in to greet me, on the evening of my arrival, and asked me to 'tell what I had learned,' the story of the Holy of Holies leaped spontaneously forth from my mind. Upon my auditors it had a telling effect. It was amazing to them 'what schools could do.' One of my cousins was so carried away by my portrayal of the divine mysteries, that, throwing up his hands in the air, in Oriental fashion, he exclaimed, 'My cousin, by the life of God, go no deeper into learning. I fear you might lose your mind!'

The Protestant doctrine of the Bible and the Church was also very interesting to me, but somewhat disquieting. It threatened my ancient orthodox faith in the authority of the Church and the mediatorial offices of the saints. I was taught that the Bible, and the Bible only, was of divine authority; that church ordinances were man-made, therefore faulty. Prayer to the saints, I was told, was 'a worship of the creature in place of the Creator'; the Church was the company of all believers, and not simply a body of priests; fasting and other legalistic practices were vain efforts on the part of man to save himself by his own endeavor, instead of seeking salvation by faith in the atoning merits of Christ. I felt especially predisposed to set my face against Protestantism when it taught me to give up adoring the Virgin Mary, the 'Mother of God.'

My education was not confined to the Bible and Protestant doctrines. I was instructed in arithmetic, in English, in reading the classical Arabic, in grammar, geography, and writing. My more mature faculties led me soon out of the beginners' class to higher grades, and in the latter part of the year I was allowed to attend the class of 'essayists,' whose essays were heard and criticised by the senior teacher every Saturday morning.

The most startling experience of my first year in school was my 'preaching' at the meeting of the recently organized Christian Endeavor Society, which comprised the entire student body and all the teachers. Toward the end of the year, the invitation to exercise this office came to me as a great honor, but it was a crushing one. At the appointed time one of the teachers led the devotional exercises, and then quietly introduced me as the preacher of the evening. It was the first time in my life that I had ever faced an audience. My 'sermon,' which occupied four foolscap pages, had taken me so long to write that I thought it would take as long to read. I was disposed, therefore, to read it from the pulpit with rapidity. What the sermon was about I have not the slightest recollection, and the manuscript is lost. What I do remember of that occasion is a curious psychological experience.

As I looked down from the platform I seemed to be peering through a powerful magnifying-glass. The heads of my auditors assumed enormous proportions; their eyes glared at me like those of an angry bull, and really frightened me. Nothing whatever seemed normal. It was my sub-conscious self that read the little sermon, and I 'came to' in my seat in the audience, mopping my face violently. Unconscious of all that was going on around me, I turned to one of the boys and asked, 'What happened?' 'You preached,' was his hasty answer, 'for about two minutes.'

When I went home for my summer vacation, I was received by my family and friends, not only affectionately but with that regard which is accorded seekers after knowledge among all peoples. The fact that my attainments were as yet very meagre counted for naught with my people. I was in the path of wisdom, and that was enough.

But such honors brought with them great responsibilities. I was supposed to be able to give an enlightened opinion on every subject under the sun, from a problem in subtraction to medical questions and the policies of the European nations.

It was a source of gratification to my parents, and to the pious among our neighbors, that I had not departed from my Mother Church. During that summer our little parish had the rare privilege of a visit from the great Patriarch of Antioch, who was then on a pastoral tour through his ancient see. Aside from the stupendous prestige of his official position, he was a personal friend of the Sultan, and so, wherever he went, the governors of the provinces were little more than his servants. The entire population of our town and the neighboring villages went out to meet him. The men of our church formed themselves into an armed escort, firing salutes all the way and enveloping the entire procession, Patriarch and all, in clouds of smoke and dust. I was equipped for the occasion with a pair of flint-lock pistols and a more modern double-barreled shotgun, and my place in the procession was close to the white horse of His Eminence.

At such times as this I felt myself to be as yet a true Greek Orthodox, but when I returned to the ordinary routine of worship in our village church, I discovered that the Protestant virus had gone deeper into my blood than I had been aware of, or desired. My soul was rent in twain. Sentimentally, I was still Greek Orthodox; intellectually, I had leaned perceptibly toward Protestantism. The pictures of the saints on the walls of our church seemed to me less rich in spiritual mystery than they did before I went to school. Saint-worship and many church ceremonials appeared beset with questionmarks. They had no warrant in the

Bible, and my inquiring mind chafed under their claims. Such issues were perpetually in my mind, and I was inclined to argue them with my parents or even with the priest. The priest, however, who was very ignorant and quick-tempered, had very little to say excepting to rebuke me for emulating the methods of 'those accursed Protestants who know nothing else but to argue.'

With all our differences, however, I managed to retain my respect for the priest until he led me, by his own arrogance, to think and act differently. After my return from school, I no longer observed fast-days and days of abstention from meat. One evening, as ill-luck had it, the priest called at our house and found me eating meat on a forbidden day. He was violent with rage. 'What are you eating, you accursed of God?' he said. 'You are neither sick nor feeble. Why do you sin in this manner?' Shaking with anger, he advanced toward me and lifted his foot to kick the table from before me.

In an instant I was on my feet, deeply insulted and greatly angered. I told him to leave the house instantly, else I should drive him out with a stick.

My parents were inexpressibly shocked. While they regretted his indiscretion, they were horrified at my conduct toward 'the priest of my people.'

'My son, my son,' exclaimed my mother, after our visitor had gone, 'the priest may be a bad man. Still he possesses the mystery of the priesthood.'

"The mystery of the priesthood!' cried I. 'Cursed be he and his mystery! A bad man cannot make a good priest. Mother, I am a Protestant upon the housetop.'1

1 A common Syrian expression for avowedly or completely. - THE AUTHOR.

My second year at school found me very happy and successful in my studies, but my lessons did not compare in significance with the general, indefinable influence which my school associations exerted over me. I seemed to awaken and absorb revolutionary religious and social forces. My individual life began to acquire both retrospect and prospect. I began to feel intelligently the impact of the past and to have visions of the more significant future. My teachers spoke encouragingly to me of my swift progress youth who had but very recently forsaken the barren life of the stonemason and taken up the duties of the student.'

'a

It was during the autumn of this year that I joined the Protestant Church. (Happily we knew no denominational designations in that school, which, however, was of the Presbyterian persuasion.) The American missionary, the Reverend Theodore Pond, who was the principal, examined me and received me into church fellowship. This step I took upon my own responsibility. I knew my parents would not favor it, so I did not ask them. Protestantism seemed to me more reasonable than my old form of faith. It did away - with many church ordinances which had often bewildered my growing mind, and it afforded me a closer communion with Christ, who was the only Saviour of the world. Above all things, Protestantism opened and explained the Bible to me, and laid much emphasis on religion as life. When I was being examined by Mr. Pond, he asked me what my parents would think of the step I contemplated taking.

"They would oppose it,' I answered. 'Would you disobey your parents?' he asked.

'In this case I would,' said I. "The Master has said, "He that loveth father or mother more than me, is not

worthy of me." Therefore Christ stands above earthly parents.'

Mr. Pond was pleasantly surprised at the quick but authoritative answer, and expressed the hope that my parents might, in the not far future, see the wisdom of my course.

My friend Iskander and I were the only Protestants in Betater, and while we were not persecuted in a mediæval sense, we had to fight many battles in defense of our faith. When we came in collision with intelligence, we were no mean fighters, but in the face of benighted bigotry we were often helpless. At such gatherings as weddings and funerals we suffered not a little. We were referred to sneeringly as 'the Lutherans, the followers of the lustful monk who ran away from the church in order to get married.' We were urged to admit the truth of the assertions that the Protestants who refused to confess their sins to the priest went up and confessed to the stone-roller on the housetop.1 Many of our leaders, so they said, held communion with Satan. Our marriage service, being performed by a 'lay-preacher,' was invalid. Therefore, Protestant children were bastards, and so forth. Of intelligent criticism we seldom heard a word. Therefore, the reviling of our theological enemies only strengthened our hold on our new belief. Our own families accepted our defection from the faith as one would the inevitable, and parental and filial love kept us generally at peace.

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tened to Mr. Pond and other preachers speak of the zeal of its people for missionary work among the heathen of the earth. What has seemed very curious to me in the light of subsequent knowledge is the fact that America was always presented to my mind as a sort of hermit nation. Its people were rich and religious and little else. Every one of its citizens told the truth, and nothing but the truth, went to church every single Sunday, and lived the life of non-resistance. America had neither fleets nor armies and looked to England for the protection of American citizens in foreign lands. I do not remember that the missionaries spoke of America in exactly such terms, but by drawing their illustrations always from the religious side of American life, they led many of us to form such views of the New World.

But more exciting tales about America came to me through returning Syrian emigrants. Most of them, being common laborers, knew, of course, very little of the real life of America. They spoke only of its wealth and how accessible it was, and told how they themselves secured more money in America in a very few years than could be earned in Syria in two generations. More enlightened accounts of the great country beyond the seas came into Syria through a small minority of a better class of emigrants. From such descriptions I had a few glimpses of American civilization, of a land of free schools, free churches, and a multitude of other organizations which worked for human betterment. The fact that a few poor Syrian emigrants who had gone to America had in a few years attained not only wealth but learning and high social positions-had become real khawajas — appealed very strongly to my imagination. I would go to America if some turn of fortune made that possible.

At the end of my second year as a student my father told me that he was no longer able to keep me in school. He was getting old fast; his building enterprises grew smaller every year, and of his twelve children six still remained at home to care for. He had already paid twelve Turkish pounds for my two years' keep in school. Adding to that the loss of my wages for two years, his financial burden was no light one. Disappointment fell upon me with the weight of a calamity. I could not blame my father, so I was the more helpless in dealing with the stubborn difficulty. What was to become of me? Was I to be forced back to the circumstances against which I had rebelled so successfully two years before? Were all my hopes to be dashed?

During that summer and autumn my father met with serious business reverses, and we were actually reduced to want. The approach of the winter, always dreaded by the common people of Syria, was doubly dreaded by our family. I had never known what real want was before, and now, after I had been flattered lavishly by my teachers and fellow-students as 'one of the very promising young men,' to behold our family in the grip of real poverty and to think of myself as the helpless victim of such circumstances, was almost unbearable.

Early in November I made a visit to my beloved school in Sûk-el-Gharb and called on Mr. Pond. He asked me interestedly about my plans and listened with sympathy to my story. I told him that my chief desire was to return to the school as a student, but that my father's circumstances rendered this impossible. It was beyond Mr. Pond's power to extend me financial assistance, but he offered me the position of a teacher in the primary or day school, which joined the High School, suggesting that in that position

I could avail myself of many of the privileges which the High School of fered. I promptly accepted, and in a few days assumed my new duties with great enthusiasm.

The salary of my new position was three quarters of a Turkish pound (about $3.00) per month, and my board, which was provided at the High School. My bed stood in my schoolroom, among the benches of my pupils, and served as a comfortable seat for me during recitations. I do not remember that I ever received my salary at the end of the month without a sense of insult. Mr. Pond lived in a beautiful residence. He had a carriage, a saddlehorse, and three servants. Why was it that I should accept a position whose salary did not enable me to preserve my self-respect? Yet I had accepted it of my own free will, and I only was to blame for the choice.

My career as a school-teacher covered three years two in Sûk-elGharb and one in the city of Zahlah, which is situated on the eastern slopes of Mt. Lebanon, on the main road to Damascus. At that time Zahlah claimed a population of about twenty thousand souls, and enjoyed a commanding commercial position. The city was rich, and its population contained not a few college men, my associations with whom proved very profitable. During those three years I applied my self to the search after knowledge with strong and sustained zeal. Owing to the scarcity of books, my range of subjects was very narrow. The Arabic language and literature absorbed almost all my time and effort. I mastered its grammar and rhetoric, read extensively in its literature, and committed to memory hundreds of lines of poetry, chiefly from the ancient classical poets, When I became able to write correct poetry, in classical Arabic, I considered the prize of my educational calling won.

My absorption in this study led me to neglect the English language entirely. It ceased to have any charms for me, and gradually became a faint and tarnished memory.

In my last year in Sûk-el-Gharb I touched the fringe of Occidental life at two points. First, I acquired a European costume. European dress was slowly becoming the attire of the new 'aristocracy of learning.' When I first donned this fashionable but strange garb, I was ashamed to appear where people might look at me. The lower half of my person felt quite bare and my legs seemed uncomfortably long. The habit of sitting on the floor often asserted itself unconsciously, and occasionally endangered the seams of the newly acquired costume. My townspeople most uncharitably called me 'the man in tights.' Happily for me, I only put on the strange garb on special occasions, and retained with it the Turkish fez as a connecting link between the East and the West.

My other touch of Occidental life came from dining with the other teachers one evening at the home of the American missionary. Here it was that I heard the piano for the first and last time in Syria, and ate with the knife and fork. The chief dish of the occasion consisted of a stratum of dough baked over a dissected chicken. When my plate reached me heavily laden with the strange composition, I was not a little puzzled to know how it was to be eaten. I deemed it wise to follow the example of the others, but to disengage the flesh from the bones of a chicken, with knife and fork, was a painful experience to me. Lacking skill, I applied force, when suddenly my awkward eating tools slipped, and almost broke the plate. I was deeply impressed with the gracious dignity of my host, who appeared not to notice it, while my fellow Syrian guests (I sup