The Wife of Robert Moffat

Mary Smith was born in the year 1795, a few months earHer than Robert Moffat, at New Windsor, which now forms part of Salford. Her father was a Scotchman, originally from Perthshire, who settled in England and married Mary Gray, of York, in the year 1792. Mary was their eldest child and only daughter. She had three brothers, one of whom, William, died at a comparatively early age. Another, John, became the pastor of a church near Manchester, but afterwards followed his sister’s example and gave himself to foreign missionary work. He was for some years an ardent and faithful labourer at Madras, and his earthly career was brought to a sudden and mysterious close by the loss with all hands of a ship in which he was voyaging off the coast of Hindostan. The third brother, James, alone survived his sister, and has but recently died in the United States. He has left children and grandchildren who happily have imbibed the missionary spirit, and are entering into the labours of those who have set them an eminent example.

Both James Smith, of Dunkinfield, and his wife, were persons of strong piety, in which they stood upon common ground, though he was a staunch Nonconformist, and she an adherent of the Church of England. Their daughter, from her earliest years, walked in their steps. Her father followed the occupation of a nursery gardener, in which he prospered greatly, and at one time promised to be a wealthy man. By the foolishness of others he afterwards became much reduced in circumstances after his daughter’s departure for South Africa. He never lost the respect and friendship or the practical aid and sympathy of those who had known him in more prosperous times, and valued him for his true worth of character.

Mary lived at Dunkinfield all her youth. The old house is still standing, but the extensive nursery grounds have long ago been built over, and gone past recognition. She went to the Moravian school at Fairfield, and the years she spent there must have been very happy, judging from the way in which she was wont to dwell upon them in talking to her children in after times.

They were not only happy, but they were years full of sacred influence; and at Fairfield was fostered the strong sense of devotion to duty as a servant of the Cross, which helped to carry her through toils and difficulties of no ordinary kind, and made her a helpmeet indeed to her husband. There still lives a lady who remembers with affection her life at Fairfield with Mary Smith. It was the custom for each of the younger children to be placed under the special care of one of the elder girls, who was called her “little mother.” Mary was “little mother” to one lho afterwards became Mrs. J. S. Buckley, of Ashton, and the circumstance is connected with happy and blessed recollections. The following extract is taken from the Records of Albion Independent Chapel, Ashton-under-Lyne:

“The church had not been long formed when one of its members went out to live and labour among the heathen in South Africa. In 1819, Mary Smith, of the Dunkinfield Nursery, departed from the Kuruman, where she safely arrived, and was married to the Rev. Robert Moffat. Mr. Moffat was an occasional worshipper and communicant with the small company in Refuge Chapel, with which Miss Smith was connected. Her father was an old Independent, and was one of the fourteen who left Providence Chapel. One who saw her relates that when service was occasionally held in a carpenter’s shed in Cricket’s Lane, she was there, ever active and attentive to all. She often arranged the benches and other furniture of the place in order to reduce the discomfort to a minimum; found the hymn for strangers, and invited people to attend. The missionary spirit which was in her then has rendered her through a long, laborious, and honourable life, the worthy helpmeet of her husband, the well-known apostle of the Bechwanas.”

The manner in which she became acquainted with her future husband has already been seen; the rest of her tale will be largely told by her own pen in these pages. The following letter was addressed by her to the parents of Robert Moffat, and will explain itself:

Manchester, Dec. 16, 1818.” Mv DEAR Friends, — Doubtless you will be surprised to be addressed thus by an entire stranger; but though personally unknown, you are dear to me for the sake of your beloved son Robert. If you have received a letter from him lately you will perhaps know in what relation T stand to him; but as I think it veryprobable that your letter may have miscarried, I cannot but feel deeply anxious that you should know of his welfare. I received letters from him about ten days ago, dated April and May, 1818, in the former of which he states that he sent by the same opportunity a letter for you and also one for my father, but as this has never come to hand I fear that yours also may have met with some delay, if it is not entirely lost.

“It is not only the probability of this circumstance which induces me to write to you, but also a desire to communicate to you that, after two years and a half of the most painful anxiety, I have, through the tender mercy of God, obtained permission of my dear parents to proceed, some time next spring, to join your dear son in his arduous work. This is what I by no means expected a week ago; but God’s thoughts are not as our thoughts. When He arises, every mountain flows down at His presence. He has the hearts of all men in His hands, and can turn them as the rivers of water. So He has done with regard to my parents. Previous to the arrival of these last letters, my father had persisted in saying that I should never have his consent; my dear mother has uniformly asserted that it would break her heart (as I have no sister, and she is far advanced in life): notwithstanding all this they both yesterday calmly resigned me into the hands of the Lord, declaring they durst no longer withhold me.

“The idea of parting for ever with my beloved family appears almost too much for myself. Sometimes I think I shall never get launched on the ocean before grief weighs me down; but such are my convictions of duty, that I believe were I to remain here another year, it would then be out of my power to go, for I must sink under the weight of an accusing conscience, when I consider Robert’s pecuHarly trying situation and the strong affection which he seems to bear to me. When he last wrote he was exceedingly well, veiy happy in his work, but quite alone, seldom sees a white face. The people are nearly all Kamaquas, are very kind and affectionate to him.

“He was about to take a journey still further north in search of a better situation. The chief and part of the people were going, and would have him with them. I have had a letter from a gentleman at the Cape saying that he was gone, and was expected to return the latter end of the year. It must be trying to parental feelings (as well as mine) to think of a dear child being alone in a strange land and among savages; but let us remember that Abraham’s God is his God, that the Divine promise belongs eminently to him and his companions in self-denial: ‘Lo! I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.’

“He speaks of enjoying much of the Divine presence, and while exhibiting the truths of the gospel to the wild fsamaquas, he feels the power of them on his own heart in a remarkable degree. I am sorry my father’s letter is lost, as I understand it was much more descriptive than mine, his thoughts naturally turning to our personal concerns when writing to me.”

At this juncture she was in Manchester, and to this circumstance we owe another letter which will show her strong sense of duty, and at the same time her intense affection for the parents between whom and herself there was not only the tie of natural relationship, but the strong bond of a kindred faith:

“December ?>, 1818.

“I cannot but be anxious to know how you feel by this time. I hope you have not wished to recall that which you have resigned. No, I trust you are more and more convinced of the propriety of the act. I cannot describe to you the secret pleasure it gave me to see both you and my dear father give up in such a Christian-like manner. I always feared that if you did give me up it would be by a sort of compulsion, bat when I viewed you with calmness declare that you saw it your duty and could no longer withhold from the work of the Lord whom He had a right to demand, I could not but exclaim, ‘Is not this the finger of God?’ What but a Divine power could have brought your spirits to what was so contrary thereto; and I trust you will live to see abundant cause to rejoice that you were ever brought to do it. I dare venture to affirm that you will not be losers by it. You must ever remember, my dear mother, that the Lord never deprives us of our comfort, but He is ever ready to make it up by a greater degree of His own Divine consolations, if we seek these at His hands, and are willing to have the space filled up by Himself; and surely you would be willing to be deprived of an earthly comfort, to have more of the consolations of the Spirit of God. For my own part, I have found it so much the more to be valued, that sometimes I have thought I could bear to be stripped of every earthly comfort if I might enjoy the Divine presence in a proportionate degree for everything, as I have under troubles of late.

*’ You will be well aware that the struggle in my own breast is very great; yes, it is so much so, that I dare not reflect closely upon it. If I could rest, surely I should be tempted to do it on your account. But no, my convictions of duty are so strong, that were I to remain at home I should surely sink under the weight of an accusing conscience.

“When I went home last week it was with the intention of exerting myself to the utmost; and if I could not prevail, I saw, I felt, that death must soon put an end to the conflict. But the battle was the Lord’s. He brought me off more than conqueror by His own almighty arm. And now I think if ever I do land on Afric’s shore, my soul will feel more sensibly than ever her obligations to active usefulness. Such a singular display of His care over me as I have had lately, surely calls loudly for active gratitude. And, O mother! will it not gladden your heart if the Lord permit me to enter into His work? I say. will it not gladden your heart that the Lord made you the mother of at least one child who was so highly honoured as to bean instrument in His hands, however humble, of doing something towards the conversion of the heathen? O mother! were I a mother, I should esteem it the greatest honour which could be conferred on me or my child. I should think it an ample compensation for all the self-denial I was called to exercise.

“I think I need not fear that you doubt my natural affection, by thus leaving father and mother. No, surely my dear mother knows me better than that; she is well aware of the pangs that my feeble nature will feel when the last hour arrives: surely her own will not be more violent; nothing but Divine power can support me in such an hour. Often have I thought that it would be too mighty a struggle for my poor tabernacle to stand out, but I have the promise, * My grace is sufficient for thee; my strength is made perfect in thy weakness.’”

It was several months before a suitable opportunity to the Cape occurred. Passenger ships did not go at regular and frequent intervals as they do now. The following letter was written to her friend Miss Lees, of Manchester. Such unveilings of the heart as appear in this and in the previous letter are almost too sacred for the public eye, but at the distance of more than sixty years it is hoped that they may be an encouragement to some who are going through similar experiences now.

DUNKINFIELD NuRSERY, Afay I, 1819.

“I sit down to write a few hasty lines to you this morning. I have uniformly made my complaints to you, and I often used to wonder when my complaining days would be over. I often used to think of a maxim of my old friend Mr. Bennett, that * prayers and praises are sure concomitants.’ I thought surely my experience differed from any one else’s, for I groaned year after year for particular blessings, and I seemed as far from having obtained them as when I first began to pray. These reflections had never been so strong before as when I heard your dear pastor preach from the eighth verse of the ninety-ninth psalm. The sermon was so powerfully applied that I wept the whole of the time, as he described the various workings of my mind under that particular, ’ thou answeredst them,’ and sent me away rejoicing with an assurance that my prayers would yet be answered. Shortly after, you know how that sweet sermon of Dr. Jack’s affected me, ‘Faithful is he that promised; ’ and very shortly after this you know how wonderfully, I may say miraculously, some of my prayers were answered. This encouraged me to go on, and that passage was as powerfully applied as any ever was to my mind, ‘Open thy mouth wide, and I will fill it.’

“I had still large requests to make; still some of my most anxious desires appeared to be unnoticed. But I did not believe they were, though I was resigned and willing to wait the Lord’s time. Often when I had contemplated the separation from my family have I groaned in spirit; often have I shed tears of wormwood and of gall to think that, when I was gone, my dear parents would not have one child to sit down with them at the table of the Lord; that their eyes could no longer beam with pleasure on one of their offspring whom they had any reason to believe the Lord had made His own. Often had I poured out my soul to God, ‘Oh! could I but see the spiritual life of one of my dear brothers, 1 could go without half the anxiety.’

And oh! my dear friend, how shall I tell you? Now I can depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen the salvation of God for my dear brother John (so I have good reason to hope); yes, my tears, and sighs, and inward breathings are answered. He was last night proposed to the church. He has written several very pleasing lettters to Mr. Sutcliffe. Does it not appear, in deed and of a truth, that we are now enjoying the smiles of our God; does it not appear that He approves of our conduct, and if He takes away one child He gives another? You know what it is to rejoice over a brother born; but in proportion to the peculiarity of the case on account of my going, and the length of time we have been looking with deep anxiety to this event, in proportion our joy is greater. I know you will rejoice with me, and as you had long heard of my complaints, you shall hear my thanksgiving.”

About the same time she wrote to a friend in Sheffield, Mrs. Greaves:

“With grateful emotions I sit down to acknowledge the receipt of the most bountiful present which you and Mr. Greaves have made me. My parents and I have just now been examining them, and we are very much gratified; the whole of them appear so well calculated for usefulness, and some of them such beautiful articles. I can answer for Mr. Moffat’s gratitude when he views them on a foreign shore, if such a time should come, and I dare venture to say that benevolence so pure will not be forgotten by him at a throne of grace. I feel unable to express to you how much I felt on receiving the parcel, and reading your very kind letter. I could not but admire the love which you and your dear partner manifested to that great cause which the Lord has made peculiarly my own, and which now lies nearer to my heart than any other. I could not but reverence the humility which induced you to say that you regretted not having had the privilege of my company at Sheffield, and shrink into the dust of self-abasement to see how much better an opinion you had formed of me than was my due, and which I was apprehensive, had you had a more intimate acquaintance with me, would have been in some degree altered. As for my qualifications for the noble employment which it appears probable is to devolve upon me, I am daily led to see more and more of my own weakness and insufficiency for such an undertaking; and were it not for a persuasion that the Lord often makes use of the meanest instruments to bring about important designs, and declares in His Word, ‘Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit,’ I durst in nowise presume to venture. But having (according to my own internal conviction and the opinion of many pious and prudent friends) a clear and loud call to leave my native land and enter into this arduous work, I would humbly follow the leading of His providence, counting it the highest honour which could be conferred upon me in this vain world. Yea, highly favoured indeed of God should I consider myself if I might but be permitted to smooth the rugged path of one of those dear men who have given up all for His sake, so that through my feeble aid and assistance he may give himself more devotedly to the work.

“Sometimes, indeed, when I contemplate the last painful hour when I must bid adieu to all my dear friends, my family, but above all my dear mother, now far advanced in years, my feeble nature faints, my tears will flow, the enemy of my soul and the destroyer of my peace would then persuade me that it cannot be my duty to go; but these vile insinuations I feel assured proceed from my weak, treacherous heart and the father of lies, who had too long inclined me to listen to these things by the transforming himself into an angel of light to overcome.

“Yes, my dear Mrs. G., through the goodness of God I am not now entirely ignorant of his devices. He knows my weak side, and as he has been foiled in every other attempt (though no praise to me) he often assaults me in this way: a beloved and affectionate mother, bowing under age and infirmity, her sick and dying bed are often pictured on my imagination in the most gloomy colours, and the reflection that she will not have her daughter to cheer by kind attention those gloomy scenes, overwhelms me with sorrow. But I would chase away my tears and sighs, bid every anxious thought begone, cheerfully walk in the thorny path appointed for me, and in humble faith commend her and my dear father into His hands who can and will be more unto them than all they are called to sacrifice. Great condescension has been displayed by my heavenly Father to make my path plain. For two years and a half I have suffered much from perplexity, not knowing what to do, continually harassed with a fear that I had acted sinfully in suffering Mr. M. to go alone, as he declared he could not reconcile his mind to taking another; and from various concurring providences I feel a degree of assurance that I have been out of the path of duty; at the same time the circumstance of my not going to him appears to have been overruled for good by Infinite Wisdom.

“As to my health, about which you appear tenderly solicitous, it is the opinion of a medical man whom I have consulted that the climate will agree with my constitution. The delicate often survive the strong and robust in that country; but this I would leave with Him, who will grant me just as much as is needful....

“Now, my dear Mrs. G., I must draw to a close. I must say farewell. Oh, think of me when on the stormy ocean, when on the burning sands of Africa, and when you think, oh let your heart be lifted up to Him who rulethall. You have promised me your prayers, and I most earnestly ask them for myself and my dear friend, that we may be found faithful and diligent, and never be weary in the work of the Lord.”

It was at last arranged for Mary Smith to sail for the Cipe under the care of the Rev. Mr. Beck, a minister of the Dutch Church, and his wife. She bade her mother a life-long farewell, and, accompanied by her father, made the journey to London by coach. There were the customary delays in the date of sailing, days grew into weeks; her father, too, had to return home, and she found herself, in a manner, alone in the great city, but at the same time among friends in the best sense of the term. Mr. Lewis, the pastor of Islington Chapel, and his wife did their best to cheer the young girl, and their kindness and that of other friends in Islington ever remained a grateful memory.

The many, almost daily, letters of this period are not for a public memoir. In them the whole tenderness of a dutiful childhood and youth culminate, and reveal an anguish of soul and a conflict of faith of which only a rare nature could be capable. The following short note is characteristic:

“London, August 13, 1819. “My dear Mother, — I have sent you a small token of affection. I thought it would be better calculated to communicate pleasure and comfort to your heart than any article of dress. As for having my portrait taken, I cannot now, as my father is leaving, and I should have to pay for it myself; and that you know would not do. Whatever I possess now I must husband well, remembering that I am now supported more peculiarly out of the sacred treasury. Oh! may I ever keep this in mind, and be a faithful steward. O my dear mother! do be happy, as you value my peace of mind, the honour of religion, and my credit in the world. Do not let me be reflected upon for want of affection to the best of mothers. You know it is not want of affection. Oh! do not allow the world to think so. Let us prove to the world that our blessed religion has power to soothe us under every distress.” ,,

It was not till the twenty-fourth of August that she left London, and then only to go to Gosport on her way to Cowes, where the passengers were to embark. At Gosport she was the guest of Dr. and Mrs. Bogue. Nearly a fortnight later she writes her last letter from English ground.

“CowES, Isle of Wight, September j, 1819.

“My dear Parents, — Having received an order from Captain Scott to go on board to-day, I sit down to address a few lines to you, which will most probably be concluded on board the British Colony. My feelings are very solemn at this time, but calm. I anticipate much pleasure in the voyage. We have plenty of good books, work and pleasant company. I begin to like Mr. Beck very much. I hope to derive much advantage from his society. I believe he is a very learned man. Mr. White and family have increased much in kindness to me, and I have not felt so awkward of late as I did at first.

“Having a longing desire to spend another comfortable ordinance Sabbath with friends for whom I felt some peculiar attachment, I proposed to Mr. B. to go to Gosport if the wind did not change. He readily entered into it, and accompanied me in the packet on Sabbath morning. We spent a happy day, heard the old doctor preach twice, and a student once. I sat down with them and attended a church meeting. The doctor and his lady and daughter all gave us a hearty welcome. We stopped all night and returned yesterday.

•’ I could not but feel a melancholy pleasure in reflecting both on Sabbath afternoon and last evening, at the missionary prayer-meeting here, that my own dear people and family were engaged in the same way. I could not but hope that I was at both of those seasons remembered by some of them. Oh beg my friends to think of me at those times. For a season I am going to be shut out from these ordinances. Oh pray that the God of ordinances may be with me.

“Now, my dear and beloved parents, I commend you to God, believing that He will preserve you in these troublous times. I sometimes think you will be shortly coming after me. Do not be anxious about me. The Lord is going with me. Do not be long before you write to me at the Cape — conceive how anxious I shall be to hear; and be sure to send good, full letters, or they will only set my teeth on edge. The wind is quite unfavourable, but the captain is tired out, and we are to sail at twelve to-day.”

“GOSPORT, Septemler 15, 1819, My dear Madam, — After having had your lovely and interesting daughter an inmate of our family, and enjoyed an opportunity of developing her character and beholding her unfeigned and exalted piety and zeal, I cannot but feel deeply for you and Mr. Smith, on being called to part with her to such a distance. Great must have been the trial, the conflict must have been severe; all the parental feelings must have risen up in direct opposition to her plans and wishes. The sacrifice you have made of them is great, but not too great for Him who gave up Himself for you. ‘The best child is not too good for God.’ He gave her to you, and He has demanded her back again, and He can and will be better to you both than ten such daughters, lovely and excellent as she is. His gracious presence can more than supply hers, and if He withdraws the nether springs He can make the upper springs to overflow and abound. He has highly honoured you in giving you such a daughter, and by calling her to fill such a high post on earth as that of a Christian missionaiy, the highest she could fill. ...

*’ While with us Miss Smith was in excellent health and spirits, looked well and was cheerful, and in a very happy and suitable frame of mind. She sailed last Thursday, and is, we suppose, by this time safely across the Bay of Biscay, as the wind has been favourable.

“Your truly sympathizing friend,

Charlotte Bogue.*