Among the American missionaries, for instance, have been found champion athletes, splendid riders and marksmen, raconteurs of surprising mental agility, phenomenal linguists and surgeons of magnificent daring. One gained world-wide fame as an author and another as a scientist. A third was the best Arabic scholar of his century, if not of any century. Well-known American colleges have called—in vain—for presidents from Syria; and an important embassy of the United States was thrice offered to a missionary, who preferred, however, to keep to his chosen life-work—at eight hundred dollars a year. These men and women are not laboring here because there is no other field of endeavor open to them. They are very intelligent, competent, refined, brave, adaptable people, with deep knowledge of many other things besides religion, a broad vision of the world’s affairs, and almost invariably a keen sense of humor; people whom it is an education to know and a glad inspiration to own as friends.
In 1855 a leaky sailing vessel landed a cargo of rum and missionaries at Beirut. The rum was drunk up long ago; but one of the passengers, a tall, wiry Yankee, is still bubbling over with the joy of life. When I met Dr. Bliss again in Syria last summer, he told me with quiet chuckles of enjoyment how, shortly after he came to the East, one of the older missionaries remarked, “Daniel Bliss isn’t practical and his wife won’t live a year in this climate.” After nearly sixty years, the beloved wife is still with him; and as for being practical—there stands the great university which he has built!
Others helped him from the beginning—wise and generous philanthropists like William E. Dodge and Morris K. Jesup in America and the Duke of Argyll and the Earl of Shaftesbury in Great Britain—but two thousand alumni scattered over the five continents will tell you that the Syrian Protestant College is first and foremost a monument to the foresight and tact and self-sacrifice and patience and indomitable enthusiasm of “the Old Doctor.”
It was at first very small. A half-century ago there were but a few pupils gathered in a hired room. To-day the faculty and administrative officers alone number nearly four score, and a thousand men and boys are studying in the English language. The institution is emphatically Christian, but it is as absolutely non-sectarian as Harvard or Columbia. Every great religion and sect of the Near East, including Mohammedanism and Judaism, is represented in the student body; and it is hardly an exaggeration to say that every student and graduate honors Daniel Bliss next only to God. As he walks through the streets of the city, men stop to kiss his hands which embarrasses him exceedingly. Perhaps they love him so much because they are so sure that he loves them. Orientals are very quick to detect a stranger’s underlying motives, and many a smooth-speaking philanthropist has been weighed by them and found wanting. But, during nearly sixty years’ residence in Beirut, Dr. Bliss has lived such a life that his devotion to Syria and his affectionate interest in Syrians has become a tradition handed down from father to son.
He has known dark days and fought hard battles, yet he has never lacked a buoyant optimism, born partly of trust in God and partly of a strong body and a healthful mind. He has no patience with dismal, despondent prophets of evil. I never knew a man with a larger capacity for enjoyment. Good music always moves him powerfully. He keeps in touch with the latest European and American periodicals. He likes new books, new songs, new stories and, especially, new jokes. Active, alert, quick at repartee, he is passionately fond of the society of young people, and they repay the liking with interest.
A visitor to the college was once speaking of the attractive horseback rides through the country around Beirut. “But,” he added, as he looked up at the white-haired president, “I suppose you don’t ride any more.” “No,” answered Dr. Bliss with a resigned sigh, “I haven’t been on a horse for—three days!”
He is getting on in years now, and a recent stoop has taken a fraction of an inch from his six feet of spare, hard bone and muscle. A decade ago he resigned the presidency of the college, whereupon, to his great delight, his son was elected to fill the vacancy. “See what my boy is doing!” he exclaims, as he shows visitors the new buildings which are going up almost at the rate of one a year. So now the Old Doctor just walks about the campus which he loves, and from beneath his shock of thick white hair beams an irresistibly infectious enjoyment of this superlatively beautiful world, where anybody who has the mind can work so hard and get so much fun out of it.
Did I say that Dr. Bliss is old? Not he! He would indignantly deny the imputation. It is true that he celebrated his ninetieth birthday last August, but what of that? He recently expressed an intention to live to be a hundred. When he was a stalwart youth of four score I heard him remark, “Let the aged people talk about the good old times if they want to. I have no patience with such old fogies. I believe that the world is getting better every day.”