CONSTANTINOPLE.
November 24th.
From my childhood no city has taken more hold of my imagination than
Constantinople. For weeks we have been looking forward to our visit
here; and when at last we entered the Dardanelles (passing the site of
ancient Troy), and crossed the Sea of Marmora, and on Friday noon,
Nov. 12th, caught the first gleam of the city in the distance, we
seemed to be realizing a long cherished dream. There it was in all its
glory. Venice rising from the sea is not more beautiful than
Constantinople, when the morning sun strikes on its domes and
minarets, rising out of the groves of dark green cypresses, which mark
the places where the Turks bury their dead. And when we entered the
Bosphorus, and rounding Seraglio Point, anchored at the mouth of the
Golden Horn, we seemed to be indeed in the heart of the Orient, where
the gorgeous East dazzles the traveller from the West with its
glittering splendors.
But closer contact sometimes turns poetry to prose in rather an abrupt
manner, and the impression of Oriental magnificence is rudely
disturbed when one goes on shore. Indeed, if a traveller cares more
for pleasant impressions than for disagreeable realities, he would do
better not to land at all, but rather to stand afar off, moving slowly
up and down the Bosphorus, beholding and admiring, and then sail away
just at sunset, as the last light of day gilds the domes and minarets
with a parting splendor, and he will retain his first impressions
undisturbed, and Constantinople will remain in his memory as a
beautiful dream. But as we are prepared for every variety of
experience, and enjoy sudden contrasts, we are rather pleased than
otherwise at the noise and confusion which greet the arrival of our
steamer in these waters; and the crowd of boats which surround the
ship, and the yells of the boatmen, though they are not the voices of
paradise, greatly amuse us. Happily a dragoman sent from the Hotel
d'Angleterre, where we had engaged rooms, hails us from a boat, and,
coming on board, takes us in charge, and rescues us from the mob, and
soon lands us on the quay, where, after passing smoothly through the
Custom House, we see our numerous trunks piled on the backs of half a
dozen porters, or _hamals_, and our guide leads the way up the hill of
Pera. And now we get an interior view of Constantinople, which is
quite different from the glittering exterior, as seen from a distance.
We are plunging into a labyrinth of dark and narrow and dirty streets,
which are overhung with miserable houses, where from little shops
turbaned figures peer out upon us, and women, closely veiled, glide
swiftly by. Such streets we never saw in any city that pretended to
civilization. The pavement (if such it deserves to be called) is of
the rudest kind, of rough, sharp stones, between which one sinks in
mud. There is hardly a street that is decently paved in all
Constantinople. Even the Grand Street of Pera, on which are our hotel
and all the foreign embassies, is very mean in appearance. The
embassies themselves are fine, as they are set far back from the
street, surrounded with ample grounds, and on one side overlook the
Bosphorus, but the street itself is dingy enough. To our surprise we
find that Constantinople has no architectural magnificence to boast
of. Except the Mosques, and the Palaces of the Sultan, which indeed
_are_ on an Imperial scale, there are no buildings which one would go
far to see in London or Paris or Rome. The city has been again and
again swept by fires, so that many parts are of modern construction,
while the old parts which have escaped the flames, are miserable
beyond description. It is through such a part that we are now picking
our way, steering through narrow passages, full of dogs and asses and
wretched-looking people. This is our entrance into Constantinople.
After such an experience one's enthusiasm is dampened a little, and he
is willing to exchange somewhat of Oriental picturesqueness for
Western cleanliness and comfort.
But the charm is not all gone, nor has it disappeared after twelve
days of close familiarity. Only the picture takes a more defined
shape, and we are able to distinguish the lights and shadows.
Constantinople is a city full of sharp contrasts, in which one extreme
sets the other in a stronger light, as Oriental luxury and show look
down on Oriental dirt and beggary; as gold here appears by the side of
rags, and squalid poverty crouches under the walls of splendid
palaces. Thus the city may be described as mean or as magnificent, and
either description be true, according as we contemplate one extreme or
the other.
As to its natural beauty, (that of situation,) no language can surpass
the reality. It stands at the junction of two seas and two continents,
where Europe looks across the Bosphorus to Asia, as New York looks
across the East River to Brooklyn. That narrow strait which divides
the land unites the seas, the Black Sea with the Mediterranean. From
the lofty height of the Seraskier tower one looks down on such a
panorama as is not elsewhere on the face of the earth. Far away
stretches the beautiful Sea of Marmora, which comes up to the very
walls of the city, and seems to kiss its feet. On the other side of
Stamboul, dividing it from Pera, is the Golden Horn, crowded with
ships; and in front is the Bosphorus, where the whole Turkish navy
rides at anchor, and a fleet of steamers and ships is passing, bearing
the grain of the Black Sea to feed the nations of Western Europe.
Islanded amid all these waters are the different parts of one great
capital--a vast stretch of houses, out of which rise a hundred domes
and minarets. As one takes in all the features of this marvellous
whole, he can but exclaim, "Beautiful for situation, the joy of the
whole earth, is"--Constantinople!
Nor are its environs less attractive than the position of the city
itself. Whichever way you turn, sailing over these waters and along
these shores, or riding outside of the ancient wall, from the Golden
Horn over the hills to the Sea of Marmora, with its beautiful islands,
there is something to enchant the eye and to excite the imagination. A
sail up the Bosphorus is one of the most interesting in the world. We
have taken it twice. The morning after our arrival, our friend Dr.
George W. Wood, to whom we are indebted for many acts of kindness,
gave up the day to accompany us. For miles the shores on either side
are dotted with palaces of the Sultan, or of the Viceroy of Egypt, or
of this or that Grand Vizier, or of some Pasha who has despoiled
provinces to enrich himself, or with the summer residences of the
Foreign Ministers, or of wealthy merchants of Constantinople.
The Bosphorus constantly reminded me of the Hudson, with its broad
stream indented with bays, now swelling out like our own noble river
at the Tappan Zee, and then narrowing again, as at West Point, and
with the same steep hills rising from the water's edge, and wooded to
the top. So delighted were we with the excursion, that we have since
made it a second time, accompanied by Rev. A. V. Millingen, the
excellent pastor of the Union Church of Pera, and find the impression
of beauty increased. Landing on the eastern side, near where the Sweet
Waters of Asia come down to mingle with the sea, we walked up a valley
which led among the hills, and climbed the Giants' Mountain, on which
Moslem chronicles fix the place of the tomb of Joshua, the great
Hebrew leader, while tradition declares it to be the tomb of Hercules.
Probably one was buried here as truly as the other; authorities differ
on the subject, and you take your choice. But what none can dispute is
the magnificent site, worthy to have been the place of burial of any
hero or demigod. The view extends up and down the Bosphorus for
miles. How beautiful it seemed that day, which was like one of the
golden days of our Indian summer, a soft and balmy air resting on all
the valleys and the hills. The landscape had not, indeed, the
freshness of spring, but the leaves still clung to the trees, which
wore the tints of autumn, and thus resembled, though they did not
equal, those of our American forests; and as we wandered on amid these
wild and wooded scenes, I could imagine that I was rambling among the
lovely hills along the Hudson.
But there is one point in which the resemblance ceases. There is a
difference (and one which makes all the difference in the world),
viz., that the Hudson presents us only the beauty of _nature_, while
the Bosphorus has the added charm of _history_. The dividing line
between Europe and Asia, it has divided the world for thousands of
years. Here we come back to the very beginnings of history, or before
all history, into the dim twilight of fable and tradition; for through
these straits, according to the ancient story, sailed Jason with his
Argonauts in search of the Golden Fleece, and yonder are the
Symplegades, the rocks which were the terror of navigators even in the
time of Jason, if such a man ever lived, and around which the sea
still roars as it roared thousands of years ago. On a hill-top stood a
temple to Jupiter Urius, to which mariners entering the stormy Euxine
came to offer their vows, and to pray for favorable winds; and here
still lives an old, long-haired Dervish, to whom the Turkish sailors
apply for the benefit of his prayers. He was very friendly with us,
and a trifling gratuity insured us whatever protection he could give.
Thus we strolled along over the hills to the Genoese Castle, a great
round tower, built hundreds of years ago to guard the entrance to the
Black Sea, and in a grove of oaks stretched ourselves upon the grass,
and took our luncheon in full view of two continents, both washed by
one "great and wide sea." To this very spot came Darius the Great, to
get the same view on which we are looking now; and a few miles below,
opposite the American College at Bebek, he built his bridge of boats
across the Bosphorus, over which he passed his army of seven hundred
thousand men. To the same spot Xenophon led his famous Retreat of the
Ten Thousand.
Coming down to later times, we are sitting among the graves of Arabs
who fought and fell in the time of Haroun al Raschid, the magnificent
Caliph of Bagdad, in whose reign occurred the marvellous adventures
related in the Tales of the Arabian Nights. These were Moslem heroes,
and their graves are still called "the tombs of the martyrs." But
hither came other warriors; for in yonder valley across the water
encamped Godfrey of Bouillon, with his Crusaders, who had traversed
Europe, and were now about to cross into Asia, to march through Asia
Minor, and descend into Syria, to fight for the Holy Sepulchre.
Recalling such historic memories, and enjoying to the full the beauty
of the day, we came down from the hills to the waters, and crossing in
a caique to the other side of the Bosphorus, took the steamer back to
the city.
While such are the surroundings of Constantinople, in its interior it
is the most picturesque city we have yet seen. I do not know what we
may find in India, or China, or Japan, but in Europe there is nothing
like it. On the borders of Europe and Asia, it derives its character,
as well as its mixed population, from both. It is a singular compound
of nations. I do not believe there is a spot in the world where meet a
greater variety of races than on the long bridge across the Golden
Horn, between Pera and Stamboul. Here are the representatives of all
the types of mankind that came out of the Ark, the descendants of
Shem, Ham, and Japheth--Jews and Gentiles, Turks and Greeks and
Armenians, "Parthians and Medes and Elamites, and dwellers in
Mesopotamia," Persians and Parsees, and Arabs from Egypt and Arabia,
and Moors from the Barbary Coast, and Nubians and Abyssinians from the
upper Nile, and Ethiopians from the far interior of Africa. I have
been surprised to see so many blacks wearing the turban. But here they
are in great numbers, the recognized equals of their white
co-religionists. I have at last found one country in the world in
which the distinction between black and white makes absolutely no
difference in one's rank or position. And this, strange to say, is a
country where slavery long existed, and where, though suppressed by
law, it still exists, though less openly. We visited the old slave
market, and though evidently "business" was dull, yet a dozen men were
sitting around, who, we were told, were slave merchants, and some
black women who were there to be sold. But slavery in Turkey is of a
mild form, and as it affects both races (fair Circassian women being
sold as well as the blackest Ethiopian), the fact of servitude works
no such degradation as attaints the race. And so whites and blacks
meet together, and walk together, and eat together, apparently without
the slightest consciousness of superiority on one side, or of
inferiority on the other. No doubt this equality is partly due to the
influence of Mohammedanism, which is very democratic, which recognizes
no distinction of race, before which all men are equal as before their
Creator, and which thus lifts up the poor and abases the proud. I am
glad to be able to state one fact so much to its honor.
But these turbaned Asiatics are not the only ones that throng this
bridge. Here are Franks in great numbers, speaking all the languages
of the West, French and Italian, German and English. One may
distinguish them afar off by their stove-pipe hat, that beautiful
cylinder whose perpendicular outline is the emblem of uprightness, and
which we wish might always be a sign and pledge that the man whose
face appears under it would illustrate in his own person the unbending
integrity of Western civilization. And so the stream of life rolls on
over that bridge, as over the Bridge of Mirza, never ceasing any more
than the waters of the Golden Horn which roll beneath it.
And not only all races, but all conditions are represented
here--beggars and princes; men on horseback forcing their way through
the crowd on foot; carriages rolling and rumbling on, but never
stopping the tramp, tramp, of the thousands that keep up their endless
march. Here the son of the Sultan dashes by in a carriage, with
mounted officers attending his sacred (though very insignificant)
person; while along his path crouch all the forms of wretched
humanity--men with loathsome diseases; men without arms or legs,
holding up their withered stumps; or with eyes put out, rolling their
sightless eyeballs, to excite the pity of passers by--all joining in
one wail of misery, and begging for charity.
In the mongrel population of Constantinople one must not forget the
_dogs_, which constitute a large part of the inhabitants. Some
traveller who has illustrated his sketches with the pen by sketches
with the _pencil_, has given, as a faithful picture of this capital of
the East, simply a pack of dogs snarling in the foreground as its most
conspicuous feature, while a mosque and a minaret may be faintly seen
in the distance. If this is a caricature, yet it only exaggerates the
reality, for certainly the dogs have taken full possession of the
city. They cannot be "Christian dogs," but Moslem dogs, since they are
tolerated, and even protected, by the Turks. It is a peculiar
breed--all yellow, with long, sharp noses and sharp ears--resembling
in fact more the fox or the wolf than the ordinary house-dog. A shaggy
Newfoundlander is never seen. As they are restrained by no Malthusian
ideas of population, they multiply exceedingly. They belong to no man,
but are their own masters, and roam about as freely as any of the
followers of the prophet. They are only kept in bounds by a police of
their own. It is said that they are divided into communities, which
have their separate districts, and that if by chance a stray dog gets
out of his beat, the others set upon him, and punish him so cruelly
that he flies yelping to his own crowd for protection. They live in
the streets, and there may be seen generally asleep in the day-time.
You cannot look anywhere but you see a dog curled up like a rug that
has been thrown in a corner. You stumble over them on the sidewalk.
They keep pretty quiet during the day, but at night they let
themselves loose, and come upon you in full cry. They bark and yelp,
but their favorite note is a hideous howl, which they keep up under
your window by the hour together (at least it seems an hour when you
are trying to sleep), or until they are exhausted, when the cry is
immediately taken up by a fresh pack around the corner.
The purely Oriental character of Constantinople is seen in a visit to
the _bazaars_--a feature peculiar to Eastern cities. It was perhaps to
avoid the necessity of locomotion, always painful to a Turk, that
business has been concentrated within a defined space. Imagine an area
of many acres, or of many city squares, all enclosed and covered in,
and cut up into a great number of little streets or passages, on
either side of which are ranged innumerable petty shops, and you have
a general idea of the bazaars. In front of each of these a venerable
Turk sits squatting on his legs, and smoking his pipe, and ready to
receive customers. You wonder where he can keep his goods, for his
shop is like a baby house, a space of but a few feet square. But he
receives you with Oriental courtesy, making a respectful _salaam_,
perhaps offering you coffee or a pipe to soothe your nerves, and
render your mind calm and placid for the contemplation of the
treasures he is to set before you. And then he proceeds to take down
from his shelves, or from some inner recess, what does indeed stir
your enthusiasm, much as you may try to repress it--rich silks from
Broussa, carpets from Persia, blades from Damascus, and antique
curiosities in bronze and ivory--all of which excite the eager desire
of lovers of things that are rare and beautiful. I should not like to
say (lest it should be betraying secrets) how many hours some of our
party spent in these places, or what follies and extravagances they
committed. Certainly as an exhibition of one phase of Oriental life,
it is a scene never to be forgotten.
To turn from business to religion, as it is now perhaps midday or
sunset, we hear from the minaret of a neighboring mosque the muezzin
calling the hour of prayer; and putting off our shoes, with sandaled
or slippered feet, we enter the holy place. At the vestibule are
fountains, at which the Moslems are washing their hands and feet
before they go in to pray. We lift the heavy curtain which covers the
door, and enter. One glance shows that we are not in a Christian
church, either Catholic or Protestant. There is no cross and no altar;
no Lord's Prayer, no Creed, and no Ten Commandments. The walls are
naked and bare, with no sculptured form of prophet or apostle, and no
painting of Christ or the Virgin. The Mohammedans are the most
terrible of iconoclasts, and tolerate no "images" of any kind, which
they regard as a form of idolatry. But though the building looks empty
and cold, there is a great appearance of devotion. All the worshippers
stand with their faces turned towards Mecca, as the ulema in a low,
wailing tone reads, or chants, the passages from the Koran. There is
no music of any kind, except this dreary monotone. But all seem moved
by some common feeling. They kneel, they bow themselves to the earth,
they kiss the floor again and again in sign of their deep abasement
before God and his prophet. We looked on in silence, respecting the
proprieties of the place. But the scene gave me some unpleasant
reflections, not only at the blind superstition of the worshippers,
but at the changes which had come to pass in this city of Constantine,
the first of Christian emperors, and in a place which has been so
often solemnly devoted to the worship of Christ. The Mosque of St.
Sophia, which, in its vastness and severe and simple majesty, is
certainly one of the grandest temples of the world, was erected as a
Christian church, and so remained for nearly a thousand years. In it,
or in its predecessor standing on the same spot, preached the
"golden-mouthed Chrysostom." This venerable temple is now in the hands
of those who despise the name of Christ. It is about four hundred and
twenty years since the Turks captured Constantinople, and the terrible
Mohammed II., mounted on horseback, and sword in hand, rode through
yonder high door, and gave orders to slay the thousands who had taken
refuge within those sacred walls. Then Christian blood overflowed that
pavement like a sea, as men and women and helpless children were
trampled down beneath the heels of the cruel invaders. And so the
abomination of desolation came into the holy place, and St. Sophia was
given up to the spoiler. His first act was to destroy every trace of
its Christian use; to take away the vessels of the sanctuary, as of
old they were taken from the temple at Jerusalem; to cover up the
beautiful mosaics in the ceiling and on the walls, that for so many
centuries had looked down on Christian worshippers; and to _cut out
the cross_. I observed, in going round the spacious galleries, that
wherever the sign of the cross had been carved in the ancient marble,
_it had been chiselled away_. Thus the usurping Moslems had striven to
obliterate every trace of Christian worship. The sight of such
desecration gave me a bitter feeling, only relieved by the assurance
which I felt then, and feel now, that that sign _shall be restored_,
and that the Cross shall yet fly above the Crescent, not only over the
great temple of St. Sophia, but over all the domes and minarets of
Constantinople.
* * * * *
For the pleasure of contrast to so much that is dark and sombre, I
cannot close this picture without turning to one bright spot, one
hopeful sign, that is like a bit of green grass springing up amid the
moss-covered ruins of a decaying empire. As it is a relief to come
out from under the gloomy arches of St. Sophia into the warm sunshine,
so is it to turn away from a creed of Fatalism, which speaks only of
decay and death, to that better faith which has in it the new life of
the world. The Christian religion was born in the East, and carried by
early apostolic missionaries to western Europe, where it laid the
foundation of great nations and empires; and in after centuries was
borne across the seas; and now, in these later ages it is brought back
to the East by men from the West. In this work of restoring
Christianity to its ancient seats, the East is indebted, not only to
Christian England, but to Christian America.
From the very beginning of American missions, Constantinople was fixed
upon as a centre of operations for the East, and the American Board
sent some of its picked men to the Turkish capital. Here came at an
early day Drs. Dwight and Goodell, and Riggs and Schauffler. The first
two of these have passed away; Dr. Schauffler, after rendering long
service, is now spending the evening of his days with his son in
Austria; Dr. Riggs, the venerable translator of the Bible, alone
remains. These noble men have been succeeded by others who are worthy
to follow in their footsteps. Dr. Wood was here many years ago, and
after being transferred for a few years to New York, as the Secretary
of the American Board in that city, has now returned to the scene of
his former labors, where he has entered with ardor into that
missionary work which he loved so well. With him are associated a
number of men whose names are well known and highly honored in
America.
The efficiency of these men has been greatly increased by proper
organization, and by having certain local centres and institutions to
rally about. In the heart of old Stamboul stands the Bible House, a
noble monument of American liberality. The money was raised chiefly by
the efforts of Dr. Isaac Bliss, and certainly he never spent a year of
his life to better purpose. It cost, with the ground, about sixty
thousand dollars, and when I saw what a large and handsome building it
was, I thought it a miracle of economy. This is a rallying point for
the missionaries in and around Constantinople. Here is a depot for the
sale of Bibles in all the languages of the East, and the offices for
different departments of work; and of the Treasurer, who has charge of
paying the missionaries, and who thus distributes every year about
one-third of all the expenditures of the American Board. Here, too, is
done the editing and printing of different publications. I found Rev.
Mr. Greene editing three or four papers in different languages, for
children and for adults. Of course the circulation of any of these is
not large, as we reckon the circulation of papers in America; but all
combined, it _is_ large, and such issues going forth every week
scatter the seeds of truth all over the Turkish Empire.
Another institution founded by the liberality of American Christians
is THE HOME at Scutari, a seminary for the education of girls. It has
been in operation for several years with much success, and now a new
building has been erected, the money for which--fifty thousand
dollars--was given wholly by the _women_ of America. Would that all
who have had a hand in raising that structure could see it, now that
it is completed. It stands on a hill, which commands a view of all
Constantinople, and of the adjacent waters, far out into the Sea of
Marmora. Around this Home, as a centre, are settled a number of
missionary families--Dr. Wood, who, besides his other work, has its
general oversight; Mr. Pettibone, the efficient Treasurer; Drs. Edwin
and Isaac Bliss; and Mr. Dwight, a son of the former missionary; who,
with the ladies engaged in teaching in the Home, form together as
delightful a circle as one can meet in any part of the missionary
world.
The day that we made our visit to the Home, we went to witness the
performance of the Howling Dervishes, who have a weekly howl at
Scutari, and in witnessing the jumpings and contortions of these men,
who seemed more like wild beasts than rational beings, I could not but
contrast the disgusting spectacle with the very different scene that I
had witnessed that morning--a scene of order, of quiet, and of
peace--as the young girls recited with so much intelligence, and sang
their beautiful hymns. That is the difference between Mohammedanism
and that purer religion which our missionaries are seeking to
introduce.
But they are not allowed to work unopposed. The Government is hostile,
and though it pretends to give toleration and protection, it would be
glad to suspend the missionary operations altogether. But it is itself
too dependent on foreign powers for support, to dare to do much openly
that might offend them. We are fortunate in having at this time, as
the representative of our Government, such a man as the Hon. Horace
Maynard, who is not only a true American, but a true Christian, and
whose dignity and firmness, united with tact and courtesy, have
secured to our missionaries that protection to which they are entitled
as American citizens.
The Home has just been completed, and is to be opened on Thanksgiving
Day with appropriate services, at which we are invited to be present,
but the dreaded spectre of a long quarantine, on account of the
cholera, if we go to Syria, compels us to embark the day before direct
for Egypt. But though absent in body, we shall be there in spirit, and
shall long remember with the greatest interest and satisfaction our
visit to the Home at Scutari, which is doing so much for the daughters
of Turkey.
Last, but not least, of the monuments of American liberality in and
around Constantinople, is the College at Bebek, which owes its
existence chiefly to that far-sighted missionary, Dr. Cyrus Hamlin,
and to which Mr. Christopher B. Robert of New York has given two
hundred thousand dollars, and which fitly bears his honored name. It
stands on a high hill overlooking the Bosphorus, from which one may
see for miles along the shores of Europe and Asia.
The college is solidly built, of gray stone. It is a quadrangle with a
court in the centre, around which are the lecture rooms, the library,
apparatus-room, etc. In the basement is the large dining-room, while
in the upper story are the dormitories. It is very efficiently
organized, with Dr. Washburn, long a missionary in Constantinople, as
President, and Profs. Long and Grosvenor, and other teachers. There
are nearly two hundred students from all parts of Turkey, the largest
number from any one province being from Bulgaria. The course of study
is pretty much the same as in our American Colleges. Half a dozen or
more different languages are spoken by the students, but in the
impossibility of adopting any one of the native languages as the
medium of instruction, the teaching is in English, which has the
double advantage of being more convenient for the instructors, and of
educating the students in a knowledge of the English tongue. The
advantage of such an institution is immeasurable. I confess to a
little American pride as I observed the fact, that in all the mighty
Turkish Empire the only institution in which a young man could get a
thorough education was in the American College at Bebek, except in one
other college--also founded by American missionaries, and established
by American liberality--that at Beirut.
Grouped around the College at Bebek is another missionary circle, like
the one at Scutari. Besides the families of the President and
Professors, Mr. Greene of the Bible House lives here, going up and
down every day. Here are the missionaries Herrick and Byington. A
number of English families live here, as a convenient point near
Constantinople, making altogether quite a large Protestant community.
There is an English church, where Rev. Mr. Millingen preaches every
Sabbath morning, preaching also at Pera in the afternoon.
It is cheering indeed, amid so much that is dark in the East, to see
so many bright points in and around Constantinople.
Perhaps those wise observers of passing events, to whom nothing is
important except public affairs, may think this notice of missionary
operations quite unworthy to be spoken of along with the political
changes and the military campaigns which now attract the eye of the
world to Turkey. But movements which make the most noise are not
always the most potent as causes, or the most enduring in their
effects. When Paul was brought to Rome (and cast, according to
tradition, into the Mamertine prison,) Nero living in his Golden House
cared little for the despised Jew, and perhaps did not even know of
his existence. But three centuries passed, and the faith which Paul
introduced into Rome ascended the throne of the Caesars. So our
missionaries in the East--on the Bosphorus, in the interior of Asia
Minor, and on the Tigris and the Euphrates--are sowing the seed of
future harvests. Many years ago I heard Mr. George P. Marsh, the
United States minister at Constantinople, now at Rome, say that the
American missionaries in the Turkish Empire were doing a work the full
influence of which could not be seen in many years, perhaps not in
this generation. A strange course of events indeed it would be if
these men from the farthest West were to be the instruments of
bringing back Christianity to its ancient seats in the farthest East!
That would be paying the debt of former ages, by giving back to the
Old World what it has given to us; and paying it with interest, since
along with the religion that was born in Bethlehem of Judea, would be
brought back to these shores, not only the gospel of good-will among
men, but all the progress in government and in civilization which
mankind has made in eighteen centuries.