Chapter 16

MIRIAM THE ALEPPINE.

The city of Aleppo was occupied as a Station of the Syria Mission for many years, until finally in 1855 it was left to the Turkish-speaking missionaries of the Central Turkey Mission. It is one of the most difficult fields of labor in Turkey, but has not been unfruitful of genuine instances of saving faith in Christ. Among them is the case of Miriam Nahass, (or Mary Coppersmith,) now Miriam Sarkees of Beirût.

From a letter published in the Youth's Dayspring at the time, I have gathered the following facts:

In 1853 and 1854 the Missionaries in Aleppo, Messrs. Ford and Eddy, opened a small private school for girls, the teacher of which was Miriam Nahass. When the Missionaries first came to Aleppo, her father professed to be a Protestant, and on this account suffered not a little persecution from the Greek Catholic priests. At times he was on the point of starvation, as the people were forbidden to buy of him or sell to him. One day he brought his little daughter Miriam to the missionaries, and asked them to take her and instruct her in all that is good, which they gladly undertook, and her gentle pleasant ways soon won their love.

Her mother was a superstitious woman, who hated the missionaries, and could not bear to have her daughter stay with them. She used for a long time to come almost daily to their house and bitterly complain against them and against her husband for robbing her of her daughter. She would rave at times in the wildest passion, and sometimes she would weep as if broken-hearted; not because she loved her child so much, but because she did not like to have her neighbors say to her, "Ah! You have let your child become a Protestant!"

It may well be supposed that this was very annoying to the missionary who had her in special charge, and so it was; but he found some profit in it. He was just then learning to speak the language, and this woman by her daily talk, taught him a kind of Arabic, and a use of it, not to be obtained from grammars and dictionaries. He traced much of his ready command of the language to having been compelled to listen so often to the wearisome harangues of Miriam's mother. Sometimes the father would be overcome by the mother's entreaties and would take away the girl, but after awhile he would bring her back again, to the great joy of those who feared they had lost her altogether. This state of things continued two or three years, while Miriam's mind was daily improving and her character unfolding, and hopes were often entertained that the Spirit of God was carrying on a work of grace in her soul.

One day her father came to the missionary, and asked him to loan him several thousand piastres (a thousand piastres is $40,) with which he might set up business. This was of course refused, when he went away greatly enraged. He soon returned and took away his daughter, saying that Protestantism did not pay what it cost. It had cost him the loss of property and reputation; it had cost him the peace of his household and the presence of his little girl, and it did not bring in to him in return even the loan of a few piastres, and he would try it no longer. Prayer continued to be offered without ceasing for Miriam, thus taken back to an irreligious home; and though the missionaries heard of her return and her father's return to the corrupt Greek Catholic Church, and of the exultation of the mother over the attainment of her wishes, yet they did not cease to hope that God would one day bring her back and make her a lamb of His fold.

An Arab young woman, Melita, trained in the family of Mrs. Whiting in Beirût, was sent to Aleppo about this time to open a girls' school there. The Greek Catholic priests then thought to establish a similar school of their own sect to prevent their children from attending that of the Protestants. They secured Miriam as their teacher. As she went from her home to the school and back again, she used sometimes to run into the missionary's house by stealth, and assure him that her heart was still with him, and her faith unchanged. The school continued a few weeks, but the priests having failed to pay anything towards its support, her father would let her teach no more. Perhaps two years passed thus, with but little being seen of Miriam, but she was not forgotten at the throne of grace.

The teacher from Beirût having returned to her home, it was proposed to Miriam's father that she should teach in the Protestant school. Quite unexpectedly he consented, with the understanding that she was to spend every evening at home. At first, little was said to her on the subject of religion; soon she sought religious conversation herself, and brought questions and different passages of Scripture to be explained. After about a month, having previously conversed with the missionary about her duty, when her father came for her at night, she told him that she did not want to go home with him, but to stay where she was. She ought to obey God rather than her parents. They had made her act the part of a hypocrite long enough; to pretend to be a Catholic when she was a Protestant at heart, and they knew that she was. Her father promised that everything should be according to her wishes, and then she returned with him.

Two or three days passed away and nothing was seen or heard of Miriam. A servant was then sent to her father's house to inquire if she was sick, and he was rudely thrust away from the door. The missionary felt constrained to interfere, that Miriam might at least have the opportunity of declaring openly her preference. According to the laws of the Turkish government, the father had no right to keep her at her age, against her will, and it was necessary that she have an opportunity to choose with whom she wished to live. The matter was represented to the American Consul, who requested the father to appear before him with his daughter. When the officer came to his house, he found that the father had locked the door and gone away with the key. From an upper window, however, Miriam saw him and told him that she was shut up there a prisoner, not knowing what might be done with her, and she begged for assistance. She had prepared a little note for the missionary, telling of her attachment to Christ's cause, and closing with the last two verses of the eighth chapter of Romans, "For I am persuaded, that neither death nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord." The janizary proposed to her to try if she could not get out upon the roof of the next house, and descend through it to the street, which she successfully accomplished, and was soon joyfully on her way to a place of protection in the Consulate.

Miriam, after staying three days at the Consul's house, returned to that of the missionary. Her parents tried every means to induce her to return. They promised and threatened and wept, but though greatly moved at times in her feelings, she remained firm to her purpose. They tried to induce her to go home for a single night only, but she knew them too well to trust herself in their hands. Her mother had artfully arranged to meet her at the house of a friend; but her brother came, a little before the time, to warn her that a plan was laid to meet her at this house with a company of priests who were all ready to marry her forcibly to a man whom she knew nothing about, as is often done in this country. Miriam thus gave up father and mother, brothers and sisters, for the sake of Christ and his gospel.

In the year 1855 Mr. Ford removed to Beirût, and Miriam accompanied him. She made a public profession of her faith in Christ in 1856, and was married in 1858 to Mr. Ibrahim Sarkees, foreman and principal proof reader of the American Mission Press. Her father has since removed to Beirût, and all of the family have become entirely reconciled to her being a Protestant. Her brother Habibs is a frequent attendant on Divine service, and regards himself as a Protestant.

Miriam is now deeply interested in Christian work, and the weekly meetings of the Native Women's Missionary Society are held at her house. The Protestant women agree either to attend this Sewing Society, or pay a piastre a week in case of their absence.

I close this chapter with the mention of Werdeh, [Rose,] daughter of the celebrated Arabic poet Nasif el Yazijy, who aided Dr. Eli Smith in the translation of the Bible into Arabic. She is now a member of the Evangelical Church in Beirût. She herself has written several poems of rare merit; one an elegy upon the death of Dr. Smith; another expressing grateful thanks to Dr. Van Dyck for attending her sick brother. Only this can be introduced here, a poem lamenting the death of Sarah Huntington Bistany, daughter of Raheel, who died in January, 1866. Sarah's father and her own father, Sheikh Nasif, had been for years on the most intimate terms, and the daughters were like sisters. The account of Sarah's death will be found in another part of this volume.

Oh sad separation! Have you left among mortals, An eye without tears, hot and burning with sorrow? Have you left on this earth a heart without anguish, Or a soul unharrowed with grief and emotion? Thou hast plucked off a flower from our beautiful garden, Which shall shine like the stars in the gardens celestial. Wo is me! I have lost a fair branch of the willow Broken ruthlessly off. And what heart is _not_ broken? Thou hast gone, but from me thou wilt never be absent. Thy person will live to my sight and my hearing. Tears of blood will be shed by fair maids thy companions, Thy grave will be watered by tears thickly falling. Thou wert the fair jewel of Syrian maidens, Far purer and fairer than pearls of the ocean. Where now is thy knowledge of language and science? This sad separation has left to us nothing. Ah, wo to the heart of fond father and mother, No sleep,--naught but anguish and watching in sorrow Thou art clad in white robes in the gardens of glory. We are clad in the black robe of sorrow and mourning Oh grave, yield thy honors to our pure lovely maiden, Who now to thy gloomy abode is descending! Our Sarah departed, with no word of farewell, Will she ever return with a fond word of greeting? Oh deep sleep of death, that knows no awaking! Oh absence that knows no thought of returning! If she never comes back to us here in our sorrow, We shall go to her soon. 'Twill be but to-morrow