Chapter 1
The first time I saw Amy was on a summer afternoon, when I went with my mother to pay a visit to Amy’s mother. Amy had no father and could never remember having a father. Her mother lived in a pleasant large house in a beautiful park, where there were shady woods of fine old oaks and large ponds full of reeds and white waterlilies. As we were talking to Lady M., a little girl came in who had a round, rosy face, and large gray eyes, that were both very dark and very bright. Her hair was cut short, like a boy’s. She was dressed in a print frock, with a white pinafore. She seemed to be about six or seven years old. This was Amy. I often saw Amy after this, for her sister, who was ten years older, became a great friend of mine, and my little sister became a great friend of Amy’s, and of her sister Fanny, who was a year or two older.
But for some time, I took little notice of Amy, because I was so much older than she was. At last, I began to be very much interested about her. I don’t know why one is more interested in the wild and mischievous children than in the steady ones. Perhaps you can find a reason for it. Amy’s sister, Maria, used to call her the Wild Rose, and the tall, quiet, well-behaved Fanny the White Lily. The Wild Rose would, in any other family, have been in constant scrapes, but Lady M. liked her children to do as they pleased, and nobody asked Amy where she had been, or what she had been doing, when she drove the farm carts, or climbed on the roof of the gardener’s cottage and slid down into a haycock at the back. “Did she do no lessons?” you say. Yes, sometimes, when she liked. And she did like some of her lessons, for she was very clever, and fond of reading, especially of reading poetry. She was also very fond of arithmetic. So, she managed to escape being altogether a dunce. But a time came, when Amy was about eight years old, when it was found needful to look after her a little more closely. My little sister was found one day taking a letter all alone to the post. The village in which we lived was about six miles distant from Amy’s home, and the little girls often wrote to one another. My sister’s letter was directed to Amy. It was, as far as I can remember, as follows:
“My dear Amy,
“I will meet Fanny and the ponies in the road, as you told me, at four o’clock in the morning. It will be great fun to live in the wood.
“I am, your affectionate,
“C”
What could this mean? Little Carrie thought it was best to tell the whole story.
Amy had long thought that to live in a house was far less pleasant than to live out of doors in a wood. She had, therefore, made up her mind to run away and to live in the oak woods at the farther end of the large park. She considered that an unused boat, with a few wraps and cushions, would make a first-rate bed. As for food, Amy began, like a squirrel, to store up an ample provision. Every morning at breakfast she slipped one or two pieces of toast under her pinafore. She also managed, now and then, to stow away figs, raisins, almonds, and biscuits. But the fun of living in the wood would be much greater if she had some friends to talk to. She, therefore, took Fanny, and her friend Carrie, into the secret; and they, too, had been for some time hoarding up toast and biscuits. As for drink, Amy assured them that she could climb in and out of the dairy window by night with the greatest ease, as she had practiced doing so; and she had provided herself with a large jug, which would hold milk enough for the whole party for a whole day.
All this being arranged, Amy had written to Carrie to say that she and Fanny would get the stable key and harness the two little ponies in the middle of the night. Fanny would ride the one and lead the other and would arrive at a certain turn in the road in the village of T— at four o’clock in the morning. There Carrie was to meet her and return with her on the black pony to the oak wood, where Amy would be waiting to receive them, with the jug of milk and the store of toast. The ponies were to live with them in the wood. It was a great grief to Amy and to Carrie that this fine plan was knocked on the head. I rather think that it was a relief to Fanny to find that she was still to sleep in a comfortable bed, and have her pleasant schoolroom to live in, and her breakfast, dinner and tea at the right time and in the proper manner. After this, Amy’s mother kept an eye upon her proceedings, but she still was allowed to do a great many things which other little girls would never dream of doing, or of wishing to do.
All this time I was only amused with Amy’s plans and doings, and I did not consider her very naughty. I remembered the time when I, too, would have liked to live in a wood, and sleep in a boat. But a day came when I began to think that there was something worse about Amy than her wild ways, and even than her doing things which she did not like her mother to know.
I ought to tell you that at that time I very seldom thought about the Lord Jesus Christ, for I grieve to say I had never believed in His great love to me, and therefore when I thought of Him it was not with love but with fear, and of course one thinks as little as one can about anything which makes one afraid. So, it did not make me at all unhappy to find that Amy knew nothing about the Lord Jesus, and never cared about Him, or wished to please Him. The thing which made me unhappy I am now going to tell you.
I was busy one summer’s evening in my room, which was at the top of the tall house in which we lived. The window was shut at the bottom, but wide open at the top. Amy, who was then staying with us, and who had taken a fancy to me, came into my room, but I was too busy to notice what she was about. At last, on looking round, I saw her standing on the narrow windowsill outside the window. She had climbed over the two sashes. As far as I remember, I had enough sense left in my terrified mind not to speak, or to rush at her. I went very quietly and softly to the window, got on a chair, and before Amy was aware of it, I had seized her firmly by the arms. I cannot tell you how I managed to drag her in, but I succeeded in doing so. Amy now flew at me in a fit of wild passion. She beat me, kicked me, and even bit me, and poured out a stream of bad names, and of such terrible bad language as I had never heard before. Perhaps she had learned it from the farm boys, with whom she drove in the hay-carts.
I took her down into the garden, and at last sent her to have a run in the large paddock, that she might forget her anger. But I could not forget Amy’s bad words, and the hatred which she now seemed to feel for me, though I had perhaps saved her life.
It had been something quite new to her that anyone should interfere with her wishes, and she had been at the height of happiness when she stood on the windowsill, looking down on the tops of the trees in the garden below.
I found out at this time other things which convinced me that Amy was not merely a wild scapegrace, but a thoroughly naughty child. And yet, there was still a charm about her which made me the more unhappy when I thought of the little Wild Rose; but I thought of her now rather as a wild bramble or a thistle.
Soon after this Amy’s mother left England and went to live in the beautiful valley of the Neckar, near Heidelberg, in Germany. So, I saw no more of the Wild Rose, and heard no more of her for several long years.
During those years I began to find out something which grieved and astonished me far more than Amy’s naughtiness. I found out—or, rather, God showed me—the wickedness of my own heart; and I came to see that, though I had never said such bad words as Amy had said, I was nothing more than a bad, lost, helpless sinner: not only quite as bad as Amy, but most likely much worse. Too bad to dare to think that God could love me, too helpless to make myself any better. I was, therefore, too unhappy to think much of anything else; and for a time, I forgot Amy, or, if I thought of her, I said to myself, “I am worse than she is.”
I am thankful to tell you that God then showed me something more: something so wonderful, and so beautiful, and so sweet, that for a time I could scarcely think of anything besides. He showed me that He loved me just as I was—bad and helpless! He showed me that the Lord Jesus had suffered on the cross the punishment of all my sins—of all, all my sins—so that nothing remained for which God would ever punish me. But the best part of this great message from God was not that there was no punishment for me; the best part was the reason why the Lord Jesus Himself had been punished instead of me. Why had He died in agony upon the cross, with all my sins upon His head? It was because God the Father so loved me—me, wicked that I was—that He sent His Son to save me. It was because God the Son so loved me that He delighted to do the will of God in dying for me, and He would not be happy even in heaven without me. And God the Spirit brought this great message to my heart. I read it with my eyes in the Bible, but my heart saw it by the great power of the Spirit. He opens the blind eyes of the heart to see the love of God and the God of love. So now I became quite happy—I cannot tell you how happy. And then I thought again of the poor little Wild Rose, and I wondered whether she too would ever know the Lord Jesus and His wonderful love to sinners.
Soon after this, a friend who came from Germany brought me some news of Amy. She was now thirteen years old. She had grown tall and slender and had begun to study a great deal in her own way, chiefly languages and mathematics. She also liked to read anything about the ways and means for making poor people better off and happier.
Amy felt quite convinced, from all she read and from all she saw, that the misery and want of the poor were chiefly caused by drink. Now I would not contradict anybody who says that all kinds of misery and wretchedness are caused by drink. But, then, we must think further: What is it that causes the drink? If you had a fever and lost your senses, and did harm to people, we ought to try to find out not only how the fever can be cured, but how the thing can be cured that causes the fever. Perhaps there is some well of bad, dirty water about the place, which makes people have fevers. And there is something in you and in me, and in all men, women, and children, which is like a well of bad water. To some people it gives the fever of drunkenness, to some of selfishness, to some of spite and ill-nature. And if that well could be stopped, the drunkenness and spite and ill-nature would be at an end. Do you know what I mean? Out of the evil heart come all the evil ways.
But Amy did not understand this. She was not concerned about the evil hearts of the poor drunkards around her, but she was very sorry for their rags and their misery, and for their ragged, starving wives and children. That was right, but it was only a small part of the matter.
Amy did not end, as most people do, in being sorry for drunkards. She determined that she at least would do something to cure them of drinking. She, therefore, made acquaintance with as many of the men and boys in the villages round Heidelberg as she could possibly get at. She talked to them in a friendly way and did any little kindness for them that she was able to do. Everyone liked Amy, and these men and boys became devoted to her. Then Amy began little by little to talk to them about the drink, and to get them to promise not to go to the beer and wine shops.
Every day she would set off with a large dog and walk through the villages within a few miles of her home. She would stop at every beer shop and look in at the door, or watch the people who came to drink, as they do in Germany, at the little tables under the shady trees outside. If she saw any of her numerous acquaintance, she would walk boldly into the midst of the party and say, “Karl” or “Fritz,” “you know quite well you have no business here: and I shall wait for you till you come home. But I am sure you will come home at once, to please me.” Then Karl or Fritz would get up and look rather silly and walk away. Once or twice boys who met her in her walks would try to be rude, but the great dog soon settled that matter, and sent them flying over the hedges and ditches, though Amy would never allow him really to hurt them. His great bark was enough.
When Amy was fourteen her mother came back to England; but it was not to the old home, but a long way off, so that I did not see Amy for some time. Her new home was about a mile from Bath, on the beautiful hills near the Avon. There were woods round the house, to which poachers used to come as soon as it was getting dark. Amy’s brothers were not often at home, and her eldest sister had married in Germany, so now only Amy and Fanny were left. Amy considered herself the protector of her mother and sister. She was not one of those girls who likes to talk schoolboy slang, and behave like boys; but at the same time, she had learned to do most things that boys can do, in case it should be of use to her to know how to do them. She could harness a horse and load and fire a gun, but few people would have remarked that she was anything but a quiet, grave girl, fond of books and of her own company.
One evening, when everybody was out, she observed some men in the woods, and felt sure they were poachers. She followed them and found that she had not wrongly suspected them.
“You have no business here,” she said, “and the sooner you are off the premises the better for you.”
The men were amazed, and one of them in fun pointed his gun at her.
“I can pull a trigger as well as you,” said Amy, coolly, “and I strongly advise you to be off.”
The men thought it best to take her advice; and, having seen them safely over the park palings, she returned home.
Soon after this, she was sitting alone in her little study; her mother had given her this little room upstairs, where she might learn mathematics without being disturbed.
It was a hot summer’s night, about ten o’clock, and the window, which looked out on a balcony over the garden, was wide open. It was Amy’s custom to study all the evening, and she was always allowed to do just as she pleased about this and everything else. On this evening of which I am telling you, Amy was roused from her studies by the sound of two voices in the garden. One was a man’s voice, loud and gruff; the other was a woman’s voice, in a tone something between speaking and crying. Amy went out on the balcony; nothing was to be seen but the black masses of the trees, for the night was very dark. The voices became louder. In a moment, Amy had climbed the railing of the balcony, and, by the aid of the creepers, had let herself down into the garden below. She went across the lawn, in the direction of the voices. A white object was to be seen by the light of the stars near the little side gate which led into the road. Amy went straight up to this white figure, which proved to be one of the maids in her light print gown; she was crying bitterly. A man, who was standing in the road, moved away as Amy came up, and went down the hill towards Bath.
“Who is that?” inquired Amy.
“It is my father, miss,” said the maid; “and oh, miss, he’s not fit to go home by himself, for he’s been drinking, and he can’t walk steady, and he’ll have to go all along the narrow path by the side of the river. He lives in Avon Street, miss, and he’ll have a mile to go in the dark.”
“But you ought to go with him,” said Amy. “Run after him as fast as you can and take him home and come back tomorrow morning; I will tell Lady M. where you are gone.”
“Oh no, miss,” said the maid; “you don’t know what father’s like when he’s had the drink! We none of us dare go near him. He’d knock me down and half kill me. But oh! father will be drowned! and what am I to do?”
“Will you go?” repeated Amy.
“No, miss—I durstn’t. I couldn’t go near him, miss.”
“Then I must go,” said Amy, and, in a moment, she had disappeared in the darkness down the hill.
She soon overtook the man, to whom she said, “John, I am going to walk home with you. So come on, and let me walk this side of you, next to the river. And now, John, walk as steadily as you can.”
John growled but made no further objection. Several times he reeled half over, but Amy managed to keep him on his legs, and in course of time they arrived at the door of his wretched house in Avon Street.
Till now the man had not spoken a word, but the sight of his wife and children through the open door seemed suddenly to rouse him into fury. He sprang into the room with a shout of rage. The poor woman, with the screaming children, fled into the farthest corner of the room, and cowered down on the floor in the darkness. The man seized a chair, the only one in the room, and hurled it after them. The chair struck the wall, and fell to the ground in splinters, but none of them were hurt.
“Go up to bed,” said Amy to the woman; “take the children with you and leave him to me.”
The woman obeyed, and speedily vanished up the ladder staircase.
Amy took the man by both hands and said, “Sit down, John.” She looked round for a chair, but as there was none, she said, “Sit on the table, and I will tell you something.”
The man sat down, looking dazed and helpless.
Amy sat by him, still holding his hands. “I will tell you a story,” she said.
The man listened, with a puzzled stare at Amy’s face. Every now and then he sprang up. Then Amy said, “No, John, I have not done; sit down again.” And the man obeyed.
Somehow people felt that they must obey Amy. She spoke so quietly and firmly, and she looked so kind and friendly all the time.
Two hours passed. The man now seemed quiet, and in possession of his senses.
“Can I trust you to go up to bed?” Amy said.
“Yes, miss.”
“Will you promise me to go up quietly, not to speak a word, and not to do anything to disturb your wife or your children?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Now remember, you have promised me this; I think I may trust you. I will stay down here till you are safe in bed; then you may call out, and I will go upstairs and wish you ‘Good night,’ and see that you are all right. Be as quick as you can.”
John went up the ladder. By-and-by he called out, “All right, miss.”
Amy went up to the bedroom door and saw that all was quiet. “Good night, John,” she said; “go to sleep, and be kind to your wife and children tomorrow morning.”
At this moment, two of Lady M.’s servants arrived. Amy had been missed, and the maid had been asked if she knew where she was. So, her strange expedition had been discovered, and she was brought home safely.
I do not think that Amy is to be considered an example for other girls, either in the affair of the poachers, or in that of the tipsy man. But it proved to be well for her in later years that she had accustomed herself to have no fear of rough, wild people. God, who sees the end from the beginning, often allows us, whilst we are still far from Him, to be learning in all sorts of strange ways the things which will fit us later on for the work He means us to do. And Amy was one day to have to do with wild people, more dangerous than the poachers or the drunkards she had to do with in Germany and in England.
Soon after this, Amy came back to her old neighborhood, though not to the house with oak woods and the ponds of waterlilies. It was to a house near the old one, with a large, beautiful garden. And there, in the shady seats and arbors, she worked hard at her studies.
I then saw her again; she was still full of plans for making drunken people sober and also for making dirty people clean. This last plan seemed to be her chief thought. If only, she thought, a number of rich people in the neighborhood would join together, to supply the poorest people with soap and sponges, brushes and combs, baths and towels, a great deal of illness would be prevented, and children would more often grow up strong and healthy. Amy asked me to come on certain days to talk over these plans. She also invited a poor woman, who knew how things could be managed in small cottages, and who could tell how much of these great plans would be at all possible to carry out. I do not think, however, much was done after all, except that Amy gave away great numbers of tracts about health and cleanliness.
I liked to show her that I was willing to help her in these plans for people’s bodies; for I thought if I did, I might get her to listen to something about their souls, and about her own. For Amy did not wish to hide from me that she not only had no belief in the Bible herself, but she did not think it mattered at all what anybody believed. She had been brought up to think that everyone ought to be free to choose what religion they liked best, and that, as different people believed different things, it was impossible to find out what was the right belief. Therefore, Amy thought, it is best not to trouble oneself at all about what people believe but do all one can to make them happy and comfortable. This, she thought, was wise and sensible. We had long talks on these subjects, and I thus found out why Amy denied herself and wore very cheap clothes and went to very few amusements.
“Suppose,” she said, “I were starving, and had no blankets and no fire, do you think it would be sensible in me, if I got by chance a little money, to spend it in ornaments, or lace, or concert tickets? ought I not to buy coals and food? Now, does it really matter more that I should have coals and food, than that other people should have them? Of course, it does not. So now, if have more money than I want for clothes and food, would it be sensible in me to buy finery, or concert tickets, when other people close by are starving and cold? ought I not to buy clothes and food for them?”
I could not find fault with Amy’s reasoning; but when I began to speak of their souls, and of the great eternity towards which all were traveling, she gave me to understand that she thought people very foolish who troubled themselves about those matters.
“God is very kind,” she said, “and He is sure to make everyone happy at last.”
This seemed to be to her an excuse for forgetting Him now and for living as though He were only a fable. Amy had never known that God must be just, as well as kind, and that sin can never be to Him a matter of indifference. She had brought herself to think that God not only thinks as lightly of sin as men do but even more lightly. And so, it did not trouble her that she was a sinner.
I scarcely know how it was that a great change came suddenly in Amy’s way of thinking. All at once it seemed to dawn upon her mind that sin is to the soul a far greater evil than dirt is to the body. She had begun to read the Bible, which she found at first to be only a beautiful and interesting book. But the entrance of God’s word giveth light—it giveth understanding to the simple.
It was, no doubt, from reading the Bible, that she began to feel more and more the exceeding sinfulness of sin, and to see that if there is a God who is good and just, He must hate that which is evil.
So now, perhaps, you will think Amy began to care more for the sin of her neighbors than for their dirt and misery. But I think the truth was that, when Amy’s eyes were thus opened, it was not so much the sin of her neighbors as her own sin that filled her with fear and sorrow. She saw that all this while, whilst she had been pitying the drunkards and the selfish, she had been no better than they were in the eyes of God. She had been looking out, like the lawyer in the 10th chapter of Luke, for the neighbor to whom she could do good, and it had never struck her that what she needed was a neighbor who could do good to her. She had not known she was like the man who fell among thieves, who was helpless and penniless, and that the plain truth of the matter was, she needed to be saved from her sins before she could do anything pleasing to God. Now she knew this. But how was she to be saved? Would not all her work for the poor save her? No. She saw that if a servant has done wrong to his master, no kindness to his fellow-servants will make up for that. It is his master who has to be satisfied about his conduct. Would not her prayers save her? Perhaps they might, she thought. But how could she know that they would? And, after all, why should God pass over her sin merely because she wished Him to do so? Would that be justice?
Amy said little about her great unhappiness, but she became more miserable each day. She was now very willing that we should read the Bible together. She seemed to listen for her life but would seldom make any remark. It was difficult to know what to say to her, as at the time one could not know her thoughts and feelings.
One day she looked more than usually miserable. We had both been taken by a friend for a long drive. Amy, who had formerly been so bright and cheerful, scarcely spoke a word. The next morning, I had a letter from her. It had been written in the evening after the drive. She told me that she was now, for the first time in her life, really and perfectly happy. She said that, for weeks past, she had been without hope and comfort. She had seen her whole past life to be but one great sin, for she had been living without God, and had seen no beauty in Christ that she should desire Him. All her plans for the poor and the drunkards had only been plans for trying to make them happy and comfortable without God. Each day she had seen more clearly that she was one of the chief of sinners.
“And today,” she said, “I felt that I could do nothing but tell Him how wicked, how hopeless I was, and confess my whole life to Him as nothing but sin and foolishness. And then He showed me the door of hope; He showed me that Jesus had borne my sins in His own body on the cross, and that they were all gone—gone forever from before the sight of God, and that I am whiter than snow, washed in His blood, and saved for evermore.”
These were, as far as I can remember them, the words of Amy’s letter.
Chapter 2
And now began the second part of Amy’s life—or rather, now did her life really begin—her life as the dear child of God, her Father. We had very pleasant days together after this. Amy would come over early in the morning, and by seven o’clock we were out in the garden under the great mulberry tree with our Bibles. We both agreed to learn Hebrew, that we might read the Psalms and Proverbs more carefully. In the meantime, we read the Gospels and the Epistles. Amy said all seemed new to her. The third chapter of John was a great delight to her, especially the verse about the serpent in the wilderness. She told me she had been talking to her brother Richard about this verse, and she hoped that he would see that it is nothing that we can do or feel that saves us—only Christ—Christ’s great work on the cross, done for us not because we loved Him, but because we hated Him, and He loved us—a great work done and finished, and we only have to look up to Him and thank Him for it, believing not that God will give us, but that He does give us, as soon as we look to Christ, the eternal life that is in His Son—not only forgiveness, full, free, perfect forgiveness, but the glorious life that is in Christ in heaven, the life that can never end.
You may be quite sure that Amy’s whole life was changed after this. She cared now more than ever for the poor and miserable. But it was not only for their bodies that she now cared: she told them of Jesus—Jesus, the Savior not only from drunkenness, but from all sin and from all misery.
“What a glorious life it is that God gives us!” she said to me. “Not only do we know we are safe forever, and are going to be with Him in heaven, but now, down here, we can please Him and do His work.”
She showed me three verses in the Psalms which gave her great pleasure. First, “They also do no iniquity: they walk in His ways.” Then, the same Psalm (119:32), “I will run the way of Thy commandments, when Thou shalt enlarge my heart.” Then, in the last Psalm (verse 4), “Praise Him with the timbrel and dance.”
“Is not that beautiful?” she said. “First, we learn to walk in God’s ways; then, as we get on, He teaches us to run; and at last, when we get to the end, and there is no further to go, we dance. It is all joy then.”
But these pleasant readings with Amy soon came to an end. Her mother died, and Amy went away to live with some relations at a distance. She did not remain there long, for when they found Amy had no pleasure in their balls and parties, and even refused to go to them, they were glad that she should find a home somewhere else. So, she went from one relation to another, finding few who quite understood all that God had done for her, and many of them were displeased with her, or amused at her odd ways, as they thought them.
Thus, time went on, and one day I heard that Amy was going to be married to a missionary and was going to India. So, I saw her no more for a long while and heard but little about her. She was not very long in India, but afterward she lived in a part of England far away from her old home, and, as years passed by, she was very busy with three little girls to teach and take care of, and, as she was not rich, she made their clothes and worked very hard, besides all that she had to do out of the house.
She was not very strong and had for some time to leave England to live in a warmer country. So, for a year or more, she had a home in the quiet old town of Pisa, where the little girls liked to see the leaning tower and to wander about in the beautiful old white marble cloisters, called the Campo Santo. The green space inside these cloisters is said to be made of earth brought in ships from Jerusalem, many hundreds of years ago. The people who lived then knew less than you know about the Lord Jesus and His blessed work. But some amongst them loved Him in a simple way, and they liked to think that the green grass and the wild daffodils, that were so pleasant to look at, grew out of the earth that His feet had walked upon. But it is better to know Him as we may know Him now, where He is, in heaven.
Amy did not go on long living at Pisa. For a short time, she came back to England. But she began to cough and grew very thin and weak, so the doctors said she must go and live always near the Mediterranean. Several places were thought of. At last it was settled that all the family should go to Syria and find a home there. They went first to Beirut, and, whilst they were looking for a house, they were lodged with Mrs. Mott, who lives in a house of her own at Beirut and has under her care a great number of schools for Syrian children.
These schools are scattered about over the mountains of Lebanon and on the great plain below. Muslim girls, Druse girls, Jewish girls, and the daughters of the Christians of the Greek Church all come to these schools. They are all taught the Bible, besides other things which are useful for girls to know. I have had many letters from some of these girls and have been glad to hear of some of them being afterward true servants of God and teaching the gospel in their turn to other children.
Amy was very glad to help in this work, and it was agreed that several schools should be put under her care. She undertook to visit them from time to time and look after both teachers and children. Of course, it was needful to learn Arabic, though most of the children are taught French and English as well. Amy could learn languages very quickly. Less than three months after they arrived at Beirut, I had a letter from her. She said “We are living a sort of gipsy life in a very odd house. I have only an Arab servant, so I am obliged to talk as much Arabic as I can. Willie (that is her husband) went to the mountains today for a few days, and as my servant goes home in the evening, I and the chicks are all alone.” The chicks were then ten and seven and five years old. Her husband had gone to the mountains to look for a house and discovered one in a little village called Sook, on the top of the Lebanon. It had formerly been inhabited by American missionaries. It was now in rather a ruinous state, neglected and untidy. Little May complained that if they wanted to hang up anything, the nails would not stick in the walls, they were so damp and moldy. “The road up to it,” a friend wrote, “is a most extraordinary one; the path is very narrow, and like going up the steps in the house till you reach the spot.”
But Amy was quite contented, and the fine mountain air made her feel strong and well again. She had to spend a good deal of time out of doors, because the schools she had to visit were many miles apart, some thirty miles distant. The only way to get about was on horseback, and for a time the only horse they could get was one who was never contented till he had kicked off his rider. But with Amy he was always good and gentle. She was the only person who could groom and harness him, and she felt quite safe on his back riding alone over the lonely mountains, up and down the rocky paths. The little girls remember how sometimes she was sent for in the middle of the night. Perhaps someone was ill, or there was something to be attended to in a hurry, and the messenger had loitered and was late. But by day or by night Amy was ready to go, and the Lord watched over her and kept her from harm.
This house at Sook was not at all like an English house. It was built round three sides of a square court, which was roofed in. The fourth side stood open and looked over the flat roof of the house in front, which stood lower down on the steep hillside. The little girls had their gardens round the pillars in the court, and they went out to play on the flat housetop. From their playground they had a magnificent view over the great plain which stretches from the foot of the Lebanon to Beirut, and Tyre, and Sidon. And fourteen miles off they could see the blue Mediterranean, with the white sails passing to and fro. At the back of the house was a mulberry garden, which ran up the hillside above. There were large, shady plum trees in this garden as well. The village of Sook was down below. It was inhabited by Greek Christians and some Muslims, and, in summer, Europeans came from Beirut to have some mountain air.
A few months after Amy had taken up her abode in this mountain village, she wrote me a letter. She said: “I should have written sooner, but I have much to do here. Our life is very patriarchal. I have only a girl of fifteen as servant (an Arab), and yet there is much more to be done in the household than in England. For instance, we cannot get wholesome flour for bread, so we have to buy wheat, which has all to be washed and cleaned at home. There is a mill near, where we get it ground, but we have to make the bread. My maiden has also to clean the barley for the horse, and to make the butter, so I often have to help in many ways. Then I have to teach the children. I spend as much time as I can in learning Arabic. I can do little amongst the people till I can speak it more. I can read easy books pretty well, and also the Bible I can understand tolerably with a dictionary, but I feel the need of learning to talk. A few days ago, a Druse sheikh was at our house. I spoke to him of Christ as the only Savior. He came over from the other side of the room, and sat close to me, trying so earnestly to understand all I was saying to him. I think he is one of the most sincere of the Druses, and one who is almost persuaded to be a Christian, but is kept back by fear of persecution. I cannot help feeling much compassion for the Druses; they are such a fine race of men, and though there is very much to be said against them, it is unjust to lay on them the whole blame of the massacre of Christians in 1860. The Greeks and Maronites had provoked them almost to desperation, and the Muslims fanned the flame, hoping to exterminate the Christians by means of the Druses, and they really caused the massacre, though they managed to screen themselves. A Druse village near here has entreated several times to have a Christian school. It seems so hard to refuse such a request, but one cannot do it without money.”
Amy goes on to say how she longs for some people to talk to, who really know the love of Christ, and that, though the quiet village life was very pleasant, she seemed to be far away from any who could understand her thoughts. “But,” she says, “the Lord keeps me near to Himself, and the way will be made plain by-and-by. As to my body, I am quite strong and well, and the children too. They live rather a wild mountain life but learn to be useful in many ways. I find it very pleasant riding over the mountains. The cassia trees in flower all along the paths are so sweet. In the mountains it is rather cold, but though it is December we have not yet had a fire. The cyclamens are all in flower, and the scarlet and purple anemones. The crocuses are almost over; they were very pretty, purple, white, and gold peeping amongst the gray rocks.”
But before telling you anymore, I must explain a little about all the different kinds of people who live on the Lebanon and all around it. In the village of Sook most of the people called themselves Christians. Some went to a church where the service is like the Scotch service. Some belonged to the Greek Church, which is very much the same as the Roman Catholic in most things, but the Pope is not owned by the Greeks; they consider that the Patriarch of Constantinople is the chief bishop. All these people at Sook were Syrians. In some of the villages near there were Syrian Roman Catholics, and other villages were Muslim. Some villages were inhabited by a sect of Roman Catholics called Maronites, who have lived on the mountains of Lebanon for many centuries. But a great many of the villages were inhabited only by Druses.
The Druse religion I cannot explain to you. It seems they were at first a Muslim sect. But at present they differ very much from the Muslims. If you ask a poor Druse what he believes, he says, “I believe what the learned believe.” If you ask those who are considered “learned,” they say their religion is a secret.
Many of the Europeans had an idea that the Druses worshipped the golden calf. Amy once asked a “learned” Druse if this were true. The tall, grave man drew himself, up and said, “We leave idolatry to the Christians.”
This poor man knew little of Christianity except from the Greeks, whom he had seen kneeling before their pictures, and from the Catholics who knelt down before their images. And he knew that they all professed to believe that the wafer consecrated by the priests is God Himself.
The Druses had small square buildings on the highest peaks of the mountains near. In these places they had their worship; but as Europeans might never go inside these buildings, I can tell you nothing of what was said or done there. The Druses are a finer race than the other Syrians. Amy felt a great interest in them, because the native Christians seemed to consider it almost impossible that a Druse could be converted. Even the Protestants seem to have understood very little of the power and love of God. Amy said of them, “At all events, one must feel thankful that many of these Protestants are saved, though they do not realize it, and go on praying earnestly for forgiveness.”
How often we ask God to do that which He has already done! If we have truly believed in Jesus, it is said of us, “we have forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of His grace.” And again, it is said, “By Him” (Jesus), “all who believe are” (not shall be) “justified from all things.”
“Sometimes,” Amy went on to say, “I think of all the preaching and teaching you hear in England and feel somewhat as Moses may have felt on the barren Moabite mountains, looking over into the land flowing with milk and honey. Yet sometimes, though I long to be with you, I almost feel as if Christ became more and more precious the more one is cut off from all outer help and brought into communion with Himself alone.”
She goes on to say, “We were calling on a Druse sheikh a short time ago, and on my saying that I could read Arabic better than I could speak it, he went to a table in the corner of the room, and brought from it a Bible, the only book in the room, and probably in the house, and asked me to read. We saw his wife, too. Poor thing! I longed so for her to know the love of Christ. I cannot understand how Christians go on as they do; saved by the blood of Christ, but beyond that seeing nothing more. Oh, that we may know more of Himself! I have very much to be thankful for, though I do long sorely for communion with the Lord’s faithful people. Still, the Lord Himself is enough to fill our hearts, and perhaps when we feel left alone with Him only, we learn most of His love and sympathy. There are, I believe, some true Christians amongst the Arabs here, but I cannot speak Arabic enough yet to have much conversation with them. I have been reading lately with the children the history of David and Solomon, and have been very much struck with the contrast between David’s devotion to the house of the Lord and the coldness of Christians towards that which is the house of the Lord now.”
I must ask you, before I go on with Amy’s letter, if you know what this means? What is the house of the Lord now? Does it mean a church built of stones and mortar? No. God does not dwell in temples made with hands. Yet God has a house now, down here on the earth. One house only, a house far more precious in His sight than the glorious temple which Solomon built of gold, and silver, and precious stones. For God’s house now is made of living stones—the chief corner stone the Lord Jesus Himself, who is called the Stone chosen and precious; and every man, and woman, and child who believes in Jesus is a stone in this house of God; and God Himself lives in that house, and fills it with His love. Though the living stones seem to us scattered far and wide—some English, some Arabs, some Hindus, some Chinese, some in every part of this wide world—yet God sees them all joined together in one by His Holy Spirit: one great temple where His praise is sung, and His blessed Name is praised.
Amy goes on: “It has struck me much to see how David prepared so earnestly all that was needed for the glory and beauty of the Lord’s house, and how Solomon worked so diligently to fulfill the desire of David’s heart in building the house. It does seem very wonderful that now we have our affection set so little on the house of the Lord. Yet even if we have any affection for it, we learn something of the heart of Christ, who loved it, and gave Himself for it. We learn to have sympathy with Him in His love for it.”
You see now why Amy felt sad to be separated from God’s dear people, and why she loved those with whom she could not even talk, because she believed they were a part of that great temple which is so precious to Christ. Remember this when you meet with any who love the Lord Jesus. It may be some old woman in the workhouse, or some child in a ragged school, or some stranger from another country. If there is anything you can say or do to show your love for those whom the Lord Jesus loves so much, He will remember it one day, however small the little act of love may be.
“This is a wonderful country,” Amy goes on to say. “At first sight the mountains look dreary and barren, but by-and-by their beauty becomes fascinating, and their wildness makes up for the lack of trees and grass. Edith, from the beginning, has called them the ‘purple-headed mountains,’ from seeing them generally at sunset when we go out for a walk.”
Chapter 3
Little Edith and her sisters had a great pleasure the first year that they spent in Syria. Their father and mother, and a friend who had gone out to Syria to preach the gospel, made a plan for traveling all over the Holy Land. They were to live in tents, which they could easily carry on their horses. Amy knew that the little girls would enjoy this journey, but two of them were still too young to ride on horseback, and there was no other way of traveling. However, their kind mother thought of a plan which fully succeeded.
She found two large boxes like tea chests, which she fastened together with a long strap. They were then hung like panniers over the back of one of the horses, upon which Amy herself rode. Edith was put into one of these boxes, and Persis into the other. Little May had a horse to herself. They took with them as much food as they could carry, and thus they set off for Jerusalem. There were many places to see on the way to Jerusalem, some beautiful, some with something more than beauty to make them worth seeing—the places where the Savior lived and taught and worked miracles, some but little changed since those wonderful days so long ago. Trees and flowers just as there were then—the twisted silver-gray olive trees, and fig and palm trees, and the pines, and the wild myrtle.
It was in the spring—the great scarlet and purple anemones were all out in the olive grounds and fields, and the white citrus, and yellow, prickly broom, and down in the valleys and plains there were fields white and sweet with the little wild narcissus. The little girls enjoyed it immensely. Sometimes they complained when there was no food to be had but a little sour bread. But Amy never complained and was always bright and happy. From Jerusalem they went through the wilderness of Judaea, where John preached, and came to the River Jordan, where the banks, covered with willow and oleander, must look very much the same as when John stood there and saw the heavens opened and the Holy Ghost descend upon the Son of God. They crossed the Jordan into the land of Bashan, and there they lived for some days in one of the old giant cities, where the great stone houses have been standing empty and deserted for so many ages.
They are called the “giant cities,” because people have imagined that they were the actual cities built by the race of giants, of whom Og, king of Bashan, was one. Amy described these cities, of which there are a great number. “Probably,” she says, “they are built on the sites of the old cities of the giants but are not the remains of those cities. Such remains are, perhaps, buried underground. The present cities are by no means gigantic, though certainly very solid, being built entirely of stone; the roofs, doors, shutters of the houses, all stone. This, however, was simply owing to the scarcity of wood. There are many inscriptions in them, nearly all Greek, a few Arabic, and we saw only one of a character we did not know.”
To one of these old houses Amy invited a great many of the Arabs from the villages near. These poor people listened gladly to the word of God and begged that a school might be opened, that their children might learn to read and might hear of Jesus. These ancient cities are still waiting for any of God’s servants who will go there to tell of His love. Till lately, Europeans were afraid to go, because the Arabs have a bad name as robbers and murderers. But to this little party of travelers they were very kind. They brought them food and milk, and they said they were very thankful that Amy had come amongst them to tell them the good news.
The travelers had a pleasant journey back to Sook. The little girls in the boxes had had a fine time of it. They were just as fond of living out of doors as their mother had been before them, and children who travel about in comfortable railway carriages, with stuffed cushions, and sleep at grand hotels, and dine at tables d’hôte, can scarcely imagine how much more amusing and delightful these six weeks were to Persis and Edith, spent all in the open air, in all sorts of wild and curious places.
Chapter 4
Amy had become very fond of the wandering Bedouins during the journey on horseback, when they were so kind and friendly. The whole family wished to go and live beyond the Jordan, at Ramoth Gilead, but it would be needful first to build a house there.
Meanwhile, Amy had made many friends amongst the Muslims, and especially amongst the Druses in the villages round Sook. The Druses came in such numbers to the house to hear about the Lord Jesus that Amy began to have constant readings with them under the plum trees in the gardens. Some were truly turned to God.
“Oh,” she wrote, “I do so long to see Christ more loved Himself, not merely truths taught about Him—not even His own most precious work and words alone, but Himself looked to and loved! There seems so little warm-hearted devotion to Him. Still, perhaps, there may be more than we see.”
In the spring of the year 1872, Amy and her husband, the good missionary, Mr. Mackintosh, and another English preacher, Mr. Rose, went a second time across the Jordan to spend three weeks in Bashan. They took with them a muleteer, who was a Greek Christian, two other muleteers who were Druses, a Maronite lad to look after the horses, and two Muslim soldiers. “All, I was thankful to find,” Amy wrote, “were unarmed, that is, had no firearms. The soldiers had swords, but they were simply as a part of their uniform and were used only to cut grass for the horses.”
You must remember that Bashan is not a desert, but a beautiful and fruitful country. It is still much as it was when the three tribes of Reuben, Gad, and Manasseh asked Moses to let them stay there and have their portion given them out of the meadows and the green woods, because they could there find such good pasture for their herds and flocks. The deep green valleys, filled with willows and oleanders that grow by the clear mountain streams, are the home of many singing birds. The cuckoo is heard there, as in old England. The hoopoes, with their golden crests, live in those woods. The fig, and the vine, and the olive grow there in abundance, and in the rich, deep soil everything that is planted flourishes and thrives. We read in the Bible of the oaks of Bashan, and there we may find them still. One would think at first the country was nothing but a plain, but here and there one comes upon the narrow mountain clefts and glens, for the land is a tableland and high above the level of the sea. When the Lord takes back His people to that land flowing with milk and honey, how many songs of praise will go up to Him from the sunny meadows and the green woods of Bashan!
“The sheikh of Burak,” Amy wrote, “received us in a most friendly way. Whilst our supper was cooking, Mr. Mackintosh and I went to his house. It was one of the old houses of the giant cities, with the floor freshly made up of stamped clay. His wife brought a large basket tray with bread, butter, dibs (a kind of treacle), and pounded sugar. The sheikh took a piece of bread, dipped it in the butter, then in the dibs, then in the sugar, and ate it before we touched anything, to show, he said, that all was free from poison. We were abundantly supplied with milk and food for the horses and supper sent for the soldiers. Indeed, throughout our whole journey nothing could exceed the kindness and friendliness of the Druses. Our general plan was to start at about nine in the morning, and to ride about seven hours a day, resting for about an hour at noon.
“When we arrived at the village where we meant to encamp, we went to the sheikh’s house and asked him to show us the best place for the tent. This was often the village threshing-floor and was always freely given. The sheikh would almost always send a servant with coffee for us, and then would come himself to know what we wanted. Butter, milk, and eggs were always to be had in plenty, and generally they offered us a lamb. It was very interesting to talk to the men, women, and children who gathered in numbers round the tent. At sunset the goats came in from pasture, and, when we got milk, Mr. Rose or I cooked the supper. Afterward, the sheikh and some of his family would come and spend the evening with us, or I used to sit outside the tent door by the remains of our charcoal fire, talking to the soldiers and villagers till bedtime.”
How many may there be in these lonely villages who thus heard of the love of Jesus! We shall know someday in how many hearts the seed of the word took root! Amy goes on:
“Our life was, as you may imagine, very primitive. I did not see a chair or a table for three weeks, but I enjoyed it very much. In almost every village the first question asked was, ‘Will you not give us a school?’ It was sad to see these fine, intelligent, brave men unable even to read. They have done what they could for their children, and we found several of the boys able to read and write, and most anxious for books. We gave them the book of Genesis and the Epistle to the Romans bound together, the Gospels and Acts in one volume; also ‘The Blood of Jesus,’ and ‘Come to Jesus.’
“They were delighted to have these books. In one village the children brought eggs for them. At one town the sheikh said, ‘The English seem to have forgotten us. We have begged and prayed for teachers, but none come. It seems no use to ask any more.’ At one village there were twenty or thirty ignorant Christians, very superstitious and dark. They had only one Bible amongst them. Mr. Mackintosh preached to them on Sunday morning. In the afternoon there was a very quaint meeting, entirely conversational, all of us sitting on mats on the floor in one of the old stone houses. In one village there were many bright children who could read, and who were so eager for books we could by no means satisfy them. We spent Sunday there. I could not leave the tent owing to the number of people continually coming.
I sat by the tent door all the morning talking to them. Mr. Mackintosh had a sort of meeting in one of the houses, but it was a stormy one. A Maronite priest came in and was very violent. He wished to stop the meeting. The owner of the house was very wrathful, for he maintained he had a right to hear and read the Bible in his own house and to ask anyone he liked to come and teach him.
“When we camped amongst the Arabs, they were quite as friendly as the Druses and gave us plenty of milk and cheese. It seems very desirable that a Christian family should go and live amongst these people. A missionary asked me the other day if I would go. I would most gladly, and my husband is willing to go for a year at least. Will you pray that we may see the Lord’s will clearly? Pray also that suitable teachers may be found, who would preach the gospel fully.”
Perhaps Amy thought, during these wanderings, of the days so long ago, when she had set her heart on living out of doors! How little had she imagined then how she was to have her wish granted her! Not in the oak woods of old England, but in the wild plain of Bashan. Not to please herself, but as a messenger from the Lord Jesus, to make Him known where others had feared to go. When she got back to Sook, she was glad to find that several Syrian Christians were willing to go and open schools in Bashan. She felt sure the Druses would receive them gladly and treat them kindly. So, with many prayers, these teachers were sent to the distant villages, and they promised to send word from time to time how they were getting on.
Soon after this Amy’s husband went for a time to England, and she was left with the three little girls at Sook. There was now a great deal to do, for there were so many, especially amongst the Druses, who were longing to hear the gospel. Amy would go alone, or with one of the little girls, from one Druse village to another, read and talk from house to house, and when she was tired she would ask if she might lie down on the mat and go to sleep for a little while. Then she would wake up refreshed, eat any of the food they offered her, and go on again.
“I am happy,” she wrote, “in feeling that the Lord is guiding me, and, even though I cannot have the teaching and the Christian fellowship that are so precious to me, I have Christ—Christ in glory! that means everything. God has given me a very active life, and having been here so long, I can often do little things to help people who do not know the language or customs. I can hardly describe the various things I often find I can do to help people. I am glad to do anything for Mrs. Mott. All sorts of things happen which couldn’t happen in England, and I may be wanted at all sorts of times. Only a little while ago a horse came up for me from Beirut, in the middle of the night; and again, last week, I had to ride down, and come up late at night, only staying there half-an-hour. The horse was a very swift one, so I managed the whole journey in about four-and-a-half hours. I do seek to do all just simply for the Lord, and I am thankful to Him for giving me those sorts of things to do, and for keeping me so wonderfully well in health. This climate seems to give me strength for almost anything. Can you send me any short tracts that might be translated for the Muslims? Just now many seem to be so much taught by the word of God, without any human help, and are all but Christians, owning, in a most wonderful way, that Christ is God. It is this that has always been the great difficulty with Muslims. I find, too, many who own that He died for us, and that He is the only Savior. They own that the Bible is the Word of God, though they think the Koran is also. Several have been imprisoned for their belief, but they are still Muslims, in name at least, so nothing worse was done to them. I don’t think a Muslim who became a Christian would now be openly put to death by the government, but he would be persecuted and, perhaps, murdered privately.”
Soon after this a sad time came. For a while the teachers who had been sent to Bashan sent good accounts of their schools, and all seemed going on well. But one day came the dreadful tidings that the best of the teachers, a Syrian, called ‘Girius,’ had been murdered by the Druses, and another robbed, and beaten, and sent back quite destitute to Damascus.
Amy wrote: “I felt quite overwhelmed when we heard this. Poor Girius had left his wife and little children on the Lebanon, and it was terrible to think of them. Then what a blow it would be to the work. And it was dreadfully sad to think of the wickedness of the Druses, whom I had loved and trusted.
“When the news came, I was on the roof with a Druse sheikh. He said, ‘I will not believe it. If Girius has been murdered, it is not by our people.’ He wanted to get a horse and go at once to Bashan to see if it were true. But it was settled at last that a young Englishman, who was a teacher in the Lebanon schools, should go instead, and that a Syrian doctor, called Joseph, should go with him. They first had to go to Beirut to get an order from the governor, otherwise the body of Girius would not be given up to them.”
Amy wrote: “The morning they left, Shibbley, the most powerful of the Lebanon sheikhs, came to see me; he, too, refused to believe that his people had committed such a crime. But I felt very sad, and, in the afternoon, I took the two youngest little girls, and I went with another Druse sheikh, called Chatar, to a lonely part of the mountains, and we sat there and read the gospel. It comforted me to hear the way in which Chatar talked to me. ‘Do not let your faith be weak,’ he said; ‘God is able to turn this sorrow into joy, or to bring blessings out of it, such as you do not expect, and then you will praise Him for the trouble.’
“The next day the poor doctor, Joseph, came to me in great terror. He said Shibbley was angry with him for having spoken against him behind his back, and he was afraid he would kill him.
“I couldn’t help laughing at the poor doctor, and I told him I didn’t think Shibbley had any intention of hurting him, but I would go to see him and find out. Just as I was starting, whom should I meet but one of the teachers from Bashan. You may fancy my joy when he gave me a letter from Girius himself! I didn’t stop to read it, for I knew his difficult writing, the sight of it was enough, but I went off directly to the Druses. I found Chatar asleep in his house. He looked quite bewildered when I woke him up, but as soon as he understood the matter, his delight was great, and we thanked God together. Sheikh Shibbley was quite as much pleased. I gave him the letter and he read it to me. Girius, it seems, had been very ill, and was still so, but no one had harmed him, or had any intention of doing so. Sheikh Shibbley was amused when I told him of the doctor’s fear. We had a long and interesting conversation. I long so much for this man’s conversion. Do pray for him. He is so much more humble than he was, which is hopeful.”
Soon after this, two more teachers came back from Bashan, and said they had been very kindly treated by the Druses, but that Girius was still very ill. It seemed quite needful that someone go and look after him.
“But,” wrote Amy, “in spite of all that was told of the Druses, not a Christian would go! I couldn’t find one who had sufficient faith in God, or love for his brother, to go to the poor sick teacher in his loneliness; so I asked Chatar to go.
“Alone he set out on a cold morning, or, rather, it was barely morning, for the moon was shining, and it was not yet three o’clock. When he got on his horse at our door, he said to me, ‘Pray for me as your brother.’ He reached Damascus in two days, and Elkurieh, in Bashan, in three days more. He found Girius very ill, but by making a comfortable bed on a camel’s back for him, he brought him safely to some relations he has at Damascus. From thence Girius wrote to me: ‘Sheikh Chatar came to me as an angel from heaven.’ He had been very kindly treated in Bashan but was of course glad to be nursed by his friends at Damascus, and to get the money which we sent by Chatar.”
The sad thing was that the false report of Girius’s murder had been spread by the two teachers who had come back to the Lebanon, though, when they arrived there, they said the Druses had been kind and friendly to Girius and to them. It seems that on the way back they had passed through Damascus, and had there said exactly the contrary, and had invented the story of the murder of Girius. This was of course to excuse themselves for leaving their work in Bashan. And these men called themselves Christians! When Chatar came back to the Lebanon, Amy wrote—
“I asked Chatar to tell me exactly how the Druses in Bashan felt towards the teachers. He replied: The sheikhs all say, ‘We received the teachers with all courtesy and friendliness. We wished to have our children taught, and we still wish it, but we will not have any more Christian teachers. The consequence of our receiving them was that we were unjustly accused of every sort of evil, and if a Christian teacher came and died amongst us, of course it will be said we have killed him. We are quite willing that the Bible, and the Bible alone, should be taught, but send us Druses, not Nazarenes.’ The sheikh of Elkurieh wrote a very nice letter to me and my husband, in which he says, ‘Could you believe I should make such a bad return for your kindness as to murder your teacher?’ Now, had I to send Christian teachers, I really do not know where to look for any. Those we did send were about the best we knew of about the mountain, and yet they have neither faith, nor love, nor courage, nor truth! I am myself inclined to send Druses, and the Word of God, and leave the work more and more fully in His hands. My own belief is that many of the Druses are more truly Christians than many who are called Christians. People say they cannot be converted. I bear with these miserable lukewarm Christians till they quote their favorite text concerning the Druses: ‘Give not that which is holy to the dogs, &c.,’ and then I cannot refrain from anger.
“I said to Chatar one day, ‘How is it that when I talk to Sheikh Shibbley about Christ, he says he cannot believe that He is the Son of God, and yet the Druse boys at the school, when I ask them to say an English sentence, almost always say, “Jesus Christ is God”? Do their parents know of this, and do they like them to say it?’ Chatar answered, ‘Perhaps their parents would not say it themselves, but the truth is finding its way into the hearts of the children, and no parents, nor anyone else can prevent their believing it.’ I told him we were astonished at the boys, because they were mostly new boys, who had had but little teaching. He replied, ‘What teaching had I before I came to you? Hardly any from men; but the Holy Spirit had taught my heart.’ I had a few of the Druse women to spend the evening here a few days ago. It was very pleasant, and very un-English. We all sat on the ground, and the husband of one of them read aloud to us. Amongst other chapters, he read John 4, and several times he repeated with earnestness the 42nd verse, and said unto the woman, ‘Now we believe, not because of thy saying: for we have heard Him ourselves, and know that this is indeed the Christ, the Savior of the world.’ Pray for this people. Oh, pray for them that they may come out fully, and come out to the Lord, not to the wretched form and name of Christianity around them!”
You must not suppose from reading what Amy relates that none of God’s people have cared for the souls of the Druses. She did not mean that such was the case, but that amongst the native Christians they were regarded much in the same way as the Samaritans were regarded amongst the Jews. Christians from Europe and America have gone amongst the Druses, both on the Lebanon and in Bashan, and are still working amongst them, though more laborers are much needed. In Mrs. Mott’s schools there are now 245 Druse girls, who are carefully taught the Bible, and many Druse women come to Bible classes. Only today (Nov. 17th, 1884) I heard that in one village in Bashan there is now scarcely a house without a copy of the Scriptures, and that the schools opened by Amy are doing a good work, and that both boys and girls in four villages are taught to read the Bible, which they can do with ease, and that more schools are much desired by the Druses themselves.
“I believe more and more firmly,” Amy went on to say, “in the work of the Spirit alone, teaching through the word. One thing which has led me to this is the history of a young man, for whom I beg you to pray. He is a Muslim of a bigoted sect amongst the Persians. He lives at a village called Raifoon, where he is a schoolmaster. When Mr. Mackintosh has gone to preach at Raifoon, this young man, Sheikh Hassan, opposed him very bitterly, either arguing or scoffing. However, some time ago, he asked me for a Bible. I gave him one, telling him not to throw it away if he did not like it, but to return it to me. This he promised to do. He began to read from the beginning, straight on. One day I met him in a house where I was visiting. I asked him to read for me the account of the Passover. He objected a little, because he said he had not got to that part, and he must read straight on. ‘But,’ he added, ‘I am not going to give up this book.’ A short time ago I went to a shop and found Sheikh Hassan sitting there. He told me he was still reading the Bible. ‘You are reading the Bible,’ I said, ‘and I have been reading the Koran.’ The shopkeeper said, ‘It is not a sin to read the Koran.’ ‘No,’ I said; ‘there are some good things in the Koran. Mohammed was right in saying that idols are not to be worshipped.’ ‘Yes,’ said Sheikh Hassan, ‘Mohammed was an instrument against idolatry, but he was a man, as we are. He was no Savior.’ ‘True,’ I said, ‘Mohammed could save no one. There is but one Savior, even Jesus Christ.’ ‘Oh,’ said the shopkeeper, who was a professing Christian, ‘Sheikh Hassan doesn’t believe that!’ Hassan looked a little grieved. ‘I have not come to the New Testament yet,’ he said; ‘but I know that salvation must come from God alone. Have you got a Bible?’ The shopkeeper acknowledged he had not. ‘Then,’ said Hassan, ‘I advise you to give up something, even your daily food, to get one.’ So, you can understand I feel led more and more to rest on the word alone.
“The so-called Christians, even those who are perhaps really Christians, are very cold. I have not yet met with one of them who could say he knew he was saved. I should indeed be thankful if some earnest man were to come out clearly, who could teach others. My work is of course a very small thing; I feel I can do little but live amongst the people and love them. My Chief temptation is the kindness of the Druses, whom I see much of. One is tempted to think of one’s self more than one’s message, when made much of and treated with so much affection. I am quite strong, wonderfully so, as I live entirely on bread and Arabic coffee. I often think of you and long for such teaching as you get; but pray for me that the Lord Himself may teach me. I should so like to see you, but otherwise have no wish to return to England. A Bedouin was baptized at our house last Sunday. His confession of Christ as the Son of God and Savior of the world was quite clear. A Christian here asked him just before he was baptized if he thought being baptized with water would save him. He answered: ‘Will the medicine heal the sore on the sheep’s skin if it be rubbed on the wool?’ The Americans had refused to baptize him, so he had been waiting for some time, but we had known him well and had reason to be quite satisfied, by watching his life, that he was truly a Christian.” As time went on, one Druse after another began to ask to hear more of the Lord Jesus. Some believed and were saved, and many would have been thankful if a Christian preacher could have been found to go amongst them.
Amy wrote in the year 1873: “I am really longing for some preacher of the gospel to come here. As to myself, it seems so useless for me to be here, and yet I cannot help feeling that the Lord placed me here, and I can only wait for Him to use me. The odd thing is that I only have to remain here as long as I do what seems to be nothing, for no one is allowed to come to the house except for a few minutes.”
I suppose that if it had not been for this rule, the house would have been filled with Druses from morning to night, for they seem to have come to Amy about all their concerns, knowing she cared for them, and always believing she could help them. For instance, an Englishman who came from Syria told me that he was one day at Beirut, when some men from the mountains were bringing in horses for sale. In the narrow streets the horses suddenly began to fight and became so wild the men fled to a safe distance and looked on in dismay. At last one said, “Oh, if only our kind lady were here! she would tell us what to do.” “She is here,” said one, “I saw her go down to the market.”
Immediately the men ran off to the market, and returned with Amy, who walked quietly amongst the horses and separated them. It was strange to see the little delicate-looking Englishwoman managing the restive horses, whilst their owners, ten strong men, stood at a distance, afraid to go near them. So, I can well believe that the faith the Druses had in Amy would have been rather inconvenient, had they always been able to call her to the rescue in all their difficulties.
“However,” Amy wrote, “I believe I am in my right place. When I speak to those amongst the Druses who are a comfort to me, and tell them how difficult it is for me to do anything to be useful to them, they say, ‘Have patience; we will never come to the house—only come to us when you can. Do not go away: wait, and the Lord will make all plain by-and-by.’ John the Baptist could, at all events, say he was a voice! And so I stay on, though I sometimes feel like a stick stuck in the wilderness—all alone, as far as helpers are concerned. But, in the meantime, I can be learning, and the Lord teaches me. The Druses ask me to say to you that they want you to pray for them, and I entreat you to do so. One of them this morning, for the first time, prayed himself. It was very cheering to hear one of these poor despised ones praying in the Name of Jesus, though the Syrian Christians speak of them as dogs and swine, to whom the pearls and the holy things are not to be given.”
Amy goes on to relate how the little girls were enjoying their life on the Lebanon. They could now read and talk Arabic, and their mother hoped they would be able to read the gospel to some who could not read themselves. Persis was, however, making plans of her own, whilst she was playing with her tortoises, or working in her garden; but I do not know whether she told them to her mother. She was allowed to play about near the house and sometimes wandered as far as an old convent of Greek monks, into which no women were allowed to go. Persis, however, was only a small child, so the monks were not afraid of breaking their rule by talking to her.
At last they invited her into the convent, and took her into their chapel, hoping that she would admire the painted pictures before which they knelt to pray. But Persis knew too much of the Bible to enjoy the sight, and she felt quite sure that if she could only get the monks to listen to texts, and hear all that she had to say, they would become Protestants. She therefore paid them constant visits and was disappointed at last to find that the pictures still hung in their places, and the monks showed no sign of repentance. Poor little Persis had to learn long afterward that Protestants need to be converted just as much as Greek monks, and the time came when she found out that she too was blind and deaf, and that she needed herself to have her eyes opened to see the Lord Jesus and her ears opened to hear His voice.
When some of the Druses had become Christians, Amy was allowed to have them at the house for about a quarter of an hour every morning. They then all prayed together. One day some poor Druses came from a distant village to the house of Sheikh Chatar. They told him they had heard something said amongst their people about One called Jesus. They wanted someone to go to their village and tell them about Him.
Sheikh Chatar replied: “If you think you will get any money by that means, or get off some punishment for your crimes, it is no use to come to us, for the gospel is not to make people better off, it is to tell them how God saves us from our sins.”
They said they wanted only to be taught, and nothing more whatever. Next week they came again with the same request; but Sheikh Chatar, though he was very much interested in them, did not feel inclined to trust himself in their village.
He told Amy that nobody in the village had ever died a natural death; so, when they came the second time, he sent them to her. She was quite ready to go, so, taking little May as a companion, she set off on horseback for the ride of twenty miles.
“It is such an odd place,” she said; “a little village half in ruins, on a hill in a sort of basin, surrounded by much higher hills, and between it and the sea is a great mound, or rather rocky steep, which shuts out all view, except a tiny bit of the sea at each side of it. The road to it is so bad, I could hardly believe the horses could get down to it, and yet we had not to get off even once. The people in the village seem in perfect darkness. They know there is a God, and that they are Druses by name, but beyond that they know nothing. There is no one in the village who can read, except one lad, and he reads very badly. They are thought to be extremely wicked people; but they were quite civil and kind to May and me. They gave us sherbet and coffee, and watered our horses, and wanted to kill some chickens and cook them for us. I read and spoke to them from house to house as simply as I could, and they listened very attentively, saying, ‘We never heard anything like this, neither we nor our fathers.’ We stayed with them about an hour, and I promised them, if the Lord permitted me, to come back before long.”
However, Amy was very anxious to find some Christian man to go there, for she did not think that God means women to be preachers.
Accordingly, she went to a Syrian Christian who lived at Sook and entreated him to go. She said, “He surprised me by saying he was not ordained. I still entreated him to go, but he replied, ‘What will Sheikh Shibbley say?’ Of course, I said, ‘It does not matter whether Sheikh Shibbley wishes it or not. If we ask everybody’s leave, we shall never speak of Christ at all.’ Then he said, ‘People will laugh at you for going to such a village.’ I told him that didn’t matter either; the people of Sarachmool had asked for someone to go, and they should not be refused. He offered to send one of the teachers in his school to go with me, but I knew this young man, Joseph, and did not think he had any care for the souls of others. So, I said, ‘Why will you not go yourself?’ He then, said he would write to England, and ask for an evangelist to be sent out. ‘But as to myself,’ he explained, ‘I have too much to do. I have to see to a large quantity of wheat I have been buying, and it has to be stored away. I will see about it by-and-by.’” So, from one to another did Amy go in vain. Some said the Maronites and Greeks must be converted first. Others said it was no use to go to Druses. The only person who could be thought of who was willing to go was a converted Druse. “But,” said a Christian lady, “those converted Druses belong to no sect, and that is so awkward.”
Amy could do no more but pray that the Lord would send laborers into His harvest. I cannot tell you what has since happened to the people of Sarachmool: I should like to know.
It was not long after this that a preacher came. He was an American who had worked for God for a long time in Egypt and could speak Arabic easily. You can well believe what a great joy this was to Amy. It was not a grief to him that the converted Druses were of no sect. They met together, and heard the word of God, and prayed, and praised the Lord, and then with some Syrian Christians they ate together the Lord’s Supper. Amy wrote in November 1873, “Mr. P.’s visit has been an unspeakable comfort. I only beg of you, and of all who care for the Lord’s work in this land, to pray earnestly and constantly. Never did we need it so much as now, or at least never did our need so much appear. When the light comes, we see better how deep is the surrounding darkness. I can but most earnestly repeat the request, ‘Pray for us.’ Pray for those who, few in number, are standing up boldly for the Lord, and pray for the poor weak ones who have been so long like sheep without a shepherd. Oh, that more did but know the peace and joy of going straight to the Lord and depending only on Him! It is such a cause of thankfulness that we can now meet together and break bread in remembrance of Him.”
She then goes on to ask for a parcel of warm clothing to be sent out, for the winter seemed to be setting in with much cold and rain. The olive harvest had been a bad one, and she feared there would be much lack and suffering amongst the poor. She ends by saying: “Our future path is all unknown to us. For five months, as far as we can judge, we shall be here; but where we shall be after that we cannot tell. We thought we should have had to give up our house last spring, then this autumn, and here we are still; so, of what the spring may bring forth we have no idea—the Lord will guide.” “Five months!” When that time was over, Amy had left her home at Sook for one where there is no loneliness, and no sorrow, and no sin. One more letter came, written in December 1873. Her friend, Mr. P., had left. He had gone to Alexandria to fetch a printing press, that Bibles and gospel tracts might be printed at Beirut.
“The Druses,” she says, “are very much on my heart, especially those in the Hauran,” and she goes on to say how much she hopes that the places still in utter darkness will not be left “to be overspread by the miserable Christianity which is already deadening the souls of the people of Syria, who call themselves Christians.”
“The Lord is able to raise up teachers, and to Him we Must look, that the full, pure, simple truth may be preached, and, by means of that, souls gathered to the Lord and added to the church. I have not been able to go to Sarachmool,” she adds, “since the rain. The road at any time is almost impassable, and in wet weather I dare not take the mare there.
“The last few days it has been fine again, and, if we have a little more dry weather, I hope to be able to go. I have been cheered by hearing of an old Druse there, named Hamzeh, who has been one of the most bloodthirsty of his people. A young man from a neighboring village went and spoke to him of Christ. The old man was moved almost to tears, and exclaimed, ‘Why have you never been to tell me this before?’ The young man came up to me—a long walk over one of the roughest roads—because he said he felt as if he must come and tell me that Hamzeh had listened to him, or rather, had listened to the word of God.”
But Amy was to ride no more down the rocky path to Sarachmool. For some time, she had been growing weaker and thinner, and her bad cough had come back. Her husband took her to Beirut to see the doctor. He thought her very ill with consumption. But she had seemed so ill before leaving England, and had grown so much stronger afterward, it was still to be hoped she might recover again when the winter was over; but she did not think so herself. The winter turned out, as she had feared, cold and wet. Sometimes it was very difficult to get the food and medicine which were needful, for the steep, rough paths could scarcely be used in the bad weather.
She wrote in that last letter of December 1873: “They say it is warm, but I feel it very cold. May is sending off to Millie some white crocuses, of which there are great numbers on the mountains. The purple ones are nearly over, and the golden ones just coming. Do not cease to pray for us.” And after this I heard from her no more.
When Amy was able to get down to Beirut, she went there to see the doctor, and any friends who were there. A Syrian Christian, called Miriam, wrote to me afterward: “The last time I saw her was nearly a month before she was taken to her heavenly home to live with her Father. She had come down to Beirut to show herself to the doctor, for she was very weak. One morning she came to see me; we had a happy time together. I asked her to spend a time down in Beirut at my house. Her reply was, ‘No; I must go to bid my little ones goodbye, before I leave them to Him to take care of in my absence, and then to bring them to where I will be with Him, where there will be no parting anymore;’ and so she wished me good-bye, saying, ‘If I will be able, I will come to see you before I go up to my home; and, if not, I hope to meet with you where I am going before you—up in heaven.’”
After this, when Amy had gone back to Sook, she grew so weak that she could not leave her room. The paths, too, all round the village were blocked with snow. It was not easy to get even necessary things for those who were well and strong, and for a sick person it was of course much worse. A Syrian friend who lived at Sook went when he could to see her. He and Miriam had been amongst those with whom she had met at the Lord’s Supper in the autumn. This friend wrote to me, “When she was confined to her room and her bed, I was able to see her twice; and she was not able to speak much. At my first visit I read to her the first three verses of the third chapter of the First Epistle of John: ‘Behold, what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that we should be called the sons of God: therefore the world knoweth us not, because it knew Him not. Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when He shall appear, we shall be like Him; for we shall see Him as He is. And every man that hath this hope in Him purifieth himself, even as He is pure.’ Then she asked me to pray. I did so. It was in Arabic. After prayer I took her hand to bid her good-bye. She held it long, and I said, ‘The Lord be with thee, and give thee firm confidence, an anchor to the soul, which enters into that which is within the vail, whither Jesus, our Forerunner, has entered.’ And then I parted with her. I wished to see her every day but could not. I got permission, however, to see her once more, two or three days before her death. I read to her 2 Peter 1:12-1512Wherefore I will not be negligent to put you always in remembrance of these things, though ye know them, and be established in the present truth. 13Yea, I think it meet, as long as I am in this tabernacle, to stir you up by putting you in remembrance; 14Knowing that shortly I must put off this my tabernacle, even as our Lord Jesus Christ hath showed me. 15Moreover I will endeavor that ye may be able after my decease to have these things always in remembrance. (2 Peter 1:12‑15) and Hebrews 6:18-2018That by two immutable things, in which it was impossible for God to lie, we might have a strong consolation, who have fled for refuge to lay hold upon the hope set before us: 19Which hope we have as an anchor of the soul, both sure and stedfast, and which entereth into that within the veil; 20Whither the forerunner is for us entered, even Jesus, made an high priest for ever after the order of Melchisedec. (Hebrews 6:18‑20), and said to her, ‘Be strong and of good confidence; the Lord’s sheep are in His hand, and no one is able to pluck them out.’”
On the 14th of March an English lady from Beirut went up to Sook to help to nurse her. This lady said, “‘To me to live is Christ, and to die is gain,’ seemed to be just the best account of her. She said she had not a desire either way; it was just as the Lord wished. ‘Never ask me what I want,’ she said to us, ‘give me what is good for me.’ Her mind was full of verses. There was one hymn she said often—
“For Thee I wait, Lord Jesus,
Light and Port Thou art to me;
Thou wondrous Sun of glory,
I wait, I wait for Thee.”
One evening one of the little girls came in and told her that one of the little rabbits had been taken away from its mother, and she said it had better be put back before night. The English friend said in fun, “Do you think its mother would ever miss it?” Amy looked at her for a moment, and then her thoughts went back to the One who was always present with her, and she said—
“Lord, Thou hast here Thy ninety and nine—
Are these not enough for Thee?
But the Shepherd made answer ‘This of Mine
Hath wandered away from Me;
And though the mountains be bare and steep,
I go to the desert to find My sheep.’”
One morning she awoke and said she had had a delightful dream. She thought she had been traveling through a great plain, with many coming and going across it; that at last she found herself at the top of a high bank, and a sudden gleam of bright light came and showed her, far below, wide and lovely meadows and green valleys; that just beneath her lay white, sparkling snow, into which she flung herself, for it looked so cool and soft, and she felt herself sinking into it in perfect rest and delight. She said in her dream, “I know that this is dying,” and she thought she spoke some joyful words, and named the name of Jesus. “It is a little disappointing,” she said, “to wake and find I am still here.”
Her friend wrote: “‘It is so good of the Lord,’ was the commonest beginning to her words. ‘I cannot cast my burden on the Lord, for I have no burden to cast—He has taken it all. It is all Christ and only Christ.’” Yet she talked of things around her and was pleased when a neighbor brought her baby to see her; inquired after her horse, and about all that went on in the house. She welcomed everyone with a smile and seemed to have no pain. She talked a great deal about her children and joined in singing many hymns. “Tell my brothers and my sister Fanny,” she said to her husband, “that in the hour of death there is nothing to rest upon but the blood of Christ, which was shed for us. Tell them all that I die in perfect peace—perfect peace through our Lord Jesus Christ. Tell those that you think are not saved that all the things of the world are nothing at all. Tell all that are not sure of their salvation not to leave it to the last, and not be taken up with worldly things. Say that I am passing away very happily. I feel as if I could lay my head on the Lord’s shoulder. Don’t forget anybody. I can’t remember all my old friends now. And oh! all your life preach Christ, and nothing but Christ. I don’t mean only the death of Christ, but His resurrection and His coming again, and our oneness with Him in the glory.” She gave many messages to her friends and asked that her horses might be given to Sheikh Chatar, which was done as she desired.
Her friend wrote: “She joined in the night in singing many hymns. I was dozing beside her, being very tired, but I shall never forget the peculiar sweetness of that singing, those ‘songs in the night.’ Next morning, very early, she died.”
It was a sad day for many on the Lebanon when they saw the funeral go down the steep, rocky path to Beirut. Miriam wrote afterward: “I felt I must write and tell you what she has been to us. What she used to do was more than what people knew about. She had so much courage, for she said, ‘I feel the hand of the Lord working with me, and it is He who gave me strength to go on with what I began.’ We used to meet together at our house at Sook to read and learn more about the blessed appearing of our dear Lord Jesus Christ and about our gathering unto Him, for it was not quite plain to us before, as it was to her. We had only known that He was coming at the last day to judge the quick and the dead. And we learned, too, that our Lord was more pleased with us when we meet in His blessed Name alone than in the name of a sect; that He likes us to meet as brethren, and He amongst us, the Firstborn amongst many brethren; and we were so happy meeting together, my husband and I, and some more, on the Lord’s day to worship Him and break bread together, as was His blessed command. She used to tell us the Lord opened the way always if we wanted to do His will. There is a passage from the Gospel of Mark (chapter 16, third and fourth verses) which she read to us once to comfort, us: ‘And they said among themselves, Who shall roll us away the stone from the door of the sepulcher? And when they looked, they saw that the stone was rolled away: for it was very great.’ This always makes me think of her strong faith in God.”
Her friend the Syrian, who had visited her during her last illness, wrote: “Before she was removed for burial at Beirut, a goodly company, nearly all natives, gathered at the house. I read from 1 Cor. 15 and 1 Thess. 4:13-1813But I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope. 14For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him. 15For this we say unto you by the word of the Lord, that we which are alive and remain unto the coming of the Lord shall not prevent them which are asleep. 16For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first: 17Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord. 18Wherefore comfort one another with these words. (1 Thessalonians 4:13‑18). The meeting was solemn. Especially the natives were very sorry, and there were many who spoke of her kindness and love to them and felt they had lost a true friend.”
Her friend the American preacher wrote also: “Our dear, faithful sister in Christ is gone! Gone to be with the Lord, whom she loved and served with a faithfulness rarely seen. She will live on in many hearts in this land; but even if none lived to bless God forever having met her, I am sure the remembrance of every faithful servant is treasured up on high. It seems wonderful to me, when I think how faithfully she bore witness for Christ for so many long, dark days, with all against her, even those calling themselves Christians. But weak as she was in body, and feeble in the eyes of man, yet the Lord gave her to see before her death a work in this land which He can and will surely carry on.
“I saw her last just before I went to Egypt. She came to the meeting in the morning for the worship of God, and to the gospel preaching in the afternoon. I am sure I never felt the Lord more near me than I did in that meeting. I could only weep for fullness of joy.”
So now I have told you the story of Amy, or rather I have told you the first part of that wonderful story of God’s love and grace, which is the great true story without an end. Much more will one day have to be told, but then we shall not be far apart and out of sight of one another, but all together with the Lord. And we shall hear then things more wonderful and more beautiful than any of the stories of God’s dear people now. For now, only a little part can be known and told, and then we shall know all. But it is pleasant and good to hear the little beginnings of the lives that will never end, and to see how God’s great power is shown in those who were once dead in sins, and who had poor weak bodies even after their souls were made alive. And it is good to see how wonderfully happy God can make His children here, even when all seems against them, and they have sorrows and troubles all round. I hope that many who read this will learn how to say, “I cannot cast my burden on the Lord, for I have none to cast, He has taken it all.” When we know the Lord Jesus Christ, we know what these words mean, and we know, too, what He gives us even here, in exchange for the burden — “joy unspeakable, and full of glory.”