"Writing to you brings to mind many sweet conversations with you. Dwelling on them, my mind is sad. My sighs rise like the swelling stream, and almost carry me away, especially when I look at your garden, where you labored with so much skill to graft in these wild olive plants, cutting off your sleep with watchings by night, that they should not be rooted up by the desert wind. Thus you watched them, till they became as noble forest trees that not even the avalanche can overturn. Your garden, now, not only gives a shade pleasant to the traveller, but it yields sweet fruits; clouds rise from it that give us the early and the latter rain; they empty themselves,—the plain rejoices, and the barren places become verdant. Yes, the vine that you planted has budded, and blossomed, and gives of its fruit to every passer by. Come to us, our beloved, open the door of your garden, that the traveller may enter in and be refreshed. You have left many pleasant remembrances in the work of your hands. On every side you have left a picture for our eyes, and the skilful work of your hands (his wife), lo, and behold! it is with me. I cannot be silent. My voice shall be heard as the turtle's; 'Behold, your feet are within my doors, and your counsels are ever in my family.' The Lord reward you for these pupils, that you have taught to be patient and persevering, so that they truly help us in the work of life.
"Beloved, give my love to your friends, and ask them, when they go up to Shiloh to offer sacrifice, to place me in the censer of their prayers.
"We are troubled that as yet we know not the Lord's thoughts concerning you,—whether he will allow you to meet your flock again, or says to you as to Daniel, 'Thou shalt rest, and stand in thy lot at the end of the days.' Like Moses, you are gathered to your fathers; but Miss Rice stands like Joshua, commanding the sun not to go down till the sword of the gospel shall triumph. We thank the Lord that she is still a judge in Israel, so that as yet the sceptre has not departed from Judah.
"Your affectionate friend, BADAL."
There are some things about Hannah, and the work of divine grace in her, that demand grateful record.
She was the daughter of one of the most intelligent and wealthy Nestorians, who placed her in the Seminary as early as 1845. She was then quite small, and the teacher objected very much to taking her; but paternal importunity prevailed. As soon as her father turned to go, she began to scream; but he left, saying she must remain, and "learn wisdom." The kind teacher took her in her lap to soothe her; but it was of no use; her bleeding hands bore the marks of the nails of her new protegée for weeks. She called for her father, but he was intentionally out of hearing.
The child remained, but learned wisdom very slowly. She had her fits of rage so often, that she was sent home sometimes for weeks, and again for months. She made little progress, either in study or other good, till the winter of 1850, when she seemed to begin to love the truth; yet, though her general deportment was correct, she often showed such a determined will, that her instructors feared she had never said from the heart, "Not my will, but thine," and often told her that, if she was a Christian, God would, in love, subdue that will. She could not feel her need of this, and thought that they required too much of her. So they were obliged to leave her with God, and he cared for her in an unusual way. The mission premises had formerly been occupied by an Oriental bath; and here and there were old pits, once used for carrying off the water, but now covered up, so that no one knew where they were. One evening Miss Fiske called the girls together, and told them some things she wished they would refrain from. They promised compliance, and went out; but hardly had they gone before their teacher heard the cry, "Hannah is in the well!" She ran there, but all was right. Then they led her to an opening just before the back door, saying, "The earth opened and swallowed her up." The covering of one of the pits had given way, and she had fallen perhaps twenty feet below the surface. Fortunately, as in the case of Joseph, there was no water in the pit, and in a few days she was able to resume her place in school, but much more gentle and subdued than ever before. The change was marked by all. Months after, in a private interview with her teacher, she gave an account of the whole matter. She said the girls went out, most of them saying, "We will obey our teachers;" but she, stamping her foot, said, "I did right before, and I shall do so again." With these words on her lips, she sunk into the earth. At first she did not know what had happened, but remembered all that had been said, and felt that God was dealing with her. Lying there helpless and bruised at the bottom of the pit, she made a solemn vow to God, "Never again my will." From that time she was a most lovely example of all that was gentle. She seemed to give up every thing, and "bear all things." Her father saw the change, and one day said to her teachers, "I am not a Christian; but Hannah knows nothing but God's will. If she should die now, I should know she was with Christ, she is so like him." Her Christian character developed beautifully; the school learned of her to be Christ-like. She longed to do good, and was ready to make any sacrifice for the good of souls. When Badal sought her hand from her father, the latter called her, and said, "Hannah, Badal the son of the herdsman, wants you to go to the mountains with him, and wants you to live here with him. It shall be as you say." She replied very meekly, "I wish to suffer with the people of God. I choose to go with Badal;" and June 8th, 1858, she left for her mountain home.
The parting prayer meeting with those four girls, going as missionaries to the mountains, was one of the pleasantest memories that Miss Fiske carried away from Oroomiah. She left soon after, but often heard from Hannah and her companions that she was happy in her life of privation for Jesus' sake, and did what she could. She suffered, however, from the change, and was advised to visit Oroomiah for her health. It was hoped she might soon recover; but she went only to leave her sweet testimony to the blessedness of knowing no will but God's, and then go home. She sent the following messages to Miss Fiske from her dying bed: "I love to have God do just as he pleases. I thank you for all your love, and especially for showing me my Saviour." She died in December, 1860.
Having given herself to Missionary work among the mountains, it is interesting to know that her little property also went to the same object. In the remarkable revival of benevolence, in Oroomiah, in the spring of 1861, her brother gave her inheritance, which had fallen to him, to sustain laborers in the mountains: thus, after her life had been laid down in the work, all her living went to carry it on.
Let Guly introduce herself to the reader by giving her own account of her conversion, in 1856:—