Two or three days passed away and nothing was seen or heard of Miriam. A servant was then sent to her father's house to inquire if she was sick, and he was rudely thrust away from the door. The missionary felt constrained to interfere, that Miriam might at least have the opportunity of declaring openly her preference. According to the laws of the Turkish government, the father had no right to keep her at her age, against her will, and it was necessary that she have an opportunity to choose with whom she wished to live. The matter was represented to the American Consul, who requested the father to appear before him with his daughter. When the officer came to his house, he found that the father had locked the door and gone away with the key. From an upper window, however, Miriam saw him and told him that she was shut up there a prisoner, not knowing what might be done with her, and she begged for assistance. She had prepared a little note for the missionary, telling of her attachment to Christ's cause, and closing with the last two verses of the eighth chapter of Romans, "For I am persuaded, that neither death nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord." The janizary proposed to her to try if she could not get out upon the roof of the next house, and descend through it to the street, which she successfully accomplished, and was soon joyfully on her way to a place of protection in the Consulate.
Miriam, after staying three days at the Consul's house, returned to that of the missionary. Her parents tried every means to induce her to return. They promised and threatened and wept, but though greatly moved at times in her feelings, she remained firm to her purpose. They tried to induce her to go home for a single night only, but she knew them too well to trust herself in their hands. Her mother had artfully arranged to meet her at the house of a friend; but her brother came, a little before the time, to warn her that a plan was laid to meet her at this house with a company of priests who were all ready to marry her forcibly to a man whom she knew nothing about, as is often done in this country. Miriam thus gave up father and mother, brothers and sisters, for the sake of Christ and his gospel.
In the year 1855 Mr. Ford removed to Beirût, and Miriam accompanied him. She made a public profession of her faith in Christ in 1856, and was married in 1858 to Mr. Ibrahim Sarkees, foreman and principal proof reader of the American Mission Press. Her father has since removed to Beirût, and all of the family have become entirely reconciled to her being a Protestant. Her brother Habibs is a frequent attendant on Divine service, and regards himself as a Protestant.
Miriam is now deeply interested in Christian work, and the weekly meetings of the Native Women's Missionary Society are held at her house. The Protestant women agree either to attend this Sewing Society, or pay a piastre a week in case of their absence.
I close this chapter with the mention of Werdeh, [Rose,] daughter of the celebrated Arabic poet Nasif el Yazijy, who aided Dr. Eli Smith in the translation of the Bible into Arabic. She is now a member of the Evangelical Church in Beirût. She herself has written several poems of rare merit; one an elegy upon the death of Dr. Smith; another expressing grateful thanks to Dr. Van Dyck for attending her sick brother. Only this can be introduced here, a poem lamenting the death of Sarah Huntington Bistany, daughter of Raheel, who died in January, 1866. Sarah's father and her own father, Sheikh Nasif, had been for years on the most intimate terms, and the daughters were like sisters. The account of Sarah's death will be found in another part of this volume.
Oh sad separation! Have you left among mortals,
An eye without tears, hot and burning with sorrow?
Have you left on this earth a heart without anguish,
Or a soul unharrowed with grief and emotion?
Thou hast plucked off a flower from our beautiful garden,
Which shall shine like the stars in the gardens celestial.
Wo is me! I have lost a fair branch of the willow
Broken ruthlessly off. And what heart is not broken?
Thou hast gone, but from me thou wilt never be absent.
Thy person will live to my sight and my hearing.
Tears of blood will be shed by fair maids thy companions,
Thy grave will be watered by tears thickly falling.
Thou wert the fair jewel of Syrian maidens,
Far purer and fairer than pearls of the ocean.
Where now is thy knowledge of language and science?
This sad separation has left to us nothing.
Ah, wo to the heart of fond father and mother,
No sleep,—naught but anguish and watching in sorrow
Thou art clad in white robes in the gardens of glory.
We are clad in the black robe of sorrow and mourning
Oh grave, yield thy honors to our pure lovely maiden,
Who now to thy gloomy abode is descending!
Our Sarah departed, with no word of farewell,
Will she ever return with a fond word of greeting?
Oh deep sleep of death, that knows no awaking!
Oh absence that knows no thought of returning!
If she never comes back to us here in our sorrow,
We shall go to her soon. 'Twill be but to-morrow