pictures give some idea. A few words may, however, be added, based upon
the facts recorded by his son in the last chapter of "Robert and Mary
Moffat."

Tall and strong, with dark piercing eyes, he stood, a man of dauntless
courage, quick and energetic in action, with a resolution in the
performance of duty that no opposition could thwart; yet, withal, of
gentle manner, and of an even temper, proof against the many attacks
made upon it. His disposition was to think well of men, and to believe
what they said. Deceit he hated, it was the one thing he could not
forgive. He trusted men implicitly; and this probably accounted for the
fact that the Bechwanas, who carried the art of lying to perfection,
seldom lied to him. They knew it was the one thing that would make him
angry.

His reverence for holy things was very great. He relished a joke as well
as any man, indeed, there was a good deal of humour in him; but woe to
that man who spoke jestingly of the things pertaining to God. The Word
of the Lord was too real and too important for any triviality. God was
ever present to him, and he lived for God. His son says: "Even when I
was alone with him, on some of his itinerating journeys, no meal was
commenced without a reverent doffing of the Scotch bonnet, his usual
head-dress in those days, and the solemn blessing; and our morning and
evening worship was never missed or hurried."

An instance of his forbearance under provocation is afforded in the
following:--

"On our return from England in 1843," says the writer just quoted, "we
were a large party, with three or four waggons. One night we outspanned
in the dark, not knowing that we were on forbidden ground--within the
limits of a farm, but a half-mile short of the homestead. In the early
morning a young man rode up, and demanded to know what we were doing
there without leave. My father gently explained that we had done it in
ignorance, but his explanation was cut short by a harangue loud and
long. The stripling sat on his horse, my father stood before him with
bowed head and folded arms, whilst a torrent of abuse poured over him,
with a plentiful mixture of such terse and biting missiles of invective
as greatly enrich the South African Dutch language. We stood around and
remembered that only a few months before the man thus rated like a dog
was standing before enthusiastic thousands in England, who hung with
bated breath upon his utterances. Something of shame must have