Nothing but a Missionary
By A. C. Thompson
"NOTHING but a missionary!" But the man who gave that toss of the head and that half-scornful look should cast an eye down the long central aisle of the hall at Mildmay Park, London. Whom do we see coming up the aisle—a son of Anak in stature, erect, his features strongly marked, his venerable locks and long white beard adding majesty to his appearance? On discovering him the whole great audience rise spontaneously to their feet. A Wesleyan brother with powerful voice is in the midst of an address; yet no one heeds him till the patriarch has taken a seat on the platform. Who is the old man? Is it the Earl of Beaconsfield? Is it Gladstone? There is but one other person in the realm to whom, under the circumstances, such a united and enthusiastic tribute would be paid, and that because she is on the throne. But this hoary-headed man who attracts such marked attention is the veteran among South African missionaries. He went out to the Dark Continent more than sixty years before. He is now eighty-three; his name is Robert Moffat.