water, and laid on as thinly as possible. I now look upon my floor smeared with cow dung with as much complacency as I used to do upon our best rooms when well scoured.

“Writing about this curious article puts me in mind of a custom of the Bootsuanas. If his majesty Moteebe dines with us, before he eats he sends his servant for a handful of this article and rubs his hands with it till every particle of dirt is gone. However curious it may appear to you, I would rather see him eat after this process than before it, as their hands get a share of the nasty fat and red ochre with which they smear themselves.

“M. M.

“Griqua Town, Aug, ii, 1820.”

The close of the year found the Moffats still at Griqua Town. This place was inhabited by a mixed multitude of Griquas, Korannas, Hottentots, and even Bushmen and some Bechwanas. At an early period, about the year 1799, missionaries made an efTort to collect the scattered Bushmen in the northern part of the Colony. They were only partially successful, and they extended their plans so as to include others as well as Bushmen. There were many people of mixed blood, descendants of the Dutch farmers, who had taken to a roving and marauding life. The missionaries Anderson and Kramer spent several years of almost incredible hardship, following these people in their wanderings, and at length succeeded in prevailing upon a large body of them to settle down. When once this was accomplished, the new village soon became a rallying point for members of all the broken tribes above mentioned. Mr. Anderson lived to see a large and orderly community making great progress in industrious habits, and a Christian church formed. Then the Government took a very strange step. An order was sent to Mr. Anderson to furnisn twenty Griquas as recruits to the Cape regiment. It might have been supposed that these people would have been left alone. The missionaries had found them mere wanderers in the desert beyond Colonial control, and had gathered them together in a locality far outside the frontier, where they could claim no protection except that of God and their own right hand.

Mr. Anderson had no option but to give the message, and the effect was disastrous. He at once lost the confidence which he had earned by years of patient labour and self-denial. Up to this time he had acted as a medium of correspondence between the Griquas and the Government, and had, moreover, been the adviser and guide of his people in reference not only to spiritual but political matters. They now began to look upon him as an emissary in the interest of the Government, and so utterly did their trust in him fail that in a few years he saw it his duty to give up the charge of the mission of which he was to a large extent the founder, and retire to another station in the Colony. Nor were the effects less disastrous to the people themselves. They began to break up; one party, headed by the most influential chief, removed to another part of the country; a second, though acknowledged as chief, withdrew to a distance of about fifty miles; and Griqua Town was left with a population reduced in numbers and practically without a head.

It was at this juncture that Robert Moffat was requested by Mr. Campbell to assist Mr. Helm in reorganizing the mission on a new footing. The task seems to have been a difficult one. The people were invited by the missionaries to make choice of one of their number as chief. They did so, showing great wisdom in the appointment of the late Andries Waterboer, who for many years ruled the settlement with firmness and discretion, but was succeeded by a son far inferior in character, under whom matters went altogether wrong. The Griqua Mission is now a thing of the past. They as a people have broken up, and are becoming absorbed in larger and stronger communities around them; but this is no reason for considering what was done amongst them in the earlier days as thrown away. For a long time the Griquas served a good purpose on the northern border of the Colony — as we shall have occasion to notice — apart from purely spiritual results, of which the annals of the mission furnish abundantly satisfactory proof.

Of the mere degraded wanderers in the desert whom the first missionaries gathered together, many a humble and faithful believer in the Lord has entered into rest after a life of consistent godliness.

During his stay at Griqua Town Robert Moffat wrote as follows:

*’ As it regards the cause of our Lord in this place, I cannot say much to the praise of the Griquas. It is true of late we have been delighted to see a full church. The members are numerous. The last time I administered the Lord’s Supper there were upwards of forty who partook; but alas! too many of these have stains on their garments, but of such a nature as not to bring them under church discipline. Heretofore this important duty has not been exercised to that extent that Paul would have done had he been here. The result of such neglect is that our church is a mixed heap of which the major part is rubbish. They have a name, and they lead a course of Ufe which exhibits neither a devil nor a saint. Within the last month a number of these dead members have been amputated from the body, and their examples have the very effect which the Scriptures intimate: ‘others fear,’ and dread to commit crimes which they would otherwise have done with impunity. Mr. Helm, who is a wise, prudent, and pious brother, fully coincides with my views, and is very zealous in clearing the church of such fruitless stumps. We rejoice, however, in the faithful few who seem indeed pillars in the temple of our God. These, with others who have entered the regions of immortaht)’, witness that the labours of Mr. Anderson have not been in vain, and that the exertions of British Christians have, through the Divine blessing, been mighty in pulling down the strongholds of Satan.

“This season has been extremely warm, and we have had much thunder. On the 21st of November we had a heavy storm of thunder, lightning, and rain. The lightning struck and set fire to a small round storehouse in which some of our goods lay. It entered the top and ran obliquely down one of the thick poles which supported the roof, shattering it into a thousand pieces. It passed through the wall, melting the very stones in its course.

“Means were soon used, the fire was got under, and no injury whatever sustained. This round house is only about fourteen yards distant from our dwelling-house, and scarcely so far from Mr. Helm’s. It was very alarming, and deeply impressed our minds of God’s fatherly protection. On the 28th of the same month the lightning struck a tree in one of the missionary gardens at Lattakoo.”

Towards the end of 1820, Mary Moffat was prostrated by a severe illness, and for a long time it seemed unlikely that she would recover. In reference to this her husband writes some weeks afterwards:

“We are assured that though weeping endures for a night, joy will come in the morning, which has also been realized in the experience of thousands since it was written. A very short experience, indeed, convinces us that the brightest scenes and most enlivening prospects are not without their alloy; like the interrupted rays of the unchanging sun which cast a shade on our most dazzling enjoyments, and convince us that this is not our rest, and that the Christian life at best is a life of vicissitude. Happy they, whether on beds of languishing or in adversity, who can say, ‘Faithful are the wounds of a friend.’ To such, affliction is not loss, but gain, for they say from experience that it is good to be afflicted, and joy more exalted and pure takes possession of the mourner’s heart. This, my dear parents, has been the experience of myself, but especially of your beloved daughter. She has sowed in tears, but now reaps in joy. Yes, she who a few months ago stood on the brink of eternity, expecting hourly to quit the tottering fabric, delivering with sinking voice her last message, is at this moment sitting in perfect health, with a lovely, healthy daughter on her knee. Surely this is the Lord’s doing, and is wonderful in our eyes.”

This daughter was named Mary, and was afterwards known as the wife of David Livingstone. She was born on the twelfth of April, Very soon afterwards the quiet little community at Griqua Town was enlivened by an unusual event — the influx of a large party of visitors: Mr. John Melville of Cape Town, with his wife and family, and Mr. and Mrs. Kaye, Wesleyan missionaries. The former had come as a representative of Government, to inquire into political affairs, with a view to his eventually taking up his abode as Resident at Griqua Town.

Mr. Kaye’s object was to find a station among the Bechwanas. As the time was now come for the Moffats to commence their work at Lattakoo, it was agreed that their visitors should accompany them, and so the whole party started together, and arrived in safety on the seventeenth of May. Mr. Hamilton was not a little comforted by the advent of his future companions in labour. He had borne trials of no ordinary character, which would have caused many men to give up in despair. Though gentle and unassuming, and by no means disposed or fitted to take a leading part, he was a man whose faithful obedience to his Master and tenacious perseverance nothing could shake or turn aside. From this time he and Moffat stood shoulder to shoulder through a work of more than thirty years, at the close of which he was called away to his rest.

This period marks the commencement of Robert Moffat’s permanent connection with the Kuruman Mission. It may be well to explain here that the name of Lattakoo, so long used, was better known in England than in South Africa. When Mr. Campbell paid his first visit he found the Batlaping tribe at a place called Letakong, about thirty-six miles north-east of the present station of Kuruman. When the missionaries he had promised to send arrived at their destination, the tribe had removed, or was removing, to a spot on the Kuruman River, about ten miles from its source. I’he name Letakong — or, as it had been transformed by persons unaccustomed to native pronunciation, Lattakoo — had, however, become identified with that particular station, and for a long time continued to be so, until the missionaries moved a little higher up the valley, and Kuruman, which was the name of the river, came into use.

The Kuruman River, so-called, is through the greater part of its course a mere channel, such as is common enough in that waterless region. The stream, which takes its rise as already described in a previous chapter, flows for a mile or more along a somewhat narrow valley. This then widens out, and the water used to spread over a broad, reedy lagoon or marsh, but has been stopped with a dyke, and led in watercourses along the higher ground on either side, and made available for irrigation. Little or none of it passes beyond the limits of the present station. Such is the thirsty nature of the soil, that, especially during the growing season, every drop is required for watering the lands.

A few miles lower down, at the site of the old station, there is a recurrence of springs in the river-bed, and a stream again flows for some distance and eventually disappears. The course of the Kuruman trends away westward, and then southward across the Kalahari Desert. Here and there, at long intervals, wells are sunk in the chalk deposits within the channel; but it is only in an exceptional year that there is any stream, and I am doubtful whether even that fitful stream ever runs continuously as far as the junction of the Kuruman with the Orange River.

The higher part of the Kuruman used to be well fringed with mimosas. These have nearly all disappeared owing to the increasing demand for wood. The picturesque aspect of the original station and its environs, which so pleased Mary Moffat on her arrival, is pretty much a thing of the past.

As soon as we ascend the low banks on either side and leave the river, we find the surrounding countr)* barren in the extreme. For many miles nothing is to be seen but stony hills and sandy plains covered with long grass, which for the greater part of the year is not green, but a light straw-colour. The continuity of the grassy expanse is broken by scattered bushes a few feet high and of a dull grey hue, and dotted here and there with a few dark-green camel-thorn trees. To any one accustomed to the rich foliage and green fields of England, such a prospect must be cheerless in the extreme, especially when, as in those days, the transit from one point to another was a matter of crawhng along for days or weeks in an ox-waggon.

The Kuruman station is not far from the border of the desert. Westward towards Namaqualand the country becomes drier and more dreary at every step. Eastward, and particularly north-eastward, there is a steady improvement until, after a journey of two hundred miles, the traveller finds himself in a comparatively picturesque and well-wooded region.

The self-denying labours of the original pioneers had not been attended with any success when the Moffats joined the Lattakoo Mission. The Bechwanas turned a deaf ear to the gospel. The ground which the chief had given them for gardens, and which they with immense labour had made available by leading the water to it, was encroached upon by the women, headed by the chiefs wife herself. Rather than make any difficulty, the point was conceded. When the corn ripened, a great part of it was openly taken by the people. Their sheep were stolen out of the fold at night, or driven off when grazing in the day-time; until they were constrained to slaughter the remnant and to put the meat into salt lest they should lose it altogether. No tool or household utensil could be left about for a moment, or it would disappear. The chief, though himself friendly, was a man of weak character, and could not, or would not, give them effective help.

A severe drought had set in. A rainmaker who came from the N.E., when he found all his arts in vain, laid the blame on the white strangers. The people, who were really suffering greatly, were only too ready to take up this idea; and for a time it seemed possible that the missionaries would be driven away.

But the cruellest trial of all was to find their worst foes within their own camp. A number of Hottentots had accompanied the missionaries from the institutions within the Colony. These, though themselves converts, were too new and too weak in the faith to meet the demands which were made upon their constancy, surrounded as they were by a heathen and corrupt people. Their conduct became a source of shame to their leaders, and could not be otherwise than a hindrance to the gospel of which they showed themselves such unworthy exemplars.

Robert Hamilton, the only one of the three originally told off for the Lattakoo Mission who remained, was in a position which hampered his own usefulness, and must have hailed with joy the advent of a colleague who was both able and willing to wield the pruning-knife with a strong and skilful hand. In a few months after Robert Moffat’s arrival a course of stern discipline had purged the little community; and though the band that met around the Lord’s table was reduced to a mere fraction, yet it was a lesson to heathen onlookers that must have told its tale.

In February, 1822, Mary Moffat writes to her parents:

“At present Moffat is applying himself with all diligence to the language, as the particular object of his destination here. He finds immense difficulties from the barrenness of the language and imperfect interpreters, but he is naturally too persevering soon to lose courage. This is his sole motive for undertaking a journey at present, in order to become familiar with it by being for a time out of the habit of speaking Dutch with our own people here. I think it will also be of advantage to me in that respect; having so much to employ my lime with at home I have little chance of learning much of it. You beg of us to pay particular attention to the instruction of the rising generation, but alas, we have no opportunities of doing this: the people, instead of desiring that their children should be instructed, are afraid of their becoming ‘Dutchmen,’ so tenacious are they of their old customs and habits; and if a boy and a girl venture to come they are soon laughed out of it. Perhaps if we gave them each a meal of meat every day, or a few beads, we might have the place crowded — but on no other condition. Oh! how were we affected on reading an account of Madagascar, when we thought of the difference between that people and this; they so desirous and these such despisers of instruction. As to some of these people having correct notions of God and of heaven, death and hell, as has been asserted, you must not believe it; for daily conversations convince us that the wisest of them have most corrupt notions on these subjects. We are astonished at their dreadful stupidity about these things. My beloved parents, we have much need of your sympathy and prayers, and those of all other Christians. Could we but see the smallest fruit we could rejoice amidst the privations and toil which we bear; but as it is, our hands do often hang down.”

“Aug. 22, 1822.

“I acknowledge the receipt of brother Alexander’s letter of the 16th of February, 1821. It rejoiced us exceedingly to hear that all was well with you. It is always a great treat to us to receive one of his letters. We have not a more interesting correspondent. My own father and he are much alike in their letters. We hope he will keep his resolution of writing once every four months. You can form no idea of the delicious repast which a well-filled letter affords to our minds, especially when we hear that all is going well. We are entirely at the mercy of our friends for what we know of what is going on in the world. We seem here to be in its suburbs, and when a long time elapses without fresh intelligence our hearts sicken and languish.

“We have no prosperity in the work, not the least sign of good being done. The Bootsuanas seem more careless than ever, and seldom enter the church. Their indifference seems to increase, a.nd instead of rejoicing we have continually to mourn over them. Our ox- WA GGON TRA YELLING. 71

consolation is derived from the promises of the immutable Jehovah. We walk by faith and not by sight. How mysterious are His works, and His ways past finding out. In almost every other part of the world to which the gospel is sent, some of the people receive it gladly, but here the blessing is withheld. Five years have rolled on since the missionaries came, and not one soul converted, nor does any one seem to lend an ear. All treat with ridicule and contempt the truths which are delivered....

“I must now endeavour to remove some mistakes under which you seem to labour respecting African travelling. You appeared to think that the journey from Griqua Town to this place was a very formidable one. It is true, considering the weak state in which I was at the time you allude to, it was a little exertion, and at times I felt it; but we are so accustomed to travelling that in general we think that journey a mere trifle. Since that time I have been twice to Griqua Town with Robert. We think it essential to health to take a trip now and then, and it is a rule of mine that when my husband goes with the waggon for more than two days I go with him, unless circumstances render it very improper. If he goes alone he does not take care of himself, and will not be at the trouble to make himself comfortable; and I think he had enough of that sort of life in Namaqualand. But you can form no idea how comfortable our waggons are. They are very light vehicles, and in them we carry all necessary comforts. If there are children, they play on the bed or lie asleep. The length of our day stages is about eight or twelve hours on an average, riding about three and a half miles an hour; we are chiefly guided by the water, riding from one fountain to another, that our oxen may be refreshed as well as ourselves. Sometimes the water is too distant and we make two stages of it, but we always take with us a keg of water in case of an accident in the wilderness. When we span out (or unyoke), a fire is immediately made, the kettle set on, and coffee or tea made. I would here notice that that missionary must De very regardless of his wife’s comfort who does not see to that being done without her troubling herself. For my own part I never think of coming out of the waggon till there is a good fire, for it is comfortless work indeed turning out in a cold night in the wilderness with a child or children before there is a fire.

“If it is a short journey we generally make bread enough to serve us before we leave home, and if a long one we stop when needful to provide such necessaries. Having thus refreshed ourselves, we have worship with our people round the fire, or in the tent which we sometimes pitch, and retire to rest in our waggons. In these we have as comfortable beds as at home, only a little strait, especially when the family increases. The Hottentots roll themselves in a kaross, with another skin under them, and lie round a good fire quite happy. There are also dangers attending our journeys. In many places a sharp look-out must be kept lest the Bushmen seize our oxen while grazing; in other places the lion is on his prowl for the same object. In every place the wolf pays us a visit. He seldom touches the oxen, but seizes the sheep if he can. Though I wish to convince you that we do not lead such a gypsy sort of life as brother Sandy seems to suspect, I shall by no means attempt to prove that it is a remarkably pleasant life, for we are always heartily tired by the time the journey is done. It is at the same time a lazy and a busy life — all bustle when we stop, and unfavourable to sewing and reading when we are moving; but custom and necessity reconcile us to it.

“At the present time the scarcity of food in this country is terrible. The cattle are dying from want in every direction, and the inhabitants feed on the flesh of the animals which are starved to death. Of our small stock three calves and four cows have died, and from the remainder we have not one drop of milk. The poor people have scarcely any milk, no corn nor anything else. How they live we know not. Truly this is a wretched land!

“If you have not heard what I am going to communicate you will doubtless be much affected. Afrikaner is no more an inhabitant of this lower world, but has passed through the swellings of Jordan and entered the abode of endless bliss. Younker, his son, has lately written to Robert to apprise him of it. You may readily conceive of the feelings it excited in our breasts, especially that of Robert, who was once so nearly connected with him. He feels as one who has lost a near relation, and cannot but wish that he had been there to have witnessed his happy spirit take its flight.”

At the close of the year 1822 Robert Moffat writes to his brother:

“I shall now give some particulars of our present situation. The most important is the cause of Christ. Alas 1 we still hang our harp on the willows, and mourn over the destiny of thousands hastening with heedless but impetuous strides to the regions of woe. They turn a deaf ear to the voice of love, and treat with scorn the glorious doctrines of redemption. This often causes our hearts to languish, while our eyes fail with looking upward.

“It is, however, pleasing to reflect that affairs in general wear a more hopeful aspect than when we came here. Several instances have proved the people determined to relinquish the barbarous system of commandoes for stealing cattle. They have also dispensed with a rainmaker this season. Wc rejoice in this, because his services and presence must ever form a strong barrier to the spread of the gospel.

“We prayed and hoped that a good season would thoroughly convince them that the power of giving rain belonged only unto God, but He whose footsteps are in the sea has been pleased to order it otherwise. The season has been so dry as to destroy their corn, except a little which happened to be sown on ground a little marshy. Nothing, however, has been said as to the cause of the drought.

“We continue on friendly terms with them, though we have also much to suffer, especially from thieves, who pester us on all sides.

“Ann and Dicky, the two Bushmen children whom I consider part of the family, are doing well. Ann is very useful, and forms a good nurse for the little Mary.”

Some months before this Robert Moffat, on one of his journeys, had come unexpectedly upon a party of Bushmen. They were digging a grave for one of their number, a woman, who had died leaving two children. Finding that it was the intention of the party to bury not only the body of the woman, but the two children also, the missionary begged for them; and as the only object was to get rid of them, his petition was readily granted. He brought them home, and for some years they were part of his household.