SOME SALT PEOPLE
Whenever the genial American consul-general spoke of a certain godly
Scotch-woman who was laboring for the uplift of Syria, a not irreverent
twinkle would come into his eye as he paraphrased the words of the
Gospel—“She is one of those salt people.”
I should like to write a book about the men and women of many races
and many ecclesiastical affiliations whose lives are bringing a varied
savor and moral asepsis to the land of Syria. It would contain tales of
thrilling romance and brave adventure and a surprising number of humorous
anecdotes, besides the record of quiet self-devotion which is taken for
granted in all missionary biographies. Such a lengthy narration falls
without the scope of the present work. Yet any description of Syria and
its people would be incomplete which did not include at least a few
glimpses of the men and women who, more than all others, are molding
the thought and uplifting the ideals and helping to solve the critical
problems of the land of Lebanon.
Earnest faith, noble character and uncomplaining self-sacrifice are not
sufficient equipment for the Syrian missionary. These qualities are
indeed needed, and as a rule are possessed in generous measure. But he
who is to exert any permanent influence for good upon this proud, sturdy,
persistent, quick-witted race, with its almost cynical proficiency in
religious argumentation, must also be strong of body, alert of intellect,
tactful in social intercourse, and withal of an adaptability born not of
vacillation but of a firm hold on the essentials of life.
Among the American missionaries, for instance, have been found champion
athletes, splendid riders and marksmen, _raconteurs_ of surprising
mental agility, phenomenal linguists and surgeons of magnificent daring.
One gained world-wide fame as an author and another as a scientist.
A third was the best Arabic scholar of his century, if not of any
century. Well-known American colleges have called—in vain—for presidents
from Syria; and an important embassy of the United States was thrice
offered to a missionary, who preferred, however, to keep to his chosen
life-work—at eight hundred dollars a year. These men and women are not
laboring here because there is no other field of endeavor open to them.
They are very intelligent, competent, refined, brave, adaptable people,
with deep knowledge of many other things besides religion, a broad vision
of the world’s affairs, and almost invariably a keen sense of humor;
people whom it is an education to know and a glad inspiration to own as
friends.
* * * * *
In 1855 a leaky sailing vessel landed a cargo of rum and missionaries
at Beirut. The rum was drunk up long ago; but one of the passengers, a
tall, wiry Yankee, is still bubbling over with the joy of life. When I
met Dr. Bliss again in Syria last summer, he told me with quiet chuckles
of enjoyment how, shortly after he came to the East, one of the older
missionaries remarked, “Daniel Bliss isn’t practical and his wife won’t
live a year in this climate.” After nearly sixty years, the beloved wife
is still with him; and as for being practical—there stands the great
university which he has built!
Others helped him from the beginning—wise and generous philanthropists
like William E. Dodge and Morris K. Jesup in America and the Duke of
Argyll and the Earl of Shaftesbury in Great Britain—but two thousand
alumni scattered over the five continents will tell you that the Syrian
Protestant College is first and foremost a monument to the foresight and
tact and self-sacrifice and patience and indomitable enthusiasm of “the
Old Doctor.”
It was at first very small. A half-century ago there were but a few
pupils gathered in a hired room. To-day the faculty and administrative
officers alone number nearly four score, and a thousand men and boys are
studying _in the English language_. The institution is emphatically
Christian, but it is as absolutely non-sectarian as Harvard or Columbia.
Every great religion and sect of the Near East, including Mohammedanism
and Judaism, is represented in the student body; and it is hardly an
exaggeration to say that every student and graduate honors Daniel Bliss
next only to God. As he walks through the streets of the city, men stop
to kiss his hands which embarrasses him exceedingly. Perhaps they love
him so much because they are so sure that he loves them. Orientals
are very quick to detect a stranger’s underlying motives, and many
a smooth-speaking philanthropist has been weighed by them and found
wanting. But, during nearly sixty years’ residence in Beirut, Dr. Bliss
has lived such a life that his devotion to Syria and his affectionate
interest in Syrians has become a tradition handed down from father to son.
He has known dark days and fought hard battles, yet he has never lacked a
buoyant optimism, born partly of trust in God and partly of a strong body
and a healthful mind. He has no patience with dismal, despondent prophets
of evil. I never knew a man with a larger capacity for enjoyment. Good
music always moves him powerfully. He keeps in touch with the latest
European and American periodicals. He likes new books, new songs, new
stories and, especially, new jokes. Active, alert, quick at repartee, he
is passionately fond of the society of young people, and they repay the
liking with interest.
A visitor to the college was once speaking of the attractive horseback
rides through the country around Beirut. “But,” he added, as he looked
up at the white-haired president, “I suppose you don’t ride any more.”
“No,” answered Dr. Bliss with a resigned sigh, “I haven’t been on a horse
for—three days!”
He is getting on in years now, and a recent stoop has taken a fraction of
an inch from his six feet of spare, hard bone and muscle. A decade ago he
resigned the presidency of the college, whereupon, to his great delight,
his son was elected to fill the vacancy. “See what my boy is doing!”
he exclaims, as he shows visitors the new buildings which are going up
almost at the rate of one a year. So now the Old Doctor just walks about
the campus which he loves, and from beneath his shock of thick white
hair beams an irresistibly infectious enjoyment of this superlatively
beautiful world, where anybody who has the mind can work so hard and get
so much fun out of it.
Did I say that Dr. Bliss is old? Not he! He would indignantly deny the
imputation. It is true that he celebrated his ninetieth birthday last
August, but what of that? He recently expressed an intention to live to
be a hundred. When he was a stalwart youth of four score I heard him
remark, “Let the aged people talk about the good old times if they want
to. I have no patience with such old fogies. _I_ believe that the world
is getting better every day.”
* * * * *
Ras Baalbek is a little village some twenty miles north of the famous
temples. Its thousand inhabitants are exceedingly ignorant and bigoted
Oriental Catholics. The only native Protestant family is that of the
school-teacher. There is also one American citizen—an adopted brother of
ours who accumulated a few hundred dollars in the United States, learned
a few words of English, and then returned to his birthplace, where he
keeps the village khan, which has an evil reputation as a gambling-house.
The Ras is cold in winter, hot in summer, and filthy at all seasons. The
houses are built half of mud and half of stone; the streets are filled
with unmitigated mud. A legion of fierce curs fill the night with their
howling, and rush out of dark corners to snap at unsuspecting strangers.
It was not an inviting town, but we had heard that two American ladies
were spending the winter there in missionary work; so, after we had
turned over our horses to our fellow citizen of the khan and had dug
passably clean collars out of our dusty saddle-bags, we went to pay them
an evening call. Their house was not hard to find, for it was the finest
in all the village, a commodious mansion with two rooms, one built of
stone and the other of mud.
When the door opened for us, we passed immediately from Syria to America
and, under the influence of the warmth and refinement and hospitable
cheer of the mud-walled room, our sentiments toward Ras Baalbek underwent
a complete and permanent change. These quiet-speaking, refined ladies did
not look at all like martyrs of the faith. It was hard to realize that
they had immured themselves in the midst of a dirty, ignorant, fanatical
community, and were living in circumstances of very real hardship and
peril. In the street just outside, the dogs were yelping noisily. From
a neighboring roof a stentorian voice called out what corresponded to
the evening edition of a local newspaper. The village was informed that
the robber-tribe of Beit Dendish was ravaging the valley, a prominent
resident had been murdered the preceding night, and Abu somebody-or-other
had lost one of his goats. In the bright, warm room, however, we talked
of American friends and American books, and discussed the probable
outcome of the Yale-Princeton game.
After supper we all went to the house of the native teacher for a little
prayer meeting. He was a young married man with several children, but
his housekeeping arrangements were very simple. There was but one room.
The floor was of mud, the ceiling was mud and straw, the walls were mud
and stone. In one corner was a big pile of mattresses and blankets; in
another was a small pile of cooking utensils, and one wall was hollowed
out to serve as a bin for flour. The teacher’s children lay on mattresses
spread upon the bare floor and slept quite soundly through all the
talking and singing.
As there were no other Protestants in the village, the attendance was
naturally small. Two or three neighbors slipped in quietly and seated
themselves by the door. These Catholics were probably drawn here merely
by curiosity to see the American ladies and their visitors; but they sat
reverently through the service and seemed to pay very close attention,
though their dark, inscrutable faces gave no hint as to what they thought
of the proceedings.
It was not an inspiring audience; but the ladies met each newcomer with
a bright smile and a tactful word of greeting. We sang strange-sounding
words to an old, familiar tune, after which one of the missionaries
read a few verses from the Bible and added a brief explanation of their
meaning. The second hymn was set to an Arab air that sounded a little
startling to our Western ears. Then came a short closing prayer, followed
immediately by very lengthy Oriental salutations, as the two strangers
were introduced to the people of the Ras.
We should have liked to stay several days and investigate at first-hand
the work among women, of which we had heard encouraging reports; but we
had to ride away early the next morning. The two missionaries walked
out to the edge of the village with us, where the older lady gave us a
ridiculously large lunch and a pleasant invitation to “call again the
next time you are passing!” The younger—she was very young—pretended to
weep copiously at our departure, and wrung bucketfuls of imaginary tears
out of her handkerchief. Then the two cheery figures went back up the
hill to their long, lonely winter of exile.
* * * * *
On the last Sunday of the Old Year the air was just crisp enough to make
walking an exhilarating delight. It was one of the days, not infrequent
in the rainy season, when the clouds draw away for a time, while earth
and sky, cleansed and refreshed by the recent showers, shine with the
refulgence of the rarest mornings of our Western springtime.
As we went out of the old city of Homs, the clearness of the atmosphere
was like transparency made visible. The horizon was as clean-cut as that
of the ocean. Off to the west were the heights inhabited by the cruel
and fanatical Nusairiyeh; straight in front of us to the south was the
“Entering In of Hamath,” lying low and narrow between Anti-Lebanon on our
left and the snow-clad summits of highest Lebanon on our right; while to
the east the great wheat-fields of the “Land of Homs” rolled away over
the horizon to the unseen desert. Our goal, the little village of Feruzi,
shone so white and distinct that it was hard to realize that it was over
an hour’s journey away.
We were four: two Americans, the native pastor of the Protestant
congregation at Homs, and an old, old man. The pastor was a noble fellow,
who shortly afterward showed heroic mettle during a fearful cholera
epidemic which ravaged his city. The old man, however, was the more
picturesque figure.
He was clothed in baggy trousers of faded blue, with a large turban on
his head and a heavy, formless sheepskin mantle over his shoulders; his
bare feet were thrust into great yellow slippers which flopped clumsily
as he walked. We should once have been inclined to treat him with some
condescension; but fortunately we had learned the Oriental lesson of
reverence for old age, and we American college graduates soon found
there were many things that this unschooled Syrian mechanic could teach
us. What dignity and quietness marked his speech and manner! How calm
and trustful was his attitude toward the future! He was one of the
first Protestants in this district, and many were the stories he could
tell of the early days of struggle and persecution. He had never been
rich—I doubt if he earned thirty cents a day; yet he spoke as one who
had observed much and reflected much and, although many kinds of trouble
had come to him, his contentment and faith were an inspiration to us.
As we were his guests, we were of course treated with the greatest
friendliness, yet we could see that in his eyes we were mere boys, who
knew little of the problems of life. And, to tell the truth, before the
day was over we were more than half inclined to agree with him.
Feruzi is one of the few remaining villages in the country which are not
Syrian, but the older Chaldean in blood and language. Its inhabitants,
who number about a thousand, appear quite different in feature as well
as dress from the people of the surrounding district. Their costume is
a peculiar one, remarkable for its warm colors and long, queerly cut
trimmings. The women remind one of American Indians, and the faces of
the men are of unusual fierceness. It seemed quite natural that there
should be a Chaldean church here, big and gaudy, yet ugly and ill-kept,
with a much-prized copy of the Scriptures in the Syriac tongue chained
to the lectern; but we saw no structure resembling a Protestant place of
worship, and among the crowds that followed us curiously about it was
impossible to find any one who looked like a Presbyterian elder.
Yet when we turned into the room set apart for the use of the Protestant
congregation, some of the wildest and most dangerous-looking men
followed. It was a small place, not over twenty feet square, low and
dark, and quite bare save for a rough matting on the floor and a chair
and a table for the preacher. In a few minutes it was crowded to
suffocation. There were over ninety people in the little room. The men
sat on one side and the women on the other; but all of us sat on the
floor and were so packed together that any change of position was quite
impossible, except for a few mothers with babies, who sat near the door.
Throughout the long Christmas sermon the cramped audience showed a
reverence and an attentiveness that would have shamed many an American
congregation. Suppose that a full-blooded Arab in his flowing native
dress, should enter one of our churches at home—what a craning of necks
there would be, and how few persons would be able to recall the text! We
appeared just as outlandish to the people of Feruzi; yet, although we sat
at the back of the room, not a person turned to look at us, except that
the man at my side would always help me find the place in the hymn book.
It was not indifference, but consideration for the stranger and respect
for the occasion; and we who had come merely to see an unusual sight,
stayed to worship God with these new friends, and went away with a fuller
realization of the meaning of Christmas.
After the service was over, however, there could be no charge of
indifference brought against these Chaldean villagers—and here too
American congregations might well learn from them. The same men who
just now had seemed to ignore our existence came crowding around to
greet us as “brethren.” They inquired about our life at Beirut and our
own wonderful country far beyond the western ocean; they expressed a
complimentary surprise at the extent of our travels; they sympathized
tenderly with the homesickness which comes so strongly at Christmas-time
and expressed kindly wishes for our dear ones in America; they pressed
upon us the poor hospitality that it was in their power to offer. In
short, out of church as in church, the people of Feruzi acted like the
devout, courteous and friendly Christians that they were.
When at last we had to leave, they all followed us out to the village
limits, and one or two—such is the pleasant Oriental custom—walked on
with us for a mile on our homeward journey. When the last strange, dark
Chaldean had said “God be with you, brother!” we went on in the beautiful
calm of evening a little more quietly than we had come, with a clearer
understanding of the brotherhood of man, and a deeper faith in the
teachings of man’s great Brother.
* * * * *
To those who look to see an effective Gospel brought again to the Near
East through a reawakening of the ancient Oriental churches, it is
encouraging to know that even now there are prelates who are earnest,
sincere and capable. Such a one was Butrus Jureijery, the first bishop of
Cæsarea Philippi and later the patriarch of the Greek Catholic Church.
From beginning to end he was a thoroughgoing Catholic. Indeed, the most
striking incident of his early career was an argument with a Protestant
Bible-seller, which developed into a fierce fistic combat, with the
result that the governor of Lebanon exiled both parties from their native
town of Zahleh.
Some years later, after he had been ordained priest, Butrus journeyed to
Rome and presented to the Holy Father a novel petition.
“We Catholics,” he said, “build our church upon St. Peter, the first
bishop, the rock, the holder of the keys; and we remember that the
apostle’s divine commission was given by Christ at Cæsarea Philippi on
the slopes of Mount Hermon. How is it that the original bishopric of the
Christian Church, the first see of Peter, has been so long allowed to
remain unoccupied?” Now Butrus is the Arabic pronunciation of Peter. So
he continued, “Here am I, bearing the very name of the greatest apostle,
a native of the holy land of Lebanon, and ready to take up the arduous
labors which shall reclaim for the church its first, long neglected
bishopric.”
The pope was so struck by the force of the argument that he promised to
consecrate the young priest as bishop of Cæsarea, or Banias, as it is now
called. Then the bishop-elect went through France, preaching a kind of
new crusade. His idea was novel and striking, and met with enthusiastic
approval. Indeed, with such eloquence did he appeal for the proposed
diocese that he became immensely popular throughout all France, and gifts
for the Bishopric of Banias continued to flow in from that country as
long as Butrus lived.
In 1897 the highest ecclesiastics of the Greek Catholic Church gathered
in solemn convention at Serba to elect a new patriarch. Butrus Jureijery
was the people’s choice; but the odds against him seemed overwhelming. He
was too active and too honest for the hierarchy. The Turkish government
was inimical to him, the powerful Jesuit order fought him, the papal
nuncio objected to his nomination, and the bishops, almost to a man,
opposed him.
For once, however, the Syrian peasants defied their ecclesiastical lords.
Word was sent to the convention that its members need not return to
their dioceses unless they cast their votes for Butrus. So, in spite of
government, Jesuits, papal nuncio, and the wishes of the very electors
themselves, the enterprising bishop of Banias became “Patriarch of
Antioch, Jerusalem, Alexandria and the Whole East,” and, subject to a
hardly more than nominal allegiance to the Vatican, the supreme head of
a great church whose five million adherents are scattered throughout the
Near East from Hungary to Persia and from the Black Sea to the upper Nile.
He had been elected as the “People’s Patriarch,” and such he remained.
A religious and political autocrat, with every opportunity and every
precedent for using his office to enrich himself and his family, he
remained poor and honest to the end. This means more than the American
reader realizes. Throughout the East, political or ecclesiastical office
is supposed to afford a quasi-legitimate means of amassing wealth. Few
princes of the church have ended their lives in poverty, nor have their
families known want. Yet when Butrus died, his own brother would have
been unable to attend the funeral, if a popular subscription had not
raised sufficient money to buy him a decent coat.
Butrus was progressive as well as honest. His personal beliefs did not
change, but, as he grew older, he showed a more liberal spirit toward
those who differed with him. He entered into no more fist-fights with
his opponents; on the contrary, he treated them with the greatest
courtesy. He was the first Greek Catholic patriarch, for instance, to
return the calls of the Americans in Beirut or to visit the English
Mission at Baalbek. Indeed, at one time four of the seven teachers
in his own patriarchal school were Protestants. A thorough churchman
himself, he learned to fight dissent with its own weapons; not anathema,
excommunication and seclusion, but education, honesty and progress. He
presented the spectacle of a man devout of heart and noble of purpose,
but differing with some of the rest of us in his theological beliefs.
Such are honored by all who hold character above creed.
He was loved by his people and admired and respected by the members of
all other communions; but with his own bishops he had to wage unceasing
warfare, and the contest drove him into an early grave.
Then they clothed the dead man in his richest robes, heavy with gold
and jewels. They put his pontifical staff in his hand and set him on
his throne in his palace, and for three days all the world thronged
to see him. There were foreign consuls, come to do honor to the wise
statesman, Protestant missionaries who esteemed the great Catholic for
his honesty and courage, careless young people drawn by news of the
strange spectacle, and thousands upon thousands of Butrus’ beloved poor,
who kissed his cold hand and prayed to him with absolute confidence that
he would still be their friend and protector.
On a bright, beautiful Easter Sunday I watched his funeral procession
pass through the streets of Beirut. In a way, this last journey was
typical of his life and character. For the first time in many long
centuries, all sects ignored their differences so that they might
together do honor to the prelate who was greater than his church. Roman
Catholic, Greek Catholic, Greek Orthodox, Maronite and Armenian marched
together; and as the cortège passed the little Protestant Church, its
bell was tolled “in order that,” as its pastor said, “the Turkish
soldiers in the barracks yonder may know that, after all, we Christians
are one.”
[Illustration: The dead Patriarch being driven through the streets of
Beirut in his gilded chariot]
[Illustration: A summer camp in Lebanon]
First came three companies of Turkish soldiers and sixty gorgeously
dressed consular guards; then children from the church schools,
black-robed Jesuits, humble mourners from the patriarch’s native town
of Zahleh, men bearing wreaths and banners sent from sister churches;
then more children singing a plaintive Arabic hymn. There were present
two patriarchs of other communions, more than a dozen bishops and three
hundred and fifty priests, and the solemn dignity of the procession, so
different from the loud, hysterical wailing at most Syrian funerals,
seemed to impress even the Moslem spectators on the housetops along the
line of march.
Last of all came Butrus himself, not lying within a black-draped hearse
but, as if in triumphal procession, seated in a gilded chariot hung with
bright banners and wreaths of flowers. The patriarch sat upright in his
gorgeous robes, his staff grasped firmly in one rigid hand and a crucifix
in the other. I stood within ten feet of the chariot as it passed by, and
there was nothing in the least harrowing in the sight; on the contrary,
it was wonderfully dignified and impressive. I could hardly realize that
the patriarch was dead; he sat there so naturally with his long gray
beard resting upon his golden vestments, and his large, calm features
seemed still to be animated by the vital power of his dauntless spirit.
Afterwards there were long addresses lauding the character and good deeds
of the dead man; the bishops who had shortened his life said masses
for the repose of his soul; and then, still clothed in his robes of
state, they placed him on a throne in a vault under the pavement of the
cathedral choir. There he sits in solemn, lonely grandeur, like some
Eastern Barbarossa waiting for the time when the spirit of the Christ
shall be re-born in the church which he so loved, for which in his own
earnest way he so unceasingly labored, and for which at last he died.