Here come two little girls bringing earthen pots of milk. They are poor

girls, daughters of two of our neighbors who are fellaheen or farmers.

One has no shoes, and neither have stockings. They wear plain blue

gowns, made of coarse cotton cloth, dyed with indigo, and rusty looking

tarbooshes on their heads, and a little piece of dirty white muslin

thrown over their heads as a veil to cover their faces with, when men

come in sight. One is named Lebeeby and the other Lokunda, which means

_Hotel_. They behave very well when they come here, as they have the

fear of the big Khowadja before their eyes, but when they are at home

running about, they often use dreadful language. Little boys and girls

in Syria have some awful oaths which they constantly use. I suppose the

poor things do not know the meaning of half the bad words they use. One

of the most common is "Yilan Abook," "curse your father!" It is used

everywhere and on every side by bad people, and the children use it

constantly in their play. When the little girls come into our Schools

and Seminaries, it is a long time before they will give up "abook"-ing.

One of our friends in America is educating a nice little girl in the

Beirût Seminary, and we asked the teacher about her a few days ago. The

answer was, "She still lies and swears dreadfully, but she has greatly

improved during the past two years, and we are encouraged about her."

Sometimes a boy will say to another Yilan abook, "Curse your father,"

and another will answer, Wa jiddak, "and your grandfather," and then

they will call back and forth like cats and dogs. I saw a Moslem boy

near my house standing by the corner to shield himself from the stones

another boy was throwing, and shouting wa jid, jid, jid, jid, jidak,

"and your great-great-great-great-grandfather," and away went the other

boy, shouting as he ran, "and your great-great-great-great gr-e-at," and

I heard no more. And then there are a great many very naughty and vile

words which the children use, which I cannot write, and yet we hear them

every day. It is very hard to keep our children from learning them, as

they talk Arabic better than we do, and often learn expressions which

they do not know the meaning of. One of the most common habits is using

the name of God in vain. The name of God is Allah, and "O God,"

_Yullah_. Then there is _Wullah_ and _Bismillah_, "In the name of God,"

_Hamdlillah_, "Praise to God," _Inshullah_, "If God will." The most

awful oaths are Wullah and Billah. The people use _Yullah_ at all times

and on all occasions. The donkey-drivers and muleteers say _Yullah_

when they drive their animals. Some years ago a good man from America,

who fears God and would not take his name in vain was travelling in the

Holy Land, and came on to Beirût. When he reached there, some one asked

him if he had learned any Arabic during his journey. He said yes, he had

learned _Bakhshish_ for "a present," and _Yullah_ for "go ahead." His

friend asked him if he had used the latter word much on the way. He said

certainly, he had used it all the way. His friend answered, Professor,

you have been swearing all the way through the Holy Land. Of course he

did not know it and meant no wrong. But it shows that such words are

used so commonly in Syria that strangers do not think them bad language,

and it also shows that travellers ought to be careful in using the words

they learn of muleteers and sailors in Arab land.

In some parts of the country the little boys and girls swear so

dreadfully that you can hardly bear to be with them. Especially among

the Nusairîyeh, they think that nothing will be believed unless they add

an oath. Dr. Post once rebuked an old Sheikh for using the word "Wullah"

so often, and argued so earnestly about it that the man promised never

to use it again. The old man a moment after repeated it. The doctor

said, "will you now pledge me that you will not say 'Wullah' again?" He

replied, "Wullah, I will."

Sometimes a donkey-driver will get out of patience with his long-eared

beast. The donkey will lie down with his load in a deep mud-hole, or

among the sharp rocks. For a time the man will kick and strike him and

throw stones at him, and finally when nothing else succeeds he will

stand back, with his eyes glaring and his fist raised in the air, and

scream out, "May Allah curse the beard of your grandfather!" I believe

that the donkey always gets up after that,--that is, if the muleteer

first takes off his load and then helps him, by pulling stoutly at his

tail.

I told you that one of the girls who bring us milk, is named

"_Lokunda_," or _Hotel_. She is a small specimen of a hotel, but

provides us purer and sweeter cow's milk than many a six-storied hotel

on Broadway would do. You will say that is a queer name for a girl, but

if you stop and think about many of our English names you would think

them queer too. Here in Syria, we have the house of Wolf, the house of

"Stuffed Cabbage," Khowadji Leopard, the lady "Wolves," and one of our

fellow villagers in Abeih where we spend the summer is Eman ed Deen

"faith-of-religion," although he has neither faith nor religion.

Among the boys' names are Selim, Ibrahim, Moosa, Yakob, Ishoc, Mustafa,

Hanna, Yusef, Ali, Saieed, Assaf, Giurgius, Faoor, and Abbas. I once met

a boy at the Cedars of Lebanon, who was named Jidry, or "Small-Pox,"

because that disease was raging in the village when he was born. It is

very common to name babies from what is happening in the world when they

are born. A friend of mine in Tripoli had a daughter born when an

American ship was in the harbor, so he called her America. When another

daughter was born there was a Russian ship in port, so he called her

Russia. There is a young woman in Sûk el Ghurb named Fetneh or Civil

War, and her sister is Hada, or Peace. An old lady lately died in Beirût

named Feinûs or Lantern. In the Beirût school are and have been girls

named Pearl, Diamond, Morning Dawn, Dew, Rose, Only one, and Mary Flea.

That girl America's full name was America Wolves, a curious name for a

Syrian lamb!

Sometimes children are named, and if after a few years they are sick,

the parents change their names and give them new ones, thinking that the

first name did not agree with them. A Druze told me that he named his

son in infancy _Asaad_ (or happier) but he was sickly, so they changed

his name to _Ahmed_ (Praised) and after that he grew better! He has now

become a Christian, and has resumed his first name Asaad.

I once visited a man in the village of Brummana who had six daughters,

whom he named _Sun_, _Morning_, _Zephyr breeze_, _Jewelry_, _Agate_, and

_Emerald_. I know girls named Star, Beauty, Sugar, One Eyed, and

Christian Barbarian. Some of the names are beautiful, as Leila, Zarifeh,

Lûlû, Selma, Lucîya, Miriam and Fereedy.

All of the men are called Aboo-somebody; _i.e._ the father of somebody

or something. Old Sheikh Hassein, whose house I am living in, is called

Aboo Abbas, _i.e._ the father of Abbas, because his eldest son's name is

Abbas. A young lad in the village, who is just about entering the

Freshman class in the Beirût College, has been for years called Aboo

Habeeb, or the father of Habeeb, when he has no children at all. Elias,

the deacon of the church in Beirût was called Aboo Nasif for more than

fifty years, and finally in his old age he married and had a son, whom

he named Nasif, so that he got his name right after all. They often give

young men such names, and if they have no children they call them by the

name of the son they might have had. But they will not call a man Aboo

Lûlû or Aboo Leila. If a man has a dozen daughters he will never be

called from them. They are "nothing but girls." A queer old man in

Ghurzûz once tried to name himself from his daughter Seleemeh, but

whenever any one called him Aboo Seleemeh, all the fellaheen would laugh

as if they would explode, and the boys would shout at him "there goes

old Aboo Seleemeh," as if it were a grand joke.

The Moslems and Druzes generally give their children the old unmixed

Arabic names, but the Maronites, the Greeks, and the Protestants often

use European names. A young lady named Miss Mason was once a teacher in

the Sidon Seminary, and spent the summer in the mountain village of Deir

Mimas. One of the women of the village liked her name, and named her

daughter "Miss Mason," and if you should go there you would hear the

little urchins of Deir Mimas shouting Miss Mason! to a little

blue-gowned and tarbooshed Arab girl.

What noise is that we hear down in the village, under the great jowz

(walnut) trees by the fountain? It rolls and gurgles and growls and

bellows enough to frighten a whole village full of children. But the

little Arab boys and girls are playing around, and the women are filling

their jars at the fountain just as if nothing had happened. But it is a

frightful noise for all that. It is the bellowing of the camels as their

heavy loads are being put on. They are kneeling on the ground, with

their long necks swaying and stretching around like boa constrictors.

These camels are very useful animals, but I always like to see them at a

distance, especially in the month of February, for at that time they get

to be as "mad as a March hare." They are what the Arabs call "taish,"

and often bite men severely. In Hums one bit the whole top of a man's

head off, and in Tripoli another bit a man's hand off. I once saw a

camel "taish" in Beirût, and he was driving the whole town before him.

Wherever he came, with his tongue hanging down and a foaming froth

pouring from his mouth as he growled and bellowed through the streets,

the people would leave their shops and stools and run in dismay. It was

a frightful sight. I was riding down town, and on seeing the crowd, and

the camel coming towards me, I put spurs to my horse and rode home.

When camels are tied together in a long caravan with a little

mouse-colored donkey leading the van, ridden by a long-legged Bedawy,

who sits half-asleep smoking his pipe, you would think them the tamest

and most innocent creatures in the world, but when they fall into a

panic, they are beyond all control. A few years ago a drove of camels

was passing through the city of Damascus. The Arabs drive camels like

sheep, hundreds and sometimes thousands in a flock, and they look

awkward enough. When this drove entered the city, something frightened

them, and they began to run. Just imagine a camel running! What a sight

it must have been! Hundreds of them went through the narrow streets,

knocking over men and women and donkeys, upsetting the shopkeepers, and

spilling out their wares on the ground, and many persons were badly

bruised. At length a carpenter saw them coming and put a timber across

the street, which dammed up the infuriated tide of camels, and they

dashed against one another until they were all wedged together, and thus

their owners secured them.

In August, 1862, a famous Bedawin Chief, named Mohammed ed Dukhy, in

Houran, east of the Jordan, rebelled against the Turkish Government. The

Druzes joined him, and the Turks sent a small army against them.

Mohammed had in his camp several thousand of the finest Arabian camels,

and they were placed in a row behind his thousands of Arab and Druze

horsemen. Behind the camels were the women, children, sheep, cattle and

goats. When the Turkish army first opened fire with musketry, the camels

made little disturbance, as they were used to hearing small arms, but

when the Turkish Colonel gave orders to fire with cannon, "the ships of

the desert" began to tremble. The artillery thundered, and the poor

camels could stand it no longer. They were driven quite crazy with

fright, and fled over the country in every direction in more than a Bull

Run panic. Some went down towards the Sea of Galilee, others towards the

swamps of Merom, and hundreds towards Banias, the ancient Cæsarea

Philippi, and onwards to the West as far as Deir Mimas. Nothing could

stop them. Their tongues were projecting, their eyes glaring, and on

they went. The fellaheen along the roads caught them as they could, and

sold them to their neighbors. Fine camels worth eighty dollars, were

sold for four or five dollars a head, and in some villages the fat

animals were butchered and sold for beef. Some of them came to Deir

Mimas, where two of the missionaries lived. The Protestants said to the

missionaries, "here are noble camels selling for five and ten dollars,

shall we buy? Others are buying." "By no means," they told them. "They

are stolen or strayed property, and you will repent it if you touch

them." Others bought and feasted on camel steaks, and camel soup, and

camel kibby, but the Protestants would not touch them. In a day or two,

the cavalry of the Turks came scouring the country for the camels, as

they were the spoils of war. Then the poor fellaheen were sorry enough

that they had bought and eaten the camels, for the Turks made them pay

back double the price of the beasts, and the Protestants found that

"honesty was the best policy."

The camel is very sure footed, but cannot travel on muddy and slippery

roads. The Arabs say "the camel never falls, but if he falls, he never

gets up again." They carry long timbers over Lebanon, on the steep and

rocky roads, the timber being balanced on the pack saddle, one end

extending out on front, and the other behind. Sometimes the timber

begins to swing about, and down the camel goes over the precipice and is

dashed to pieces.

The Arabs say that a man once asked a camel, "What made your _neck_ so

crooked?" The camel answered, "My neck? Why did you ask about my neck?

Is there anything else straight about me, that led you to notice my

neck?" This has a meaning, which is, that when a man's habits are all

bad, there is no use in talking about _one_ of them.

Perhaps you will ask, did you ever eat camel's flesh? Certainly. We do

not get it in Beirût, as camels are too expensive along the sea-coast to

be used as food, but in the interior towns, like Hums and Hamath, which

border on the desert or rather the great plains occupied by the ten

thousands of the Bedawin, camel's meat is a common article in the

market. They butcher fat camels, and young camel colts that have broken

their legs, and sometimes their meat is as delicious as beefsteak. But

when they kill an old lean worn-out camel, that has been besmeared with

pitch and tar for many years, and has been journeying under heavy loads

from Aleppo to Damascus until he is what the Arabs call a "basket of

bones," and then kill him to save his life, or rather his beef, the meat

is not very delicate.

The Arab name for a camel is "Jemel" which means _beauty_! They call

him so perhaps because there is no beauty in him. You will read in

books, that the camel is the "ship of the desert." He is very much like

a ship, as he carries a heavy cargo over the ocean-like plains and

"buraries" or wilds of the Syrian and Arabian deserts. He is also like a

ship in making people sea-sick who ride on his back, and because he has

a strong odor of tar and pitch like the hold of a ship, which sometimes

you can perceive at a long distance.

PART II.

Perhaps you would like to take a ride with me some day, and visit some

of the missionary stations in Syria. What will you ride? The horses are

gentle, but you would feel safer on a donkey. Mules are sometimes good

for riding, but I prefer to let them alone. I never rode a mule but

once. I was at Hasbeiya, and wished to visit the bitumen wells. My horse

was not in a condition to be ridden, so I took Monsûr's mule. It had

only a jillal or pack saddle, and Monsûr made stirrups of rope for me.

My companions had gone on in advance, and when I started, the mule was

eager to overtake them. All went well until we approached the little

stream which afterwards becomes the River Jordan. The ground was

descending, and the road covered with loose stones. The rest of our

party were crossing the stream and the mule thought he would trot and

come up with them. I tried to hold him in with the rope halter, but he

shook his head and dashed on. About the middle of the descent he

stumbled and fell flat upon his nose. I went over his head upon my

hands, but my feet were fast in the rope stirrups. Seeing that he was

trying to get up, I tried to work myself back into the saddle, but I had

only reached his head, when he sprang up. I was now in a curious and not

very safe situation. The mule was trotting on and I was sitting on his

head holding on to his ears, with my feet fast in the rope stirrups. A

little Arab boy was passing with a tray of bread upon his head and I

shouted to him for help. He was so amused to see a Khowadja with a hat,

riding at that rate on a mule's head, that he began to roar with

laughter and down went his tray on the ground and the Arab bread went

rolling among the stones. It was a great mercy that I did not fall under

the brute's feet, but I held on until he got the other side of the

Jordan, when a man ran out from the mill and stopped him. Monsûr now led

him by the halter and I reached the bitumen wells in safety.

You can mount your donkey and Harry will ride another, and I will ride

my horse, and we will try a Syrian journey. As we cannot spare the time

to go from Beirût to Tripoli by land, I have sent Ibrahim to take the

animals along the shore, and we will go up by the French steamer, a fine

large vessel called the "Ganges." We go down to the Kumruk or Custom

House, and there a little Arab boat takes us out to the steamer. In

rough weather it is very dangerous going out to the steamers, and

sometimes little boats are capsized, but to-night there is no danger.

You are now on the deck of the steamer. What a charming view of Beirût

and Mount Lebanon. Far out on the point of the cape are the new

buildings of the Syrian College, and next is the Prussian Hospital and

then the Protestant Prussian Deaconesses Institution with 130 orphans

and 80 paying pupils. There is the house of Dr. Thomson and Dr. Van Dyck

and Dr. Post, and the Turkish Barracks, and Mrs. Mott's school, and our

beautiful Church, with its clock tower, and you can hear the clock

strike six. Then next to the Church is the Female Seminary with its 100

pupils, and the Steam Printing Press, where are printed so many books

and Scriptures every year in the Arabic language. Those tall cypress

trees are in the Mission Cemetery where Pliny Fisk, and Eli Smith, and

Mr. Whiting, and a good many little children are buried. Near by are the

houses of Dr. Bliss and Dr. Lewis and our house, and you can see mosques

and minarets and domes and red-tiled roofs, and beautiful arched

corridors and green trees in every direction. Do you see the beautiful

purple tints on the Lebanon Mountains as the sun goes down? Is it not

worth a long journey to see that lofty peak gilded and tinted with

purple and pink and yellow as the sun sinks into the sea?

What a noise these boatmen make! I doubt whether you have ever heard

such a screaming before.

Now you can imagine yourself going to sleep in the state-room of this

great steamer, and away we go. The anchor comes up clank, clank, as the

great chain cable is wound up by the donkey engine, and now we move off

silently and smoothly. In about five hours we have made the fifty miles,

and down goes the anchor again in Tripoli harbor. At sunrise the Tripoli

boatmen come around the steamer. We are two miles off from the shore and

a rough north wind is blowing. Let us hurry up and get ashore before the

wind increases to a gale, as these North winds are very fierce on the

Syrian coast. Here comes Mustafa, an old boatman, and begs us to take

his felûca. We look over the side of the steamer and see that his boat

is large and clean and agree to take it for twelve piastres or fifty

cents for all of us and our baggage. Then the other boatmen rush up and

scream and curse and try to get us to take their boats, but we say

nothing and push through them and climb down the steps to the boat. The

white caps are rolling and the boat dances finely. Mustafa puts up a

large three-cornered sail, Ali sits at the rudder, and with a stroke or

two of the oars we turn around into the wind and away we dash towards

the shore. The Meena (port) is before us, that white row of houses on

the point; and back among the gardens is the city of Tripoli. In less

than half an hour we reach the shore, but the surf is so high that we

cannot go near the pier, so they make for the sand beach, and before we

reach it, the boat strikes on a little bar and we stop. Out jump the

boatmen, and porters come running half naked from the shore and each

shouts to us to ride ashore on his shoulders. They can carry you and

Harry with ease, but I am always careful how I sit on the shoulders of

these rough fellows. There is Ibrahim on the shore with our animals, and

two mules for the baggage. We shall take beds and bedsteads and cooking

apparatus and provisions and a tent. Ibrahim has bought bread and

potatoes and rice and semin (Arab butter) and smead (farina) and

candles, and a little sugar and salt, and other necessaries. We will

accept Aunt Annie's invitation to breakfast, and then everything will be

ready for a start.

What is the matter with those boys in that dark room? Are they on

rockers? They keep swinging back and forth and screaming at the top of

their voices all at once, and an old blind man sits on one side holding

a long stick. They all sit on the floor and hold books or tin cards in

their hands. This is a Moslem school, and the boys are learning to read

and write. They all study aloud, and the old blind Sheikh knows their

voices so well that when one stops studying, he perceives it, and

reaches his long stick over that way until the boy begins again. When a

boy comes up to him to recite, he has to shout louder than the rest, so

that the Sheikh can distinguish his voice. There, two boys are fighting.

The Sheikh cannot and will not have fighting in his school, and he calls

them up to him. They begin to scream and kick and call for their

mothers, but it is of no use. Sheikh Mohammed will have order. Lie down

there you Mahmoud! Mahmoud lies down, and the Sheikh takes a stick like

a bow with a cord to it, and winds the cord around his ankles. After

twisting the cord as tight as possible, he takes his rod and beats

Mahmoud on the soles of his feet, until the poor boy is almost black in

the face with screaming and pain. Then he serves Saleh in the same way.

This is the _bastinado_ of which you have heard and read. When the

Missionaries started common schools in Syria, the teachers used the

bastinado without their knowledge, though we never allow anything of the

kind. But the boys behave so badly and use such bad language to each

other, that the teacher's patience is often quite exhausted. I heard of

one school where the teacher invited a visitor to hear the boys recite,

and then offered to whip the school all around from the biggest boy to

the smallest, in order to show how well he governed the school! They do

not use the alphabet in the Moslem schools. The boys begin with the

Koran and learn the _words by sight_, without knowing the letters of

which they are composed.

Here come two young men to meet us. Fine lads they are too. One is named

Giurgius, and the other Leopold. When they were small boys, they once

amused me very much. Mr. Yanni, who drew up his flag on the birth of

Barbara, sent Giurgius his son, and Leopold his nephew to the school of

an old man named Hanna Tooma. This old man always slept in the

afternoon, and the boys did not study very well when he was asleep. I

was once at Yanni's house when the boys came home from school. They

were in high glee. One of them said to his father, our teacher slept all

the afternoon, and we appointed a committee of boys to fan him and keep

the flies off while the rest went down into the court to play, and when

he moved we all hushed up until he was sound asleep again. But when he

_did_ wake up, he took the big "Asa" and struck out right and left, and

gave every boy in the school a flogging. The father asked, but why did

he flog them all? Because he said he knew some of us had done wrong and

he was determined to hit the right one, so he flogged us all!

See the piles of fruit in the streets! Grapes and figs, watermelons and

pomegranates, peaches, pears, lemons and bananas. At other seasons of

the year you have oranges, _sweet lemons_, plums, and apricots. There is

fresh fruit on the trees here every week in the year. Now we are passing

a lemonade stand, where iced lemonade is sold for a cent a glass, cooled

with snow from the summit of Mount Lebanon 9000 feet high. Grapes are

about a cent a pound and figs the same, and in March you can buy five

oranges or ten sweet lemons for a cent. Huge watermelons are about eight

or ten cents a piece. We buy so many pounds of milk and oil and potatoes

and charcoal. The prickly pear, or subire, is a delicious fruit,

although covered with sharp barbed spines and thorns. It is full of hard

large woody seeds, but the people are very fond of the fruit. Sheikh

Nasif el Yazijy was a famous Arab poet and scholar, and a young man once

brought him a poem to be corrected. He told him to call in a few days

and get it. He came again and the Sheikh said to him. "Your poem is like

the Missionary's prickly pear!" "The Missionary's prickly pear?" said

the young poet. "What do you mean?" "Why," said the Sheikh, "Dr. ---- a

missionary, when he first came to Syria, had a dish of prickly pears set

before him to eat. Not liking to eat the seeds, he began to pick them

out, and when he had picked out all the seeds, there was nothing left!

So your poem. You asked me to remove the errors, and I found that when I

had taken out all the errors, there was nothing left."

It is about time for us to start. We will ride through the orange

gardens and see the rich fruit bending the trees almost down to the

ground. Steer your way carefully through the crowd of mules, pack

horses, camels and asses loaded with boxes of fruit hastening down to

the Meena for the steamer which goes North to-night.

Here is Yanni, with his happy smiling face coming out to meet us. We

will dismount and greet him. He will kiss us on both cheeks and insist

on our calling at his house. The children are glad to see you, and the

Sitt Karîmeh asks, how are "the preserved of God?" that is, the

_children_. Then the little tots come up to kiss my hand, and Im

Antonius, the old grandmother, comes and greets us most kindly. It was

not always so. She was once very hostile to the Missionaries. She

thought that her son had done a dreadful deed when he became a

Protestant. Although she once loved him, she hated him and hated us.

She used to fast, and make vows, and pray to the Virgin and the saints,

and beat her breast in agony over her son. She had a brother and another

son, who were like her, and they all persecuted Yanni. But he bore it

patiently without an unkind word in return for all their abuse. At

length the brother Ishoc was taken ill. Im Antonius brought the pictures

and put them over his head and called the priests. He said, "Mother,

take away these idols. Send away these priests. Tell my brother Antonius

to come here, I want to ask his forgiveness." Yanni came. Ishoc said to

him, "Brother, your kindness and patience have broken me down. You are

right and I am wrong. I am going to die. Will you forgive me?" "Yes, and

may God forgive and bless you too." "Then bring your Bible and read to

me. Read about some _great_ sinner who was saved." Yanni read about the

dying thief on the cross. "Read it again! Ah, that is my case! I am the

chief of sinners." Every day he kept Yanni reading and praying with him.

He loved to talk about Jesus and at length died trusting in the Saviour!

The uncle Michaiel, was also taken ill, and on his death-bed would have

neither priest nor pictures, and declared to all the people that he

trusted only in the Saviour whom Yanni had loved and served so well.

After that Im Antonius was softened and now she loves to hear Yanni read

the Bible and pray.

The servant is coming with sherbet and sweetmeats and Arabic coffee in

little cups as large as an egg-shell. Did you notice how the marble

floors shine! They are scrubbed and polished, and kept clean by the

industrious women whom you see so gorgeously dressed now. These good

ladies belong to the Akabir, or aristocracy of Tripoli, but they work

most faithfully in their housekeeping duties. But alas, they can neither

read nor write! And there is hardly a woman in this whole city of 16,000

people that can read or write! I once attended a company of invited

guests at one of the wealthy houses in Tripoli, and there were thirty

Tripolitan ladies in the large room, dressed in the most elegant style.

I think you never saw such magnificence. They were dressed in silks and

satins and velvets, embroidered with gold thread and pearls, and their

arms and necks were loaded with gold bracelets and necklaces set with

precious stones, and on their heads were wreaths of gold and silver work

sparkling with diamonds, and fragrant with fresh orange blossoms and

jessamine. Many of them were beautiful. But not one of them could read.

The little boys and girls too are dressed in the same rich style among

the wealthier classes, and they are now beginning to learn. Many of the

little girls who were taught in Sadi's school here thirteen years ago,

are now heads of families, and know how to read the gospel.

Ibrahim comes in to say that we must hurry off if we would reach Halba

to sleep to-night. So we bid Yanni's family good-bye. We tell them "Be

Khaterkum." "By your pleasure," and they say "Ma es Salameh," "with

peace."--Then they say "God smooth your way," and we answer, "Peace to

your lives." Saieed the muleteer now says "Dih, Ooah," to his mules, and

away we ride over the stony pavements and under the dark arches of the

city, towards the East. We cross the bridge over the River Kadisha, go

through the wheat and barley market, and out of the gate Tibbaneh, among

the Moslems, Maronites, Bedawin, Nusairîyeh, Gypsies, and Greeks, who

are buying and selling among the Hamath and Hums caravans.

Do you see those boys playing by the stone wall? They are catching

scorpions. They put a little wax on a stick and thrust it into the holes

in the wall, and the scorpions run their claws into the wax when they

are easily drawn out, and the boys like to play with them. The sting of

the scorpion is not deadly, but it is very painful, something like being

stung by half a dozen hornets.

Here come a company of Greek priests, with the Greek bishop of Akkar.

The priests are all Syrians but the bishop is from Greece, and knows but

little Arabic. The priests are very ignorant, for they are generally

chosen from among the lowest of the people.

When the former Greek Bishop died in Tripoli, in 1858, his dead body was

dressed in cloth of gold, with a golden crown on his head, and then the

corpse was set up in a chair in the midst of the Greek Church, with the

face and hands uncovered so that all the people could see him. The

fingers were all black and bloated, but the men, women and children

crowded up to kiss them. When the body was taken from the city to Deir

Keftin, three miles distant the Greek mountaineers came down in a rabble

to get the blessing from the corpse. And how do you think they got the

blessing? They attacked the bearers and knocked off pieces of the

coffin, and then carried off the pall and tore it in pieces, fighting

for it like hungry wolves. A number of people were wounded. After the

burial they dug up the earth for some distance around the tomb, and

carried it off to be used as medicine. A little girl brought a piece of

the bishop's handkerchief to my house, hearing that some one was ill,

saying that if we would burn it and drink the ashes in water, we would

be instantly cured.

The Syrians have a good many stories about their priests, which they

laugh about, and yet they obey them, no matter how ignorant they are.

Abû Selim in the Meena used to tell me this story: Once there was a

priest who did not know how to count. This was a great trial to him, as

the Greeks have so many fasts and feasts that it is necessary to count

all the time or get into trouble. They have a long fast called _Soum el

kebîr_, and it is sometimes nearly sixty days long. One year the fast

commenced, and the priest had blundered so often that he went to the

bishop and asked him to teach him some way to count the days to the

Easter feast. The bishop told him it would be forty days, and gave him

forty kernels of "hummus," or peas, telling him to put them into his

pocket and throw one out every day, and when they were all gone, to

proclaim the feast! This was a happy plan for the poor priest, and he

went on faithfully throwing away one pea every day, until one day he

went to a neighboring village. In crossing the stream he fell from his

donkey into the mud, and his black robe was grievously soiled. The good

woman of the house where he slept, told him to take off his robe and she

would clean it in the night. So after he was asleep she arose and washed

it clean, but found to her sorrow that she had destroyed the peas in the

priest's pocket. Poor priest, said she, he has lost all his peas which

he had for lunch on the road! But I will make it up to him. So she went

to her earthen jar and took a big double handful of hummus and put them

into the priest's pocket, and said no more. He went on his way and threw

out a pea every morning for weeks and weeks. At length, some of his

fellaheen heard that the feast had begun in another village, and told

the Priest. Impossible, said he. My pocket is half full yet. Others came

and said, will you keep us fasting all the year? He only replied, look

into my pocket. Are you wiser than the Bishop? At length some one went

and told the Bishop that the priest was keeping his people fasting for

twenty days after the time. And then the story leaked out, and the poor

woman told how she had filled up the pocket, and the bishop saw that

there was no use in trying to teach the man to count.

See the reapers in the field, and the women gleaning after them, just

as Ruth did so many thousand years ago! On this side is a "lodge in a

garden of cucumbers."

Now we come down upon the sea-shore again, and on our right is the great

plain of Akkar, level as a floor, and covered with fields of Indian corn

and cotton. Flocks and herds and Arab camps of black tents are scattered

over it. Here is a shepherd-boy playing on his "zimmara" or pipe, made

of two reeds tied together and perforated. He plays on it hour after

hour and day after day, as he leads his sheep and goats or cattle along

the plain or over the mountains. You do not like it much, any more than

he would like a melodeon or a piano. When King David was a shepherd-boy

he played on such a pipe as this as he wandered over the mountains of

Judea.

Now we turn away from the sea and go eastward to Halba. Before long we

cross the river Arka on a narrow stone bridge, and pass a high hill

called "Tel Arka." Here the Arkites lived, who are mentioned in Genesis

x:17. That was four thousand two hundred years ago. What a chain of

villages skirt this plain! The people build their villages on the hills

for protection and health, but go down to plough and sow and feed their

flocks to the rich level plain. Now we cross a little stream of water,

and look up the ravine, and there is Ishoc's house perched on the side

of the hill opposite Halba. Ishoc and his wife Im Hanna, come out to

meet us, and he helps us pitch the tent by the great fig tree near his

house. We unroll the tent, splice the tent pole, open the bag of tent

pins, get the mallet, and although the wind is blowing hard, we will

drive the pegs so deep that there will be no danger of its blowing over.

Abû Hanna, or Ishoc, is a noble Christian man, one of the best men in

Syria. He has suffered very much for Christ's sake. The Greeks in the

village on the hill have tried to poison him. They hired Nusairy

Mughlajees to shoot him. They cut down his trees at night, and pulled up

his plantations of vegetables. They came at night and tore up the roof

of his house, and shot through at him but did not hit him. But the

Mohammedan Begs over there always help him, because he is an honest man,

and aids them in their business and accounts. When the Greeks began to

persecute him, they told him to fire a gun whenever they came about his

house, and they would come over and fight for him. They even offered to

go up and burn the Greek village and put an end to these persecutions.

But Ishoc would not let them. He said, "Mohammed Beg, you know I am a

Christian, not like these Greeks who lie and steal and kill, but I

follow the words of our Lord Jesus Christ, who said, 'Love your

enemies,' and I do not wish to injure one of them." The Begs were

astonished at this, and went away, urging him if there were any more

trouble at night to fire his gun and they would come over from Halba at

once.

I love this good man Ishoc. His pure life, his patience and gentleness

have preached to these wild people in Akkar, more than all the sermons

of the missionaries.

Would you like to see Im Hanna make bread for our supper? That hole in

the ground, lined with plaster, is the oven, and the flames are pouring

out. They heat it with thorns and thistles. She sits by the oven with a

flat stone at her side, patting the lumps of dough into thin cakes like

wafers as large as the brim of your straw hat. Now the fire is burning

out and the coals are left at the bottom of the oven, as if they were in

the bottom of a barrel. She takes one thin wafer on her hand and sticks

it on the smooth side of the oven, and as it bakes it curls up, but

before it drops off into the coals, she pulls it out quickly and puts

another in its place. How sweet and fresh the bread is! It is made of

Indian corn. She calls it "khubs dura." Abû Hanna says that we must eat

supper with them to-night. They are plain fellaheen, and have neither

tables, chairs, knives nor forks. They have a few wooden spoons, and a

few plates. But hungry travellers and warm-hearted friendship will make

the plainest food sweet and pleasant.

Supper is ready now, and we will go around to Abû Hanna's house for he

has come to tell us that "all things are ready." The house is one low

room, about sixteen by twenty feet. The ceiling you see is of logs

smoked black and shining as if they had been varnished. Above the logs

are flat stones and thorns, on which earth is piled a foot deep. In the

winter this earth is rolled down with a heavy stone roller to keep out

the rain. In many of the houses the family, cattle, sheep, calves and

horses sleep in the same room. The family sleep in the elevated part of

the room along the edge of which is a trough into which they put the

barley for the animals. This is the "medhwad" or manger, such as the

infant Jesus was laid in. We will now accept Im Hanna's kind invitation

to supper. The plates are all on a small tray on a mat in the middle of

the floor, and there are four piles of bread around the edge. There is

one cup of water for us all to drink from, and each one has a wooden

spoon. But Abû Hanna, you will see, prefers to eat without a spoon.

After the blessing is asked in Arabic, Abû Hanna says, "tefudduloo,"

which means help yourselves. Here is kibby, and camel stew, and Esau's

pottage, and olives, and rice, and figs cooked in dibbs, and chicken

boiled to pieces, and white fresh cheese, and curdled milk, and fried

eggs.

Kibby is the Arab plum pudding and mince pie and roast beef all in one.

It is made by pounding meat in a mortar with wheat, until both are mixed

into a soft pulp and then dressed with nuts and onions and butter, and

baked or roasted in cakes over the fire. Dr. Thomson thinks that this

dish is alluded to in Prov. 27:22, "Though thou shouldest bray a fool in

a mortar among wheat with a pestle, yet will not his foolishness depart

from him." That is, put the fool into Im Hanna's stone mortar with wheat

and pound him into kibby, and he would still remain a fool! It takes

something besides pounding to get the folly out of foolish men.

You see there are no separate plates for us. We all help ourselves from

the various dishes as we prefer. Abû Hanna wants you to try the

"mejeddara," made of "oddis." It is like thick pea soup, but with a

peculiar flavor. This is what Jacob made the pottage of, when he tempted

Esau and bought his birthright. I hope you will like it, but I do not.

After seventeen years of trying, I am not able to enjoy it, but Harry

will eat all he can get, and the little Arab children revel in it. You

make poor work with that huge wooden spoon. You had better try Abû

Hanna's way of eating. Many better men than any of us have eaten in that

way, and I suppose our Saviour and his disciples ate as Abû Hanna eats.

He tears off a small piece of the thin wafer-like bread, doubles it into

a kind of three cornered spoon, dips it into the rice, or picks up a

piece of kibby with it, and then eats it down, spoon and all! Im Hanna

says I am afraid those little boys do not like our food, so she makes a

spoon and dips up a nice morsel of the chicken, and comes to you and

says "minshan khatri," for my sake, eat this, and you open your mouth

and she puts it in. That is the way our Saviour dipped the "sop" and put

it into the mouth of Judas Iscariot to show the disciples which one it

was. Giving the sop was a common act, and I have no doubt Jesus had

often given it to John and Peter and the other disciples, as a kindly

act, when they were eating together.

Im Hanna is fixing the lamp. It is a little earthen saucer having a lip

on one side, with the wick hanging over. The wick just began to smoke

and she poured in more olive oil, and it burns brightly again. Do you

remember what the prophet Isaiah (42:3) said, "a bruised reed shall he

not break, and smoking flax shall he not quench." This is quoted in

Matt. 12 of our Lord Jesus. The word flax means _wick_. It is "fetileh"

in Arabic, and this is just what Im Hanna has been doing. She saw the

wick smoking and flickering, and instead of blowing it out and quenching

it, she brought the oil flask, and gently poured in the clear olive oil

and you saw how quickly the flame revived. So our Lord would have us

learn from Him. When the flame of our faith and love is almost dead and

nothing remains but the smoking flickering wick, He does not quench it,

and deal harshly with us, but he comes in all gentleness and love and

pours in the oil of His grace, and then our faith revives and we live

again.

PART III.

Here come some little Bedawin gypsy children. One is laughing at my hat.

He never saw one before and he calls me "Abû Suttle," the "father of a

Pail," and wonders why I carry a pail on my head. The people love to use

the word Abû, [father] or Im, [mother]. They call a musquito Abû Fas,

the father of an axe. The centipede is "Im Arba wa Arb-ain; "The

mother of forty-four legs." The Arabic poet Hariri calls a _table_ the

"father of assembling;" _bread_, the "father of pleasantness;" a _pie_,

"the mother of joyfulness," _salt_, "the father of help," _soap_ the

"father of softness;" Death is called by the Arab poets, "Father of the

Living," because all the living are subject to him.

After breakfast we will start for Safîta. You see that snow-white dome

on the hill-top! and another on the next hill under that huge oak tree,

and then another and another. These are called Nebi or Ziarat or Wely.

Each one contains one or more tombs of Nusairy saints or sheikhs, and

the poor women visit them and burn lamps and make vows to the saints who

they think live in them. They know nothing of Christ, and when they feel

sad and troubled and want comfort they enter the little room under the

white dome, and there they call, "O Jafar et Tîyyar hear me! O Sheikh

Hassan hear me!"

This is just as the old Canaanite women used to go up and worship on

every high hill, and under every green tree, thousands of years ago, and

these poor Nusairîyeh are thought to be the descendants of the old

Canaanites.

Here come men on horseback to visit that "ziyara." Up they go to the

little room with the white dome, and all dismount. The old sheikh who

has charge, comes out to meet them. They are pilgrims and have to make

vows and bring offerings. One had a sick son and he once vowed that if

his son got well he would bring a sheep and a bushel of wheat as an

offering to this shrine. So there is the sheep on one of the horses, and

that mule is bringing the wheat. If the old sheikh has many such

visitors he will grow rich. Some of them do. And yet the people laugh at

these holy places, and tell some strange stories about them. One of the

stories is as follows:--

Once upon a time there was a great Sheikh Ali, a holy man, who kept a

holy tomb of an ancient prophet. The tomb was on a hill under a big oak

tree, and the white dome could be seen for miles around. Lamps were kept

burning day and night in the tomb, and if any one extinguished them,

they were miraculously lighted again. Men with sore eyes came to visit

it and were cured. The earth around the tomb was carried off to be used

as medicine. Women came and tied old rags on the limbs of the tree, as

vows to the wonderful prophet. Nobody knew the name of the prophet, but

the tomb was called "Kobr en Nebi," or "tomb of the prophet." A green

cloth was spread over the tomb under the dome, and incense was sold by

the sheikh to those who wished to heal their sick, or drive out evil

spirits from their houses. Pilgrims came from afar to visit the holy

place, and its fame extended over all the land. Sheikh Ali was becoming

a rich man, and all the pilgrims kissed his hand and begged his

blessing. Now Sheikh Ali had a faithful servant named Mohammed, who had

served him long and well. But Mohammed was weary of living in one place,

and asked permission to go and seek his fortune in distant parts. So

Sheikh Ali gave him his blessing and presented him with a donkey, which

he had for many years, that he might ride when tired of walking. Then

Mohammed set out on his journey. He went through cities and towns and

villages, and at last came out on the mountains east of the Jordan in a

desert place. No village or house was in sight and night came on. Tired,

hungry and discouraged poor Mohammed lay down by his donkey on a great

pile of stones and fell asleep. In the morning he awoke, and alas his

donkey was dead. He was in despair, but his kindly nature would not let

the poor brute lie there to be devoured by jackals and vultures, so he

piled a mound of stones over its body and sat down to weep.

While he was weeping, a wealthy Hajji or pilgrim came along, on his

return from Mecca. He was surprised to see a man alone in this

wilderness, and asked him why he was weeping? Mohammed replied, O Hajji,

I have found the tomb of a holy prophet, and I have vowed to be its

keeper, but I am in great need. The Hajji thanked him for the news, and

dismounted to visit the holy place, and gave Mohammed a rich present.

After he had gone Mohammed hastened to the nearest village and bought

provisions and then returned to his holy prophet's tomb. The Hajji

spread the news, and pilgrims thronged to the spot with rich presents

and offerings. As money came in Mohammed brought masons and built a

costly tomb with a tall white dome that could be seen across the Jordan.

He lived in a little room by the tomb, and soon the miraculous lights

began to appear in the tomb at night, which Mohammed had kindled when no

one was near. He increased in fame and wealth, and the Prophet's tomb

became one of the great shrines of the land.

At length Sheikh Ali heard of the fame of the new holy place in the

desert, and as his own visitors began to fall off, decided to go himself

and gain the merit of a visit to the tomb of that famous prophet. When

he arrived there with his rich presents of green cloth, incense and

money, he bowed in silence to pray towards Mecca, when suddenly he

recognized in the holy keeper of the tomb, his old servant Mohammed.

"Salam alaykoom" said Sheikh Ali. "Alaykoom es Salam," replied Mohammed.

When he asked him how he came here, and how he found this tomb, Mohammed

replied, this "tomb is a great "sirr" or mystery, and I am forbidden to

utter the secret." "But you _must_ tell _me_," said Sheikh Ali, "for I

am a father to you." Mohammed refused and Ali insisted, until at length

Mohammed said, "my honored Sheikh, you remember having given me a

donkey. It was a faithful donkey, and when it died I buried it. This is

the tomb of that donkey!" "Mashallah! Mashallah!" said Sheikh Ali. The

will of Allah be done! Then they ate and drank together, and renewed the

memory of their former life, and then Sheikh Mohammed said to Sheikh

Ali, "My master, as I have told you the 'sirr' of my prophet's tomb, I

wish to know the secret of yours." "Impossible," said Ali, "for that is

one of the ancient mysteries, too sacred to be mentioned by mortal

lips." "But you _must_ tell me, even as I have told you." At length the

old Sheikh Ali stroked his snowy beard, adjusted his white turban, and

whispered to Mohammed, "and my holy place is the _tomb of that donkey's

father_!" "Mashallah," said Mohammed, "may Allah bless the beard of the

holy donkeys!"

The people tell this story, which shows, that they ridicule and despise

their holy places, and yet are too superstitious to give them up. The

great thing with the sheiks who keep them is _the piastres_ they make

from the visitors.

As we go up the hill to Safita, you see the tall, beautiful Burj, or

Crusader's tower, built as were many of the castles and towers whose

ruins you see on the hills about here, by the French and English eight

hundred years ago, to keep down the wild and rebellious people. The

Protestant Church is at the east. These are two watch towers. One was

built for warriors who fought with sword and spear, and the other for

the simple warfare of the gospel. You may depend upon it, we shall have

a welcome here. It is nearly sunset, and the people are coming in from

their fields and pastures and vineyards. Daûd and Nicola, and Michaiel,

Soleyman, Ibrahim, and Yusef, Miriam, Raheel and Nejmy and crowds of

others with a throng of little ragged boys and girls, come running to

greet us. "Praise God we have seen you in peace!" "Ehelan wa Sehelan,"

"Welcome and Welcome!" "Be preferred!" "Honor us with your presence!"

"How is your state?" "Inshullah you are all well!" "How are those you

left behind?" "How are the preserved of God?" "I hope you are not

wearied with the long ride, this hot day?" "From whence have you come,

in peace?" "What happy day is this to Safita!" and we answer as fast as

we can, and dismount and pitch the tent in front of the church door, in

the little plot of ground next to the houses of some of the brethren.

The church is built of cream colored limestone, the same color as the

great Burj, and contrasts strongly with the houses of the people. Did

you ever see such houses? They are hardly high enough to stand up in,

and are built of roundish boulders of black trap-rock, without lime, and

look as if the least jar would tumble them all down. Each house has but

one room, and here the cattle, goats and donkeys all sleep in the same

room. The people are poorer than any fellaheen (peasants) you ever saw.

There is not a chair or table in the village, unless the Beshoor family

have them. They are the only wealthy people here, and in years past they

have oppressed the Protestants in the most cruel manner. Beshoor had a

lawsuit with the people about the land of the village. It belonged to

them, and he wanted it. So he brought Government horsemen and drove them

off their lands and took the crops himself. They thought they would try

a new way to get justice. The Government officials were all bribed, so

there was no hope there. So they decided to turn Protestants and get aid

in that way. They did not know what the Protestant religion was, but

had some idea that it would help them. Down they went to Tripoli to the

missionaries with a list of three hundred persons who wanted to become

Angliz or Protestants. The people sometimes call us Angliz, or English,

others call us "Boostrant" or "Brostant," but the common name is

"Injiliyeen" or people of the Enjeel, or Evangel, that is, the

Evangelicals.

Dr. Post and your Uncle Samuel came up to Safita to look into the

matter. They found the people grossly ignorant and living like cattle,

calling themselves Protestants and knowing nothing of the gospel. So

they sent a teacher and began to teach them. When the people found that

the missionaries did not come to distribute money, some of them went

back to the Greeks. But others said no; this new religion is more than

we expected. The more we hear, the more we like it. We shall live and

die Protestants. Then Beit Beshoor became alarmed. They said, if this

people get a school, have a teacher, and read the Bible, we cannot

oppress them. They must be kept down in ignorance. So they began in

earnest. The Protestants were arrested and dragged off to Duraikish to

prison. Women and children were beaten. Brutal horsemen were quartered

on their houses. That means, that a rough fellow, armed with pistols and

a sword came to the house of Abû Asaad, and stayed two weeks. He made

them cook chickens, and bring eggs and bread and everything he wanted

every day, and bring barley for his horse. The poor man had no barley

and had to buy, and the Greeks would make him pay double price for it.

When he could get no more he was beaten and his wife insulted, and so it

was in almost every Protestant house. They began to love the Gospel, and

the men who knew how to read, would meet to read and pray together. One

evening, all the Protestants met together in one of the houses. Their

sufferings were very great. Their winter stores had been plundered,

their olives gathered by Beit Beshoor, and they talked and prayed over

their trouble. It was a dark, cold, rainy night, and the wind blew a

gale. While they were talking together, a man came rushing in crying,

run for your lives! the horsemen are here! Before they could get out, a

squad of wild looking wretches were at the door. The men fled, carrying

the larger children and the women carrying the babies, and off they went

into the wilderness in the storm and darkness. Some women were seized

and tied by ropes around their waists, to the horsemen, and marched off

for miles to prison. The men who were caught were put in chains. Some

time later they got back home again. But they would not give up the

Gospel. Beshoor sent men who told them they could have peace if they

would only go back to the Greek Church. But he offered peace quite too

late. They had now learned to love the Gospel, and it was worth more to

them than all the world beside. One night they were assembled in a

little low black house, when some men came to the door and threw in

burning bundles of straw and then shut the door, so that they were

almost stifled with the smoke. They sent a messenger to Beirût. The

case was laid before the Pasha, and he telegraphed to have the

Protestants let alone. But Beshoor cared for nothing. A Nusairy was

hired to shoot Abû Asaad, the leading Protestant. His house was visited

in the daytime, and the man saw where Abû Asaad's bed was placed. In the

night he came stealthily upon the roof, dug a hole through, and fired

three bullets at the spot. But see how God protects his people! That

evening Abû Asaad said to his wife; the floor is getting damp in the

corner, let us remove the bed and mat to the other side. They did so,

and when the man fired, the bullets went into the ground just where Abû

Asaad had slept the night before! He ran out and saw the assassins and

recognized one of them as the servant of Beshoor's son. The next day he

complained to the Government and they refused to hear him because he did

not bring witnesses!

But the poor people would not give up. Every day they went to their

fields, carrying their Testaments in their girdles and at noontime would

read and find comfort. Their children were half naked and half starved.

When word reached Beirût, the native Protestant women met together and

collected several hundred piastres (a piastre is four cents) for the

women and girls of Safita. They made up a bale of clothing, and sent

with it a very touching and kind letter, telling their poor persecuted

sisters to bear their trials in patience, and put all their trust in the

Lord Jesus. That aid, together with the contributions made by the

missionaries and others in Beirût, gave them some relief, and the kind

words of sympathy strengthened their hearts. The school was kept up amid

all these troubles. One of the boys was taught in Abeih Seminary, and

two of the girls were sent to the Beirût Female Seminary.

You would have been amused to see those girls when they first reached

Beirût. They walked barefoot from Safita down to Tripoli, about forty

miles, and then Uncle S. took them on to Beirût. He bought shoes for

them, and hired two little donkeys for them to ride, but they preferred

to walk a part of the way, and would carry their shoes in their hands

and run along the sandy beach in the surf, far ahead of the animals. I

rode out to meet them, and they were a sorry sight to see. Uncle S. rode

a forlorn-looking horse, and two ragged men from Safita walked by his

side, followed by two ragged fat-faced girls riding on little donkeys.

The girls were almost bewildered at the city sights and scenes. Soon we

met a carriage, and they were so frightened that they turned pale, and

their donkeys were almost paralyzed with fear. One of the little girls,

when asked if she knew what that was, said it was a mill walking.

The first few days in school they were so homesick for Safita that they

ran away several times. They could not bear to be washed and combed and

sent to the Turkish bath, but wanted to come back here among the goats

and calves and donkeys. One night they went to their room and cried

aloud. Rufka, the teacher, asked them what they wanted? They said,

pointing to the white beds, "We don't like these white things to sleep

on. We don't want to stay here. There are no calves and donkeys, and the

room is so light and cold!" The people here in Safita think that the

cattle help to keep the room warm. In the daytime they complained of

being tired of sitting on the seats to study, and wished to _stand up

and rest_. One was 11 and the other 12 years old, and that was in 1865.

One of them, Raheel, fell sick after a time, and was much troubled about

her sins. Her teacher Sara, who slept near her, overheard her praying

and saying, "Oh Lord Jesus, do give me a new heart! I am a poor sinner.

Do you suppose that because I am from Safita, you cannot give me a new

heart? O Lord, I _know_ you can. Do have mercy on me!"

Who are those clean and well dressed persons coming out of the church?

Our dear brother Yusef Ahtiyeh, the native preacher, and his wife Hadla,

and Miriam, the teacher of the girls' school. Yusef is one of the most

refined and lovely young men in Syria. What a clear eye he has, and what

a pleasant face! He too has borne much for his Master. In 1865, when he

left the Greek Church, he was living with his brother in Beirût. His

brother turned him out of the house at night, with neither bed nor

clothing. He came to my house and staid with me some time. He said it

was hard to be driven out by his brother and mother, but he could bear

anything for Christ's sake. Said he, "I can bear cursing and beating and

the loss of property. But my mother is weeping and wailing over me. She

thinks I am a heretic and am lost forever. Oh, it is hard to bear, the

'persecution of tears!'" But the Lord gave him grace to bear it, and he

is now the happy spiritual guide of this large Protestant community, and

the Nusairy Sheikhs look up to him with respect, while that persecuting

brother of his is poverty-stricken and sick, and can hardly get bread

for his children.

Miriam, the teacher, is a heroine. Her parents were Greeks, but sent her

to school to learn to read. She learned in a short time to read the New

Testament, and to love it, and to keep the Sabbath day holy. The keeping

of the Sabbath was something new in Safita. The Nusairîyeh have no holy

day at all, and the Greeks have so many that they keep none of them.

They work and buy and sell and travel on the Sabbath as on other days,

and think far more of certain saint's days than of the Sabbath. When

Miriam was only seven years old, her father said to her one Sabbath

morning, "go with me to the hursh (forest) to get a donkey load of

wood." She replied, "my father, I cannot go, it is not right, for it is

God's day." The father went without her, and while cutting wood, his

donkey strayed away, and he had to search through the mountains for

hours, so that he did not reach home until twelve o'clock at night, and

then without any wood. He said he should not go for wood on Sunday any

more.

But a few Sundays after, it was the olive season, and Miriam's mother

told her to go out with the women and girls to gather olives. They had

been at work during the week, and the mother thought Miriam ought to go

on Sunday with the rest. But Miriam said, "don't you remember father's

losing the donkey, and what he said about it? I cannot go." "Then," said

her mother, "if you will not work, you shall not eat." "Very well, ya

imme, I will not eat. If I keep the Lord's day, He will keep me." Away

went the mother to the olive orchard, and Miriam went to the preaching

and the Sunday School. At evening, when the family all came home, Miriam

read in her New Testament and went to bed without her supper. The next

morning she said, "Mother, now I am ready to gather olives. Didn't I

tell you the Lord would keep me?"

After this Miriam's father became a Protestant, and allowed the

missionaries to send her to the Seminary in Sidon, where she was the

best girl in the school. When she went home in the vacation in 1869, new

persecutions were stirred up against the Protestants. The Greek Bishop,

with a crowd of priests and a body of armed horsemen, came to the

village, to compel all the Protestants to turn back to the old religion.

The armed men went to the Protestant houses and seized men and women and

dragged them to the great Burj, in which is the Greek church. Miriam's

father and mother were greatly terrified and went back with them to the

Greeks. They then called for Miriam. "Never," said she to the Bishop, "I

will never worship pictures and pray to saints again. You may cut me in

pieces, but I will not stir one step with them." The old Bishop turned

back, and left her to herself. Near by was a man named Abû Isbir, who

was so frightened that he said, "yes, I will go back, don't strike me!"

But his wife, Im Isbir, was not willing to give up. She rebuked her

husband and took hold of his arm, and actually dragged him back to his

house, to save him the shame of having denied the Gospel. He stood firm,

and afterwards united with the Church.

Here comes Im Isbir. Poor woman, she is a widow now. Her husband died

and left her with these little children, and last night her valuable cow

died, and she is in great distress. Yusef, the preacher, says she is the

most needy person in Safita. You would think so from the ragged

appearance of the children. They are like the children in Eastern

Turkey, whom Mr. Williams of Mardin used to describe, whose garments

were so ragged and tattered that there was hardly cloth enough to _make

borders for the holes_! They dig up roots in the fields for food, and

now and then the neighbors give them a little of their coarse corn

bread. The Greeks tell her to turn back to them and they will help her,

but she says, "when one has found the light, can she turn back into the

darkness again?" Yusef wishes us to walk in and sit down, as the people

are anxious to see us. He lives in the church from necessity. He cannot

get a house in the village, excepting these dark cavern-like rooms with

damp floors, and so the missionaries told him to occupy one half of the

church room. A curtain divides it into two rooms and on Sunday the

curtain is drawn, his things are piled up on one side, and the women and

girls sit in that part, while the men and boys sit on the other side.

All sit on mats on the floor. Is that cradle hanging from the ring in

the arch between the two rooms, kept there on Sunday? Yes, and when I

preached here last June, Yusef's baby was swinging there during the

whole service. One of the women kept it swinging gently, by pulling a

cord, which hung down from it. It did not disturb the meeting at all. No

one noticed it. They have calves and cows, donkeys and goats in their

own houses at night, and sleep sweetly enough, so that the swinging of a

hanging cradle in the inside of the church is not thought to be at all

improper.

Do you see that shelf on the wall? It reminds me of a little girl named

Miriam who once came to your Aunt Annie in Deir Mimas to ask about the

Sidon school, whither she was going in a few weeks. She told Miriam that

she would have to be thoroughly washed and combed every day, and would

sleep on a _bedstead_. Then Miriam asked permission to see a bedstead,

as she did not know what it could be. The next night, about midnight,

Miriam's mother heard something drop heavily on the floor, and then a

child crying. She went across the room, and there was Miriam sitting on

the mat. "What is the matter, Miriam?" she asked. Miriam said, "mother,

the Sit told me I was to sleep on a bedstead in Sidon school, and I

thought I would practice beforehand, so I tried to sleep on the shelf,

and tumbled off in my sleep!"

Abû Asaad says the Nusairy Sheikh who was arrested some months ago has

been poisoned. Poisoning used to be very common in Syria. If we should

call at the house of a Nusairy, and he brought coffee for us to drink,

he would take a sip himself out of the cup before giving it to us, to

show that it was not poisoned. Once Uncle S. and Aunt A. were invited

out to dine in Hums at the house of the deacon of the church. His mother

is an ignorant woman, and had often threatened to kill him. When they

had eaten, they suddenly were taken ill, and suffered much from the

effects of it. It was found that the mother had put poison into the

food, intending to kill her son, the missionaries, and the other invited

guests, but through the mercy of God none of them were seriously

injured.

Michaiel says that they have only half a crop of corn this year, as the

_locusts_ devoured the other half in the spring. You remember I sent you

some locusts' wings once, in a letter. When they appear in the land, the

Pashas and Mudirs and Kaimakams give orders to the people to go out and

gather the eggs of the locusts as soon as they begin to settle down to

bury themselves in the earth. The body of the female locust is like the

spawn of a fish, filled with one mass of eggs. Each man is obliged to

bring so many ounces of these eggs to the Pasha and have them weighed

and then burned. A tailor of Beirût brought a bag of them, and as it was

late, put them in his shop for the night and went home. He was unwell

for a few days and when he went to his shop again, opened the door, and

thousands of little black hopping creatures, like imps, came like a

cloud into his face. They had hatched out in his absence.

This is a fearful land for lying; in these mountains around us, you

cannot depend on a word you hear. The people say that in the beginning

of the world, Satan came down to the earth with seven bags of lies,

which he intended to distribute in the seven kingdoms of the earth. The

first night after he reached the earth he slept in Syria, and opened one

of the bags, letting the lies loose in the land. But while he was

asleep, some one came and opened all the other bags! so that Syria got

more than her share!

An old man in Beirût once said, "Sir, you must be careful what you

believe, and whom you trust in this country. If there are twenty-four

inches of hypocrisy in the world, twenty-three are in Syria." This man

was a native of great experience. I think he was rather severe on his

countrymen. Yet the people have had a hard training. The Nusairîyeh all

lie. They do not even pretend to tell the truth. The Druze religion

teaches the people that it is right to lie to all except Druzes. The

Moslems are better than either of these two classes, but they lie

without a blush, and you must be very careful how you believe them.

Among the Maronite and Greek sects, their priests tell the people that

they can forgive sins. When a man lies or steals or does anything else

that is wicked, he pays a few piastres to the priest, who gives him what

they call absolution or forgiveness. So the people can do what they

please without fear, as the priest is ready to forgive them for money.

These sects call themselves Christian, but there is very little of

Christianity among them. A Greek in Tripoli once told me that there was

not a man in the Greek church in Tripoli who would not lie, excepting

_one_ of the priests.

Leaving Safita, we will go back on a different road, crossing directly

to the sea-shore, and then along the coast to Tripoli. Here is a little

abject village, and the people look as abject as the village. Their

neighbors laugh at them for their stupidity, and tell the following

story: They have no wells in the village, and the little fountain is not

sufficient for their cattle, so they water them from the Ramet or pool,

which is filled by the rains and lasts nearly all summer. One year the

water in the Ramet began to fail, and there was a quarrel between the

two quarters of the village, as to which part should have the first

right to the water. Finally they decided to divide the pool into two

parts, by making a fence of poles across the middle of it. This worked

very well. One part watered their cattle on one side and the other part

on the other side. But one night there was a great riot in the village.

Some of the men from the north side saw a south-sider dipping up water

from the north side and pouring it over the fence into the other part

of the pool. Of course this made no difference, as the fence was nothing

but open lattice work, but the people were too stupid to see that, so

they fought and bruised one another for a long time.

In another village, _Aaleih_, near Beirût, the people were formerly so

stupid that the Arabs say that once when the clouds came up the

mountains and settled like a bank of fog under the cliff on which their

village is built, they thought it was the sea, and went to fish in the

clouds!

So you see the Syrians are as fond of humorous stories as other people.

PART IV.

But here we are coming upon a gypsy camp. The Arabs call them Nowar, and

you will find that the Arab women of the villages are careful to keep an

eye on their little children when the gypsies are around. They often

steal children in the towns and cities, when they can find them straying

away from home at dusk, and then sell them as servants in Moslem

families. Last year we were all greatly interested in a story of this

kind, which I know you will be glad to hear.

After the terrible massacre in Damascus in 1860, thousands of the Greek

and Greek Catholic families migrated to Beirût, and among them was a man

named Khalil Ferah, who escaped the fire and sword with his wife and

his little daughter Zahidy. I remember well how we were startled one

evening in 1862, by hearing a crier going through the streets, "child

lost! girl lost!" The next day he came around again, "child lost!" There

was great excitement about it. The poor father and mother went almost

frantic. Little Zahidy, who was then about six years old, was coming

home from school with other girls in the afternoon, and they said a man

came along with a sack on his back, and told Zahidy that her mother had

sent him to buy her some sugar plums and then take her home, and she

went away with him. It is supposed that he decoyed her away to some

by-road and then put her into the great sack, and carried her off to the

Arabs or the gypsies.

The poor father left no means untried to find her. He wrote to Damascus,

Alexandria, and Aleppo, describing the child and begged his friends

everywhere to watch for her, and send him word if they found her. There

was one mark on the child, which, he said, would be certain to

distinguish her. When she was a baby, and nursing at her mother's

breast, her mother upset a little cup of scalding hot coffee upon the

child's breast, which burned it to a blister, leaving a scar which could

not be removed. This sign the father described, and his friends aided

him in trying to find the little girl. They went to the encampments of

the gypsies and looked at all the children, but all in vain. The father

journeyed by land and by sea. Hearing of a little girl in Aleppo who

could not give an account of herself, he went there, but it was not his

child. Then he went to Damascus and Alexandria, and at length hearing

that a French Countess in Marseilles had a little Syrian orphan girl

whose parents were not known, he sent to Marseilles and examined the

girl, but she was _not his child_. Months and years passed on, but the

father never ceased to speak and think of that little lost girl. The

mother too was almost distracted.

At length light came. Nine years had passed away, and the Beirût people

had almost forgotten the story of the lost Damascene girl. Your uncle S.

and your Aunt A. were sitting in their house one day, in Tripoli, when

Tannoos, the boy, brought word that a man and woman from Beirût wished

to see them. They came in and introduced themselves. They were Khalil,

the father of the little lost girl, and his sister, who had heard that

Zahidy was in Tripoli, and had come to search for her. The mother was

not able to leave home.

It seems that a native physician in Tripoli, named Sheikh Aiub el

Hashim, was an old friend of the father and had known the family and all

the circumstances of the little girl's disappearance, and for years he

had been looking for her. At length he was called one day to attend a

sick servant girl in the family of a Moslem named Syed Abdullah. The

poor girl was ill from having been beaten in a cruel manner by the

Moslem. Her face and arms were tattooed in the Bedawin style, and she

told him that she was a Bedawin girl, and had been living here for some

years, and her name was Khodra. While examining the bruises on her body,

he observed a peculiar scar on her breast. He was startled. He looked

again. It was precisely the scar that his friend had so often described

to him. From her age, her features, her complexion and all, he felt sure

that she was the lost child. He said nothing, but went home and wrote

all about it to the father in Beirût. He hastened to Tripoli bringing

his sister, as he being a man, could not be admitted to a Moslem hareem.

Then the question arose, how should the sister see the girl! They came

and talked with your uncle, and went to Yanni and the other Vice

Consuls, and at length they found out that the women of that Moslem

family were skillful in making silk and gold embroidery which they sold.

So his sister determined to go and order some embroidered work, and see

the girl. She talked with the Moslem women, and with their Bedawy

servant girl, and made errands for the women to bring her specimens of

their work, improving the opportunity to talk with the servant. She saw

the scar, and satisfied herself from the striking resemblance of the

girl to her mother, that she was the long-lost Zahidy.

The father now took measures to secure his daughter. The American,

Prussian, English and French Vice Consuls sent a united demand to the

Turkish Pasha, that the girl be brought to court to meet her father, and

that the case be tried in the Mejlis, or City Council. The Moslems were

now greatly excited. They knew that there were not less than twenty

girls in their families who had been stolen in this way, and if one

could be reclaimed, perhaps the rest might, so they resolved to resist.

They brought Bedawin Arabs to be present at the trial, and hired them to

swear falsely. When the girl was brought in, the father was quite

overcome. He could see the features of his dear child, but she was so

disfigured with the Bedawin tattooing and the brutal treatment of the

Moslems, that his heart sank within him. Yet he examined her, and took

his oath that this was his daughter, and demanded that she be given up

to him. The Bedawin men and women were now brought in. One swore that he

was the father of the girl, and a woman swore that she was her mother.

Then several swore that they were her uncles, but it was proved that

they were in no way related to the one who said he was her father. Other

witnesses were called, but they contradicted one another. Then they

asked the girl. Poor thing, she had been so long neglected and abused,

that she _had forgotten her father_, and the Moslem women had threatened

to kill her if she said she was his daughter, so she declared she was

born among the Bedawin, and was a Moslem in religion. Money had been

given to certain of the Mejlis, and they finally decided that the girl

should go to the Moslem house of Derwish Effendi to await the final

decision.

The poor father now went to the Consuls. They made out a statement of

the case and sent it to the Consuls General in Beirût, who sent a joint

dispatch to the Waly of all Syria, who lives in Damascus, demanding

that as the case could not be fairly tried in Tripoli, the girl be

brought to Beirût to be examined by a Special Commission. The Waly

telegraphed at once to Tripoli, to have the girl sent on by the first

steamer to Beirût. The Moslem women now told the girl that orders had

come to have her killed, and that she was to be taken on a steamer as if

to go to Beirût, but that really they were going to throw her into the

sea, and that if she reached Beirût alive they would cut her up and burn

her! So the poor child went on the steamer in perfect terror, and she

reached Beirût in a state of exhaustion. When she was rested, a

Commission was formed consisting of the Moslem Kadi of Beirût who was

acting Governor, the political Agent, Delenda Effendi, the Greek

Catholic Bishop Agabius, the Maronite Priest Yusef, and the agent of the

Greek Bishop, together with all the members of the Executive Council.

Her father, mother and aunt were now brought in and sat near her. She

refused to recognize them, and was in constant fear of being injured.

The Kadi then turned to her and said, "do not fear, my child. You are

among friends. Do not be afraid of people who have threatened you. No

one shall harm you." The Moslem Kadi, the Greek Catholic priests, and

others having thus spoken kindly to her, the father and mother stated

the history of how the little girl was lost nine years ago, and that she

had a scar on her breast. The scar was examined, and all began to feel

that she was really their own daughter. The girl began to feel more

calm, and the Kadi told her that her own mother wanted to ask her a few

questions.

Her mother now went up to her and said, "My child, don't you remember

me?" She said "no I do not." "Don't you remember that _your name was

once Zahidy_, and I used to call you, and you lived in a house with a

little yard, and flowers before the door, and that you went with the

little girls to school, and came home at night, and that one day a man

came and offered you sugar plums and led you away and carried you off to

the Arabs? Don't you know _me_, my _own daughter_?" The poor girl

trembled; her lips quivered, and she said, "Yes, I _did_ have another

name. I _was_ Zahidy. I did go with little girls. Oh, ya imme! My

mother! you _are_ my mother," and she sprang into her arms and wept, and

the mother wept and laughed, and the Moslem Kadi and the Mufti, and the

priests and the Bishops and the Effendis and the great crowd of

spectators wiped their eyes, and bowed their heads, and there was a

great silence.

After a little the Kadi said, "it is enough. This girl _is_ the daughter

of Kahlil Ferah. Sir, take your child, and Allah be with you!"

The father wiped away the tears and said, "Your Excellency, you see this

poor girl all tattooed and disfigured. You see how ignorant and feeble

she is. If she were not my child, there is nothing about her to make me

wish to take her. But she is my own darling child, and with all her

faults and infirmities, I love her." The whole Council then arose and

congratulated the father and mother, and a great crowd accompanied them

home. Throngs of people came to see her and congratulate the family, and

after a little the girl was sent to a boarding school.

I can hardly think over this story even now without tears, for I think

how glad I should have been to get back again a child of mine if it had

been lost. And I have another thought too about that little lost girl.

If that father loved his daughter so as to search and seek for her, and

expend money, and travel by land and sea for years, in trying to find

her, and when at length he found her, so forlorn and wretched and

degraded, yet loved her still because she was _his daughter_, do you not

think that Jesus loves us even more? We were lost and wretched and

forlorn. A worse being than Bedawin gypsies has put his mark on our

hearts and our natures. We have wandered far, far away. We have served

the world, and forgotten our dear Heavenly Father. We have even refused

to receive Him when he has come near us. Yet Jesus came to seek and to

save us. And when he found us so degraded and sinful and disfigured, He

loved us still, because we are His own children. Don't you think that

the little lost Damascene girl was thankful when she reached her home,

and was loved and kindly treated by father and mother and relatives and

friends? And ought we not to be very thankful when Jesus brings us

home, and calls us "dear children" and opens the gate of heaven to us?

This story of the lost Damascene child calls to my mind a little song

which the Maronite women in Lebanon sing to their babies as a lullaby.

The story is that a Prince's daughter was stolen by the Bedawin Arabs,

and carried to their camp. She grew up and was married to a Bedawin

Sheikh and had a little son. One day a party of muleteers came to the

camp selling grapes, and she recognized them as from her own village.

She did not dare speak to them, so she began to sing a lullaby to her

baby, and motioned to the grape-sellers to come near, and when the

Bedawin were not listening, she would sing them her story in the same

tone as the lullaby.

THE LULLABY.

Sleep, baby sleep! a sleep so sweet and mild,

Sleep, my Arab boy, my little Bedawin child!

_Aside to the } Once I was a happy girl,

grape-sellers_ } The Prince Abdullah's daughter.

Playing with the village maids,

Bringing wood and water.

Suddenly the Bedawin

Carried me away;

Clothed me in the Aba robe

And here they make me stay.

Sleep, baby sleep! a sleep so sweet and mild,

Sleep, my Arab boy, my little Bedawin child!

_Aside_ Ye sellers of grapes hear what I say.

I had dressed in satin rich and gay.

They took my costly robes away,

And dressed me in Aba coarse and grey.

I had lived on viands costly and rare,

And now raw camel's flesh is my fare.

Sleep, baby sleep! a sleep so sweet and mild,

Sleep, my Arab boy, my little Bedawin child!

_Aside_ Oh seller of grapes, I beg you hear,

Go tell my mother and father dear,

That you have seen me here to-day.

Just by the Church my parents live,

The Bedawin stole me on Thursday eve.

Let the people come and their sister save,

Let them come with warriors bold and brave,

Lest I die of grief and go to my grave.

The grape-sellers then go home, and the warriors come and rescue her,

and take her home.

We will stop here a moment and make a pencil sketch of this Arab camp,

but we must be very careful not to let them see us writing. They have a

great fear of the art of writing, a superstitious idea that a person who

writes or sketches in their camp, is writing some charm or incantation

to bring mischief upon them. I once heard of a missionary who went to an

Arab village to spend the night. The people were all Maronites, and

grossly ignorant. He pitched his tent and sat down to rest. Presently a

crowd of rough young men came in and began to insult him. They demanded

bakhshish, and handled his bedding and cooking utensils in a very brutal

manner, and asked him if he had any weapons. He bethought himself of one

weapon and began to use it. He took out a pencil and paper, and began to

make a sketch of the ringleader. He looked him steadily in the eye, and

then wrote rapidly with his pencil. The man began to tremble and slowly

retreated and finally shouted to his companions, and off they all went.

Shortly after, they sent a man to beg Mr. L. not to cut off their heads!

Their priests teach them that the Protestants have the power of working

magic, and that they draw a man's portrait and take it with them, and if

the man does anything to displease them, they cut off the head of the

picture and the man's head drops off! Mr. L. sent them word that they

had better be very careful how they behaved. They did not molest him

again.

Here we are near Tripoli, at the Convent of the _Sacred Fish_. What a

beautiful spot! This large high building with its snow-white dome, and

the great sycamore tree standing by this circular pool of crystal water,

make a beautiful scene. What a crowd of Moslem boys! They have come all

the way from Tripoli, about two miles, to feed the Sacred Fish. They are

a gay looking company, with their red, green, blue, yellow, white and

purple clothes, and their bright red caps and shoes, and some of them

with white turbans. They come out on feast days and holidays to play on

this green lawn and feed the fish. The old sheikh who keeps this holy

place, has great faith in these fish. He says they are all good Moslems,

and are inhabited by the souls of Moslem saints, and there is one black

fish, the Sheikh of the saints, who does not often show himself to

spectators. There are hundreds if not thousands of fish, resembling the

dace or chubs of America. He says that during the Crimean war, many of

the older ones went off under the sea to Sevastopol and fought the

Russian infidels, and some of them came back wounded. The people think

that if any one eats these fish he will die immediately. That I _know_

to be false, for I have tried it. When the American Consul was here in

1856, his Moslem Kawasses caught several of the fish, and brought them

to Mr. Lyons' house. We had them cooked and ate them, but found them

coarse and unpalatable. That was sixteen years ago and we have not felt

the evil effects yet.

This poor woman has a sick child, and has come to get the Sheikh to read

the Koran over it and cure it. The most of the Syrian doctors are

ignorant quacks, and the people have so many superstitions that they

prefer going to saints' tombs rather than call a good physician. There

is a Medical College in Beirût now, and before long Syria will have some

skilful doctors. I knew an old Egyptian doctor in Duma named Haj

Ibrahim, who was a conceited fellow. He used to bleed for every kind of

disease. An old man eighty years of age was dying of consumption, and

the Haj opened a vein and let him bleed to death. When the man died, he

said if he had only taken a little more blood, the old man would have

recovered. I was surprised by his coming to me one day and asking for

some American newspapers. I supposed he wished them to wrap medicines in

and gave him several New York Tribunes. A few days after he invited us

to eat figs and grapes in his vineyard and we stopped at his house. He

said he was very thankful for the papers. They had been very useful. I

wondered what he meant, and asked him. He showed me a jar in the corner

in which he had dissolved the papers into a pulp in oil and water, and

had given the pulp as medicine to the people! He said it was a powerful

medicine. He supposed that the English printed letters would have some

magic influence on diseases.

One of the Moslem lads carries a short iron spear as a sign that he is

going to be a derwish. Dr. De Forest once found himself surrounded in a

Moslem village by a troop of little Moslems, each of them with an

iron-headed spear in his hand. A Moorish Sheikh, or Chief, had been for

some two years teaching the Moslems of the place the customs of their

holy devotees, and in consequence all the boys had become derwishes, or

Moslem monks. He was a shrewd old Sheikh. He knew that the true way to

perpetuate his religion was to _teach the children_. He had taught them

the Moslem prayers and prostrations, and to keep certain moral precepts.

How glad we should be if these boys would come and sit down by us while

we talk to them of Jesus! There they come. See how their eyes sparkle,

as I speak to them. They have never heard about the gospel before. But I

must speak in a low tone, as the old Sheikh is coming and he looks down

upon us as infidel dogs! Perhaps some of them will think of these words

some day, and put their trust in our Divine Saviour.

Many of the people seem to think that the missionary's house is like the

Cave of Adullam, where David lived, (1 Sam. xxii:2) when "every one that

was in distress, and every one that was in debt and every one that was

discontented, gathered themselves unto him." It makes it very hard to

deal with the people, to have so many of them come to us with improper

motives. They come and say they love the gospel and want instruction,

and have endured persecution, when suddenly you find that they want

money, or to be protected from punishment, or to get office, or to get

married to some improper person, or something else that is wrong.

Once a sheikh from Dunnîyeh in Lebanon came to Tripoli, and declared

himself a Protestant. He was very zealous, and wanted us to feel that he

was too good a man to be turned away, as he was wealthy and of a high

family. He was armed with a small arsenal of weapons. He had a servant

to carry his gun and pipe, and came day after day to read books, and

talk on religion. He said that all he needed was the protection of the

American Consul, and then he would make his whole village Protestants.

We told him we could have nothing to do with politics. If he wanted to

become a Christian, he must take up his cross and follow Christ. He said

that was just what he wanted to do, only he wished to benefit the cause

by bringing others to follow Him. He seemed very earnest, but there was

something dark and mysterious in his ways, and we were afraid of him.

Now the Arabs have a proverb, "No tree is cut down but by _one of its

own limbs_," _i.e._ the axe handle, and we thought a native only could

understand a native, so we took the famous convert around to see Yanni.

He went into Yanni's office, and Mr. L. and myself sat out in the

garden under the orange trees. After a few minutes Yanni called out,

"Come in, be preferred, your excellencies! I have found it all out. I

understand the case." We went in and climbed up upon the platform, next

the desk in the office. The Maronite candidate for the church sat

smiling, as if he thought he would now be received at once. Yanni went

on, "I understand the case exactly. This man is a son of a Sheikh in

Dunnîyeh. He is in a deadly quarrel with his father and brothers about

the property, and says that if we will give him the protection of the

American Consulate, he will go home, kill his father and brothers, seize

all the property, and then come down and join the church, and live in

Tripoli!" We were astounded, but the brutal fellow turned to us and

said, "yes, and I will then make all the village Protestants, and if I

fail, then cut my head off!" We told him that if he did anything of that

kind, we would try to get him hung, and the American Consulate would

have nothing to do with him. "Very well," said he, "I have made you a

_fair offer_, and if you don't accept it, I have nothing more to say."

We rebuked him sharply, and gave him a sermon which he did not relish,

for he said he was in haste, and bade us a most polite good morning. He

was what I should call an Adullamite.

A Greek priest in the village of Barbara once took me aside, to a

retired place behind his house, and told me that he had a profound

secret to tell me. He wished to become a Protestant and make the whole

village Protestant, but on one condition, that I would get him a hat, a

coat, and pantaloons, put a flag-staff on his house, and have him

appointed American Consul. I told him the matter of the hat, coat and

pantaloons he could attend to at but slight expense, but I had no right

to make Consuls and erect flagstaffs. Then he said he could not become

Protestant.

In 1866, a man named Yusef Keram rebelled against the Government of

Lebanon and was captured and exiled. The day he was brought into Beirût,

a tall rough looking mountaineer called at my house. He was armed with a

musket and sword, besides pistols and dirks. After taking a seat, he

said, "I wish to become Angliz and American." "What for," said I. "Only

that I would be honored with the honorable religion." "Do you know

anything about it?" "Of course not. How should I know?" "Don't you know

better than to follow a religion you know nothing about?" "But I can

learn." "How do you know but what we worship the devil?" "No matter.

Whatever you worship, I will worship." I then asked him what he came

for. He said he was in the rebel army, was captured, escaped and fought

again, and now feared he should be shot, so he wanted to become Angliz

and American. I told him he need have no fear, as the Pasha had granted

pardon to all. "Is that so?" "Yes, it is." On hearing this he said he

had business to look after, and bade me good evening.

But you will be tired of hearing about the Adullamites. If those who

came to David were like the discontented and debtors who come to us, he

must have been tired too. So many suspicious characters come to us, that

we frequently ask men, when they come professing great zeal for the

gospel, whether they have killed anybody, or stolen, or quarrelled with

any one? And it is not always easy to find out the truth. If fifty men

turn Protestants in a village, perhaps five or ten will stand firm, and

the rest go back, and frequently all go back.

But the rain is coming down and we will hasten to the Meena to Uncle

S.'s house, where we can rest after this wearisome and hasty journey

from Safita. For your sake I am glad that we took comfortable bedding

and bedsteads with us. It costs a few piastres more to hire a baggage

animal, but it is cheaper in the end. At one time I was going on a hard

journey, and I thought I would be economical, so I took only my horse

and a few articles in my khurj or saddle bags, with a little boy to show

me the road and take care of my horse. When I reached the village, I

stopped at the house of a man said to be a Protestant. He lived in the

most abject style, and I soon found by his bad language towards his

family and his neighbors that he needed all the preaching I could give

him that evening. There was only one room in the house, and that was

small. By nine o'clock the mother and the children had lain down on a

mat to sleep, and the neighbors who came in were beginning to doze. I

was very weary with a long ride on a hot August day, and asked mine host

where I should lie down to sleep. He led me to a little elevated

platform on the back side of the room, where a bed was spread for me.

The dim oil lamp showed me that the bed and covering were neither of

them clean, but I was too weary to spend much time in examining them,

and after spreading my linen handkerchief over the pillow, I tried to

sleep. But this could not be done. Creeping things, great and small,

were crawling over me from head to foot. There was a hole in the wall

near my head, and the bright moonlight showed what was going on. Fleas,

bugs, ants, (attracted by the bread in my khurj,) and more horrible

still, swarms of lice covered the bed, and my clothing. I could stand it

no longer. Gathering up my things, and walking carefully across the

floor to keep from stepping on the sleeping family, I reached the door.

But it was fastened with an Arab lock and a huge wooden key, and could

only be opened by a violent shaking and rattling. This, with the

creaking of the hinges, woke up my host, who sprung up to see what was

the matter. I told him I had decided to journey on by moonlight. It was

then one o'clock in the morning, and on I rode, so weary, that when I

reached Jebaa at ten o'clock, I was obliged to go to bed. I did not

recover from the onset of the vermin for weeks.

I have known missionaries to travel without beds, tents or bedsteads,

and to spend weary days and sleepless nights, so as to be quite unfitted

for their great work of preaching to the people. If you ever grow up to

become a missionary, I hope you will live as simply as you can, but be

careful of your health and try to live as long as you can, for the sake

of the people you are working for, and the Lord who sends you forth. It

is not good economy for a missionary to become a martyr to studying

Arabic, or to poor food, or to exhausting modes of travelling. One can

kill himself in a short time, if he wishes, on missionary ground, but he

could have done that at home without the great expense of coming here to

do it, and besides, that is not what a missionary goes out for. He ought

to live as long as he can. He should have a dry house, in a healthy

location, good food, and proper conveniences for safe travelling.

How pleasant it is to hear that sweet toned bell! Let us climb up to the

roof and read the inscription on it. "From little Sabbath School

Children in America to the Mission Church in Tripoli, Syria." It was

sent in 1862 by the children in Fourth Avenue Church, New York, and in

Newark, Syracuse, Owego, Montrose and other places.

The Moslems abhor bells. They say bells draw together evil spirits. We

are not able yet to have a bell in Hums, on account of the Moslem

opposition. They do not use bells, but have men called Muezzins

stationed on the little balconies around the top of the tall minarets,

to call out five times a day to the people to come to prayer. They

select men and boys with high clear voices, and at times their voices

sound very sweetly in the still evening. They say, "There is no God but

God." That is true. Then they add, "and Mohammed is the Apostle of God,"

and that is not true. As the great historian Gibbon said; these words

contain an "eternal truth and an eternal lie."

The Moslems are obliged to pray five times every day, wherever they may

be. At home, in their shops, in the street, or on a journey, whenever

the appointed time arrives, they fall on their knees, and go through

with the whole routine of prayers and bodily prostrations. One day

several Moslems called on us in Tripoli, at the eighth hour of the day

(about 2 o'clock P.M.), and after they had been sitting some

time engaged in conversation, one of them arose and said to his

companions, "I must pray.". They all asked, "Why? It is not the hour of

prayer." "Because," said he, "when I went to the mosque at noon to pray,

I had an ink-spot on my finger nail, and did not perceive it until after

I came out, and hence my prayer was of no account. I have just now

scraped it off, and must repeat my noon prayer." So saying, he spread

his cloak upon the floor, and then kneeling upon it with his face

towards Mecca, commenced his prayers, while his companions amused

themselves by talking about his ceremonial strictness. One of them said

to me, "He thinks he is holy, but if you could see the _inside_ of him,

you would find it black as pitch!" He kept his head turned to hear what

was being said, and after he had finished, disputed a remark one of them

had made while he was praying. Such people worship God with their lips,

while their hearts are far from him.

Moslems have a great horror of swine. They think us barbarians to eat

ham or pork. In February, 1866, the Moslems of Beirût were keeping the

Fast of Ramadan. For a whole month of each year they can eat and drink

nothing between sunrise and sunset, and they become very cross and

irritable. In Hums, some Moslems saw a dog eating a bone in Ramadan, and

killed him because he would not keep the fast. They fast all day, and

feast all night. Ramadan is really a great nocturnal feast, but it is

hard for the working people to wait until night before beginning the

feast. During that fast of 1866, a Maronite fellah came into Beirût

driving a herd of swine to the market. Now of all sights in the world,

the sight of swine is to an orthodox Moslem the most intolerable, and

especially in the holy month of Ramadan. Even in ordinary times, when

swine enter the city, the Moslems gather up their robes, turn their

backs and shout, "hub hub," "hub hub," and if the hogs do not hasten

along, the "hub hub," is very apt to become a hubbub. On the 28th of

that holy month, a large herd entered Beirût on the Damascus road. The

Moslems saw them, and forthwith a crowd of Moslem young men and boys

hastened to the fray. A few days before, the Maronite Yusef Keram had

entered the city amid the rejoicings of the Maronites. These swine, whom

the Moslems called "Christian Khanzir," should meet a different

reception. Their wrath overcame their prejudice. The Maronite

swine-drivers were dispersed and the whole herd were driven on the run

up the Assur with shouts of derision, and pelted with stones and clubs.

"You khanzir, you Maronite, you Keram, out with you!" and the air rang

with shouts mingled with squeals and grunts. I saw the crowd coming. It

gathered strength as it approached Bab Yakoob, where the white turbaned

faithful rose from their shops and stables to join in the persecution of

the stampeding porkers. "May Allah cut off their days! Curses on their

grandfather's beard! Curses on the father of their owner! Hub hub! Allah

deliver us from their contamination!" were the cries of the crowd as

they rushed along. The little boys were laughing and having a good time,

and the men were breathing out wrath and tobacco smoke. Alas, for the

poor swine! What became of them I could not tell, but the last I saw,

was the infuriated crowd driving them into the Khan of Muhayeddin near

by, where one knows not what may have happened to them. I hope they did

not steal the pork and eat it "on the sly," as the Bedawin did at Mt.

Sinai, who threw away the hams the travellers were carrying for

provisions, and declared that their camels should not be defiled with

the unclean beast! The travellers were _very_ indignant at such a loss,

but thought it was too bad to injure the feelings of the devout Moslems,

and said no more. What was their horror and wrath to hear the next night

that the Bedawin were seen cooking and eating their hams at midnight,

when they thought no one would see them!

Do the Syrian people all smoke? Almost all of them. They speak of it as

"drinking a pipe, drinking a cigar," and you would think that they look

upon tobacco as being as necessary to them as water. Old and young men,

women and even children smoke, smoke while they work or rest, while at

home or journeying, and measure distances by their pipes. I was

travelling, and asked a man how far it was to the next village. He said

about two pipes of tobacco distant! I found it to be nearly an hour, or

three miles. The Orientals spend so much time in smoking, that some one

has said "the Moslems came into power with the Koran in one hand, and

the sword in the other, but will go out with the Koran in one hand and

the pipe in the other!"

Here we are on the sandy beach. What myriads of sea shells, and what

beautiful colors they have. And here are sponges without number, but

they are worthless. There on the sea are the little sloops of the sponge

fishers. They are there through the whole summer and the fishers dive

down into the sea where the water is from 100 to 200 feet deep, and walk

around on the bottom holding their breath, and when they can bear it no

longer pull the cord which is tied around the waist, and then their

companions draw them up. They do not live long, as it is very hard and

unnatural labor. Sometimes they are killed by sharks or other sea

monsters. One of them told me that he was once on the bottom, and just

about to pick up a beautiful white sponge, when he saw a great monster

with huge claws and arms and enormous eyes coming towards him, and he

barely escaped being devoured. At another time, the men in the boat felt

a sudden jerk on the rope and pulled in, when they found only the man's

head, arms and chest on it, the rest of his body having been devoured by

some great fish or sea animal. The sponges grow on rocks, pebbles or

shells, and some of them are of great value. It is difficult to get the

best ones here, as the company who hire the divers export all the good

ones to Europe.

PART V.

Word has come that there is cholera in Odessa, so that all the Russian

steamers going to Beirût will be in quarantine. It will not be pleasant

to spend a week in the Beirût quarantine, so we will keep our baggage

animals and go down by land. It is two long days of nine hours each, and

you will be weary enough. Bidding good-bye to our dear friends here and

wishing them God's blessing in their difficult work among such people,

away we go! Yanni and Uncle S. and some of the teachers will accompany

us a little way, according to the Eastern custom, and then we dismount

and kiss them all on both cheeks, and pursue our monotonous way along

the coast, sometimes riding over rocky capes and promontories and then

on the sand and pebbles close to the roaring surf.

See how many monasteries there are on the sides of Lebanon! Between

Tripoli and Beirût there are about a hundred. The men who live in them

are called monks, who make a vow never to marry, and spend their lives

eating and drinking the fruits of other men's labors. They own almost

all the valuable land in this range of mountains for fifty miles, and

the fellaheen live as "tenants at will" on their estates. When a man is

lazy or unfortunate, if he is not married, his first thought is to

become a monk. They are the most corrupt and worthless vagabonds in the

land, and the day must come before long, when the monasteries and

convents will be abolished and their property be given back to the

people to whom it justly belongs.

We are now riding along by the telegraph wires. It seems strange to see

Morse's telegraph on this old Phenician coast, and it will seem stranger

still when we reach Beirût, to receive a daily morning paper printed in

Arabic, with telegrams from all parts of the world!

In July, a woman came to the telegraph office in Beirût, asking, "Where

is the telegraph?" The Clerk, Yusef Effendi, asked her, "Whom do you

want, the Director, the Operator, or the Kawass?" She said, "I want

Telegraph himself, for my husband has sent me word that he is in prison

in Zahleh and wants me to come with haste, and I heard that Telegraph

takes people quicker than any one else. Please tell me the fare, and

send me as soon as possible!" The Effendi looked at her, and took her

measure, and then said, "You are too tall to go by telegraph, so you

will have to go on a mule." The poor ignorant woman went away greatly

disappointed.

Another old woman, whose son was drafted into the Turkish army, wished

to send him a pair of new shoes, so she hung them on the telegraph wire.

A way-worn foot traveller coming along soon after took down the new

shoes and put them on, and hung his old ones in their place. The next

day the old lady returned and finding the old shoes, said, "Mashallah,

Mohammed has received his new shoes and sent back his old ones to be

repaired."

The telegraph has taught all the world useful lessons, and the Syrians

have learned one lesson from it which is of great value. When they write

letters they use long titles, and flowery salutations, so that a whole

page will be taken up with these empty formalities, leaving only a few

lines at the end, or in a postscript, for the important business. But

when they send a telegram and have to pay for every word, they leave out

the flowery salutations and send only what is necessary.

The following is a very common way of beginning an Arabic letter:

"To the presence of the affectionate and the most distinguished, the

honorable and most ingenuous Khowadja, the honored, may his continuance

be prolonged!"

"After presenting the precious pearls of affection, the aromatic

blossoms of love, and the increase of excessive longing, after the

intimate presence of the light of your rising in prosperity, we would

say that in a most blessed and propitious hour your precious letter

honored us," etc.

That would cost too much to be sent by telegraph. Precious pearls and

aromatic blossoms would become expensive luxuries at two cents a word.

So they have to be reserved for letters, if any one has time to write

them.

Here we come to the famous Dog River. You will read in books about this

river and its old inscriptions. If you have not forgotten your Latin,

you can read a lesson in Latin which was written here nearly two

thousand years ago. There you can see the words.

Imp. Caes. M. Aurelius

Antoninus Pius Felix Augustus

Par. Max. Brit. Max. Germ. Maximus

Pontifex Maximus

Montibus Imminentibus

etc. etc.

This Emperor Marcus Aurelius, must have cut this road through the rocks

about the year 173 A.D. But there is another inscription higher up, with

arrow-headed characters and several other tablets. They are Assyrian and

Egyptian. One of the Assyrian tablets was cut by Sennacherib 2500 years

ago, and one of the Egyptian by Sesostris, king of Egypt, 3100 years

ago. Don't you feel very young and small in looking at such ancient

monuments? All of those men brought their armies here, and found the

path so bad along the high precipice overhanging the sea, that they cut

a road for their horses and chariots in the solid limestone rock. Just

think of standing where Sennacherib and Alexander the Great passed

along with their armies!

What a steep and narrow road! We will dismount and walk over this

dangerous pass. It is not pleasant to meet camels and loaded mules on

such a dizzy precipice, with the high cliff above, and the roaring waves

of the sea far below! It is well we dismounted. Our horses are afraid of

those camels carrying long timbers balanced on their backs. Let us turn

aside and wait until they pass.

Seeing these camels reminds me of what I saw here in 1857. I was coming

down the coast from Tripoli and reached the top of this pass, in the

narrowest part, just as a caravan of camels were coming from the

opposite direction. I turned back a little, and stood close under the

edge of the cliff to let the camels go by. They were loaded with huge

canvas sacks of tibn, or cut straw, which hung down on both sides,

making it impossible to pass them without stooping very low. Just then I

heard a voice behind me, and looking around, saw a shepherd coming up

the pass with his flock of sheep. He was walking ahead, and they all

followed on. I called to him to go back, as the camels were coming over

the pass. He said, "Ma ahlaik," or "don't trouble yourself," and on he

came. When he met the camels, they were in the narrowest part, where a

low stone wall runs along the edge of the precipice. He stooped down and

stepped upon the narrow wall, calling all the time to his sheep, who

followed close upon his heels, walking in single file. He said "tahl,

tahl," "come, come," and then made a shrill whirring call, which could

be heard above the roaring of the waves on the rocks below. It was

wonderful to see how closely they followed the shepherd. They did not

seem to notice the camels on the one side, or the abyss on the other

side. Had they left the narrow track, they would either have been

trodden down by the heavily laden camels, or have fallen off into the

dark waters below. But they were intent on following their shepherd.

They heard his voice, and that was enough. The cameleers were shouting

and screaming to their camels to keep them from slipping on these smooth

rocks, but the sheep paid no attention to them. They knew the shepherd's

voice. They had followed him before, through rivers and thickets, among

rocks and sands, and he had always led them safely. The waves were

dashing and roaring on the rocks below, but they did not fear, for the

shepherd was going on before. Had one of those sheep turned aside, he

would have lost his footing and been destroyed and thrown the whole

flock into confusion.

You know why I have told you this story. You know that Jesus is the Good

Shepherd. He said, "My sheep hear my voice, and I know them and they

follow me." Wherever Jesus leads it is safe for us to go. How many boys

and girls there are who think they know a better path than the one Jesus

calls them to follow. There are "stranger" voices calling on every side,

and many a child leaves the path of the Good Shepherd, and turns aside

to hear what they would say. If they were truly lambs of Jesus' fold,

they would love Him, and follow Him in calm and storm, and never heed

the voice of strangers.

I was once travelling from Dûma to Akûra, high up on the range of

Lebanon. It was a hot summer's day, and at noon I stopped to rest by a

fountain. The waste water of the fountain ran into a square stone birkeh

or pool, and around the pool were several shepherds resting with their

flocks of sheep and goats. The shepherds came and talked with me, and

sat smoking for nearly an hour, when suddenly one of them arose and

walked away calling to his flock to follow him. The flocks were all

mixed together, but when he called, his sheep and goats began to raise

their heads and start along together behind him. He kept walking along

and calling, until all his flock had gone. The rest of the sheep and

goats remained quietly as though nothing had happened. Then another

"Rai," or shepherd, started up in another direction, calling out in a

shrill voice, and _his sheep_ followed him. They knew their shepherd's

voice. Our muleteers were talking all the time, but the sheep paid no

attention to them. They knew one voice, and would follow no other.

We will now hasten on to Beirût. You will wish to see the Female

Seminary, and the Sabbath School and the Steam Printing Press, and many

of the Beirût Schools, before we start to Abeih again.

Here is the Female Seminary. There are a hundred girls here, studying

Arabic reading and writing geography, arithmetic, grammar, botany,

physiology and astronomy, and a few study English, French and music. But

the great study is the _Bible_. I am afraid that very few schools in

America have as much instruction in the Bible, as the girls in this

Seminary and the Sidon Seminary receive. You would be surprised to hear

the girls recite correctly the names of all the patriarchs; kings and

prophets of the Old Testament, with the year when they lived, and the

date of all the important events of the Old and New Testament History,

and the Life of Christ, and the travels of the Apostle Paul, and the

prophecies about Christ in the Old Testament, and then recite the whole

Westminster Assembly's Catechism in Arabic! I have given out _one

hundred and twenty_ Bibles and Hymn Books as rewards to children in the

schools in Beirût, who have learned the Shorter Catechism perfectly in

Arabic.

Five years ago there was a girl in the school who was once very rude and

self-willed, and very hard to control. She had a poor bed-ridden brother

who had been a cripple for years, and was a great care to the family.

They used to carry him out in the garden in fine weather and lay him on

a seat under the trees, and sometimes his sister would come home from

the school and read to him from the Bible, to which he listened with

great delight. Not long after this he died, and his sister was sent for

to come home to the funeral. On reaching home she found a large crowd of

women assembled from all that quarter of the city, shrieking and wailing

over his death, according to the Oriental custom. When A. the little

girl came in, one of the women from an aristocratic Greek family was

talking in a loud voice and saying that it was wrong for any person to

go from the house of mourning to another house before first going home,

because one going from a house of mourning would carry an _evil

influence_ with her. A. listened and then spoke out boldly before the

seventy women, "How long will you hold on to these foolish

superstitions? Beirût is a place of light and civilization. Where can

you find any such teaching as this in the gospel? It is time for us to

give up such superstitions." The old woman asked, "Where did that girl

learn these things? Truly she is right. These things _are_

superstitions, but they will not die until _we old women die_." It

required a great deal of courage in A. to speak out so boldly, when her

own brother had died, but all felt that she spoke the truth, and no one

rebuked her.

Near by the house of A. is another beautiful house surrounded by

gardens, and ornamented in the most expensive manner. A little girl from

this family was attending the school in 1867. Her name was Fereedy. She

was a boarder and the best behaved girl in the school. One day during

vacation, her mother came to Rufka and said, "What have you done to my

little daughter Fereedy? She came home last Saturday with her sister,

and at once took the whole care of the little children, so that I had no

trouble with them. And when night came she put her little sisters to bed

and prayed with them all, and then in the morning she prayed with them

again. I never saw such a child. She is like a little angel." The mother

is of the Greek sect, and the little girl was only twelve years old.

And here is a story about another of the superstitions of the fellaheen,

and what a little girl taught the people about them. This little girl

named L. went with her father to spend the summer in a mountain village,

where the people had a strange superstition about an oak tree. One day

she went out to walk and came to the great oak tree which stood alone on

the mountain side. You know that the Canaanites used to have idols under

the green trees in ancient times. When L. reached the tree, she found

the ground covered with dead branches which had fallen from the tree.

Now, wood is very scarce and costly in Syria, and the people are very

poor, so that she wondered to see the wood left to rot on the ground,

and asked the people why they did not use it for fuel. They said they

dared not, as the tree belonged to Moses the Prophet, and he protected

the tree, and if any one took the wood, they would _fall dead_. She

said, "Moses is in heaven, and does not live in oak trees, and if he

did, he is a good man, and would not hurt me for burning up old dry

sticks." So she asked them if she might have the wood? They said, "yes,

if you _dare_ to take it, for we are afraid to touch it." So she went to

the tree and gathered up as much as she could carry, and took it home.

The people screamed when they saw her, and told her to drop it or it

would kill her, but on she went, and afterwards went back and brought

the rest. She then talked with the ignorant women, and her father told

them about the folly of their superstitions, and read to them in the

Bible about Moses, and they listened with great attention. I have often

thought I should like to go to that village, and see whether the people

now leave the dead branches under Moses' oak, or use them for fuel

during the heavy snow storms of winter.

PART VI.

Here we are, home again at Abeih. Here are Asaad and Khalil, and several

others. I asked Khalil one day to write out for me a list of all the

games the boys play in Abeih, and he brought me a list of _twenty-eight_

different ones, and said there were many more.

I. The first is called Khatim or the Ring. A boy puts a ring on the back

of his hand, tosses it and catches it on the back of his fingers. If it

falls on the middle finger, he shakes it to the forefinger, and then he

is Sultan, and appoints a Vizier, whom he commands to beat the other

boys. Then the boys all sing,

Ding, dong, turn the wheel,

Wind the purple thread:

Spin the white and spin the red,

Wind it on the reel:

Silk and linen as well as you can,

Weave a robe for the Great Sultan.

II. Killeh. Like the game of shooting marbles.

III. Owal Howa. The same as leap frog.

IV. Biz Zowaia. Cat in the corner.

V. Taia ya Taia. All the boys stand in a row, and one in front facing

them, who calls out Taia ya Taia. They all then run after him and hit

him. He then hops on one foot as if lame, and catches one of them, who

takes his place.

VI. El Manya. Hig tig.

VII. Bil Kobbeh. A circle of boys stand with their heads bowed. Another

circle stand outside, and on a given signal try to mount on the backs of

the inner circle of boys. If they succeed they remain standing in this

way; if not, the boy who failed must take the inside place.

VIII. Ghummaida. Blind-man's-buff.

IX. Tabeh. Base ball and drop ball.

X. Kurd Murboot or Tied Monkey. A rope is tied to a peg in the ground,

and one boy holds it fast. The others tie knots in their handkerchiefs

and beat him. If he catches them without letting go his hold on the

rope, they take his place.

XI. Shooha or Hawk. Make a swing on the limb of a tree. A boy leans on

the swing and runs around among the boys, until he catches one to take

his place.

XII. Joora. Shooting marbles into a joora or hole in the ground.

XIII. Khubby Mukhzinak. "Pebble pebble." One boy goes around and hides a

pebble in the hand of one of the circle and asks "pebble, pebble, who's

got the pebble." This is like "Button, button."

Then there are other games like chequers and "Morris," chess, and games

which are used in gambling, which you will not care to hear about.

Sometimes when playing, they sing a song which I have translated:

I found a black crow,

With a cake in his maw,

I asked him to feed me,

He cried caw, caw.

A chicken I found

With a loaf of bread--

I asked him to feed me.

He cried, enough said.

And an eagle black

With a beam on his back

Said from Egypt I come

And he cried clack, clack.