"One afternoon," writes an American missionary in Africa, "I went to
see old Father Scott, an aged dying African. He sent me word he would
like to see me. He is in an old dilapidated shanty. A few boards
knocked together, raised about a foot from the floor, served as a
bedstead. The straw bed we made for him on our first arrival. A little
bench, on which were two Bibles and an earthen jar for water, was all
the furniture he possessed. He is dependent for food and care on his
neighbors, as he is perfectly helpless.
A woman who was near brought me a stool, and I sat down beside him. He
was delighted to see me; he told me he had served the Lord for forty
years. He had been a Methodist preacher for many years, and had often
preached three times a day, though he could never read a word. He would
get some boy to read to him several chapters in the Bible, till he got
hold of just the text that would suit him. I was very much surprised at
his familiarity with the Bible. He could tell me where to find almost
any passage.
I could not but look at that poor old man, with his few privileges, and
compare them with those of our more favored people. As I looked at him
in his penury, witnessed his happiness and his implicit faith, and
saw how near home he was, I felt that he was really to be envied. Who
can doubt the power of Divine grace? I read to him, and talked to him
on the glories of the resurrection, and the mansions our Saviour has
prepared for those who love Him; and then I left him with the promise
of soon seeing him again. He is almost blind. He begged me not to
forget him in my prayers. He is dying of old age, yet no one knows how
old he is.